“Then, sir, the squall broke; a rush an’ howl o’ northerly wind! Come like a pack o’ mad ghosts: a break from the spruce forest—a flight over the barren—a great leap into space. Blue-black clouds, low an’ thick, rushin’ over the cliff, spilt dusk an’ snow below. ’Twas as though the Lord had cast a black blanket o’ night in haste an’ anger upon the sea. An’ I never knowed the snow so thick afore; ’twas jus’ emptied out on the world like bags o’ flour. Dusty, frosty snow; it got in my eyes an’ nose an’ throat. ’Twasn’t a minute afore sea an’ shore was wiped from sight an’ Jim Tool an’ Archibald Shott was turned t’ black splotches in a mist. I crabbed away from the brink. Wasn’t no sense, sir, in lyin’ there in the push an’ tug o’ the wind. An’ I sot me down t’ wait; an’ by-an’-by I heard a cry, a dog’s bark o’ terror, from deep in the throat, sir, that wasn’t no scream o’ the gale. So I crawled for’ard, on hands an’ knees that bore me ill, t’ peer below, but seed no form o’ flesh an’ blood, nor got a human answer t’ my hail. I turned again t’ wait; an’ I faced inland, where was the solemn forest, far off an’ hid in a swirl o’ snow, with but the passion of a gale t’ bear. An’ there I stood, sir, turned away from the rage o’ hearts that beat in breasts like ours, until the squall failed, an’ the snow thinned t’ playful flakes, an’ the gray clouds, broken above the wilderness, soaked crimson from the sun like blood. “’Twas Jim Tool that roused me. “‘That you, Jim?’ says I. “‘Ay,’ says he; ‘you been waitin’ here for me, Tumm?’ “‘Ay,’ says I; ‘been waitin’.’ “‘Tired?’ says he. “‘No,’ says I; ‘not tired.’ “There come then, sir, a sort o’ smile upon him—fond an’ grateful an’ childlike. I seed it glow in the pits where his eyes was. ‘It was kind,’ says he, ‘t’ wait. You always _was_ kind t’ me, Tumm.’ “‘Oh no,’ says I; ‘not kind.’ “‘Tumm,’ says he, kickin’ at a rock in the snow, ‘I done it,’ says he, ‘by the ankle.’ “‘Then,’ says I, ‘God help you, Jim!’ “He come close t’ me, sir, jus’ like he used t’ do, when he was a lad, in trouble. “‘Keep off, Jim!’ says I. “‘Why so?’ says he. ‘Isn’t you goin’ t’ be friends ’ith me any more?’ “I was afraid. ‘Keep clear!’ says I. “‘Oh, why so?’ says he. “‘I—I—don’t know!’ says I. ‘God help us all, I don’t _know_!’ “Then he falled prone, sir, an’ rolled over on his back, with his arms flung out, as if now he seed the blood on his hands; an’ he squirmed in the snow, sir, like a worm on a hook. ‘I wisht I hadn’t done it! Oh, dear God,’ says he, ‘_I wisht I hadn’t done it!_’ “Ah, poor little Jimmie Tool! * * * * *