Totley shook his head. It was not an agreeable duty thus to deny Jonathan Stock of Candlestick Cove. It pinched the trader’s heart. “But a must is a must!” thought he. The wind was in the east, with no sign of change, and ’twas late in the season; and there was no fish—_no fish_, God help us all! There would be famine at Candlestick Cove—_famine_, God help us all! The folk of Candlestick Cove—Totley’s folk—must be fed; there must be no starvation. And the creditors at St. John’s—Totley’s creditors—were wanting fish insistently. _Wanting fish_, God help us! when there was no fish. There was a great gale of ruin blowing up; there would be an accounting to his creditors for the goods they had given him in faith—there must be no waste of stock, no indulgence of whims. He must stand well. The creditors at St. John’s must be so dealt with that the folk of Candlestick Cove—Totley’s folk—could be fed through the winter. ’Twas all-important that the folk should be fed—just fed with bread and molasses and tea: nothing more than that. Nothing more than that, by the Lord! would go out of the store. Jonathan pushed back his dripping cloth cap and sighed. “’Tis fallin’ out wonderful,” he ventured. Totley whistled to keep his spirits up. “Awful!” said Jonathan. The tune continued. “She ’lows,” Jonathan went on, “that if it keeps on at this rate she won’t have none left by spring. That’s what _she_ ’lows will happen.” Totley proceeded to the chorus. “No, sir,” Jonathan pleaded; “she’ll have nar a one!” The trader avoided his eye. “An’ it makes her _feel_ sort o’ bad,” Jonathan protested. “I tells her that with or without she won’t be no different t’ me. Not t’ _me_. But she sort o’ feels bad just the same. You sees, sir,” he stammered, abashed, “she—she—she’s only a woman!” Totley jumped from the counter. “Look you Jonathan!” said he, decisively, “she can _have_ it.” Jonathan beamed. “She can have what she wants for herself, look you! but she can’t have no oil-skins for the twins, though ’tis their birthday. ’Tis hard times, Jonathan, with the wind glued t’ the east; an’ the twins is got t’ go wet. What kind she want? Eh? I got two kinds in the case. I don’t recommend neither o’ them.” Jonathan scratched his head. “Well, then,” said the trader, “you better find out. If she’s goin’ t’ have it at all, she better have the kind she hankers for.” Jonathan agreed. “Skipper Jonathan,” said the trader, much distressed, “we’re so poor at Candlestick Cove that we ought t’ be eatin’ moss. I’ll have trouble enough, this fall, gettin’ flour from St. John’s t’ go ’round. Skipper Jonathan, if you could get your allowance o’ flour down t’ five barrels instead o’ six, I’d thank you. The young ones is growin’, I knows; but—well, I’d thank you, Jonathan, I’d thank you!”