And the fool of Skeleton Tickle was left with a suit of shoddy tweed and fifty-seven dollars in unspoiled gold and silver coin, believing that he had overreached the peddler from Damascus and New York, piously thanking God for the opportunity, ascribing glory to him for the success, content that it should be so.... And Tanous Shiva departed by the mail-boat, as he had come, with the seven lobster-tins of gold and the half-bushel of silver which three generations had labored to accumulate; and he went south to St. John’s, where he converted the spoiled coin into a bank credit of ten thousand dollars, content that it should be so. And thereupon he set out again to trade.... * * * * * The mail-boat was now riding at anchor within the harbor of Skeleton Tickle. Rain was falling—thin, penetrating, cold, driven by the wind. On the bleak, wet hills, the cottages, vague in the mist, cowered in dumb wretchedness, like men of sodden patience who wait without hope. A punt put out from shore—came listlessly toward the steamer for the mail. “Ho! Tom Timms!” the Syrian shouted. “That you, Tom Timms? How Skip’ Jim All? How my ol’, good friend Skip’ Jim All?” The boat was under the quarter. Tom Timms shipped his oars, wiped the rain from his whiskers, then looked up—without feeling. “Dead,” he said. “Dead!” The man turned to me. “I am thank thee good God,” he whispered, reverently, “that I am get thee gold in time.” He shuddered. “O, my God!” he muttered. “What if I have come thee too late!” “Ay, dead,” Tom Timms repeated. “He sort o’ went an’ jus’ died.” “Oh, dear! How have he come to die? Oh, my poor friend, ol’ Skip’ Jim! How have he come by thee death?” “Hanged hisself.” “Hanged hisself! Oh, dear! Why have thee ol’ Skip’ Jim be so fearful wicked?” It was an unhappy question. “Well,” Tom Timms answered, in a colorless drawl, “he got a trap-leader when he found out what you done. He just sort o’ went an’ got a trap-leader an’ hanged hisself in the fish-stage—when he found out what you done.” The Syrian glanced at me. I glanced at him. Our eyes met; his were steady, innocent, pitiful; my own shifted to the closing bank of gray fog. “Business,” he sighed, “is business.” The words repeated themselves interminably—a monotonous dirge. Business is business.... Business is business.... Business is business.... VI—A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE