Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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СКАЧАТЬ I guess,’ said Harve, tugging. Before he pulled up he fastened the belt round him, and with deep delight heard the tip of the sheath click on the thwart. ‘Con-cern the thing!’ he cried. ‘She acts as though she were on strawberry-bottom. It’s all sand here, ain’t it?’

      Dan reached over and gave a judgmatic tweak. ‘Holibut ’ll act that way ’f he’s sulky. Thet’s no strawberry-bottom. Yank her once or twice. She gives, sure. Guess we’d better haul up an’ make certain.’

      They pulled together, making fast at each turn on the cleats, and the hidden weight rose sluggishly.

      ‘Prize, oh! Haul!’ shouted Dan, but the shout ended in a shrill, double shriek of horror, for out of the sea came—the body of the dead Frenchman buried two days before! The hook had caught him under the right arm-pit, and he swayed, erect and horrible, head and shoulders above water. His arms were tied to his side, and—he had no face. The boys fell over each other in a heap at the bottom of the dory, and there they lay while the thing bobbed alongside, held on the shortened line.

      ‘The tide—the tide brought him!’ said Harvey with quivering lips, as he fumbled at the clasp of the belt.

      ‘Oh, Lord! oh, Harve!’ groaned Dan, ‘be quick. He’s come for it. Let him have it. Take it off.’

      ‘I don’t want it! I don’t want it!’ cried Harvey. ‘I can’t find the bu-buckle.’

      ‘Quick, Harve! He’s on your line!’

      Harvey sat up to unfasten the belt, facing the head that had no face under its streaming hair. ‘He’s fast still,’ he whispered to Dan, who slipped out his knife and cut the line, as Harvey flung the belt far overside. The body shot down with a plop, and Dan cautiously rose to his knees, whiter than the fog.

      ‘He come for it. He come for it. I’ve seen a stale one hauled up on a trawl and I didn’t much care, but he come to us special.’

      ‘I wish—I wish I hadn’t taken the knife. Then he’d have come on your line.’

      ‘Dunno as thet would ha’ made any differ. We’re both scared out o’ ten years’ growth. Oh, Harve, did ye see his head?’

      ‘Did I? I’ll never forget it. But look at here, Dan; it couldn’t have been meant. It was only the tide.’

      ‘Tide! He come for it, Harve. Why, they sunk him six mile to south’ard o’ the fleet, an’ we’re two miles from where she’s lyin’ now. They told me he was weighted with a fathom an’ a half o’ chain-cable.’

      ‘Wonder what he did with the knife—up on the French coast?’

      ‘Something bad. Guess he’s bound to take it with him to the Judgment, an’ so—What are you doin’ with the fish?’

      ‘Heaving ’em overboard,’ said Harvey.

      ‘What for? We shan’t eat ’em.’

      ‘I don’t care. I had to look at his face while I was takin’ the belt off. You can keep your catch if you like. I’ve no use for mine.’

      Dan said nothing, but threw his fish over again.

      ‘Guess it’s best to be on the safe side,’ he murmured at last. ‘I’d give a month’s pay if this fog ’u’d lift. Things go abaout in a fog that ye don’t see in clear weather—yo-hoes an’ hollerers and such like. I’m sorter relieved he come the way he did instid o’ walkin’. He might ha’ walked.’

      ‘Do-on’t, Dan! We’re right on top of him now. Wish I was safe aboard, bein’ pounded by Uncle Salters.’

      ‘They’ll be lookin’ fer us in a little. Gimme the tooter.’ Dan took the tin dinner-horn, but paused before he blew.

      ‘Go on,’ said Harvey. ‘I don’t want to stay here all night.’

      ‘Question is, haow he’d take it. There was a man frum down the coast told me once he was in a schooner where they darsen’t ever blow a horn to the dories, becaze the skipper—not the man he was with, but a captain that had run her five years before—he’d drownded a boy alongside in a drunk fit; an’ ever after, that boy he’d row alongside too and shout, “Dory! dory!” with the rest.’

      ‘Dory! dory!’ a muffled voice cried through the fog. They cowered again, and the horn dropped from Dan’s hand.

      ‘Hold on!’ cried Harvey, ‘it’s the cook.’

      ‘Dunno what made me think o’ thet fool tale, either,’ said Dan. ‘It’s the doctor, sure enough.’

      ‘Dan! Danny! Oooh, Dan! Harve! Harvey! Oooh, Haarveee!’

      ‘We’re here,’ sung both boys together. They heard oars, but could see nothing till the cook, shining and dripping, rowed into them.

      ‘What iss happened?’ said he. ‘You will be beaten at home.’

      ‘Thet’s what we want. Thet’s what we’re sufferin’ for,’ said Dan. ‘Anything homey’s good enough fer us. We’ve had kinder depressin’ company.’ As the cook passed them a line, Dan told him the tale.

      ‘Yess! He come for hiss knife,’ was all he said at the end.

      Never had the little rocking We’re Here looked so deliciously home-like as when the cook, born and bred in fogs, rowed them back to her. There was a warm glow of light from the cabin and a satisfying smell of food forward, and it was heavenly to hear Disko and the others, all quite alive and solid, leaning over the rail and promising them a first-class pounding. But the cook was a black master of strategy. He did not get the dories aboard till he had given the more striking points of the tale, explaining as he backed and bumped round the counter how Harvey was the mascot to destroy any possible bad luck. So the boys came overside as rather uncanny heroes, and every one asked them questions instead of pounding them for making trouble. Little Penn delivered quite a speech on the folly of superstitions; but public opinion was against him and in favour of Long Jack, who told the most excruciating ghost-stories till nearly midnight. Under that influence no one except Salters and Penn said anything about ‘idolatry’ when the cook put a lighted candle, a cake of flour and water, and a pinch of salt on a shingle, and floated them out astern to keep the Frenchman quiet in case he was still restless. Dan lit the candle because he had bought the belt, and the cook grunted and muttered charms as long as he could see the ducking point of flame.

      Said Harvey to Dan, as they turned in after watch, ‘How about progress and Catholic superstitions?’

      ‘Huh! I guess I’m as enlightened and progressive as the next man, but when it comes to a dead St. Malo deck-hand scarin’ a couple o’ pore boys stiff fer the sake of a thirty-cent knife, why, then, the cook can take hold fer all o’ me. I mistrust furriners, livin’ or dead.’

      Next morning all, except the cook, were rather ashamed of the ceremonies, and went to work double tides, speaking gruffly to one another.

      The We’re Here was racing neck and neck for her last few loads against the Parry Norman; and so close was СКАЧАТЬ