no good reason why I shouldn’t keep it shut. A man ought t’ breathe through his nose, anyhow. That’s what it’s for.’

“’Twas a bad day—a late dawn in a hellish temper. They wasn’t much of it t’ see—just a space o’ troubled water, an’ the big unfeelin’’ cloud. An’, God! how cold it was! The wind was thick with dry snow, an’ it come whirlin’’ out o’ the west as if it wanted t’ do damage, an’ meant t’ have its way. ’Twould grab the crests o’ the seas an’ fling un off like handfuls o’ white dust. An’ in the midst o’ this was poor Botch o’ Jug Cove!

“‘This wind,’ says I, ‘will work up a wonderful big sea, Botch. You’ll be swep’ off afore nightfall.’

“‘No,’ says he; ‘for by good luck, Tumm, I’m froze tight t’ the pan.’

“‘But the seas’ll drown you.’

“‘I don’t know,’ says he. ‘I keeps breakin’ the ice ’round my neck,’ says he, ‘an’ if I can on’y keep my neck clear an’ limber I’ll be able t’ duck most o’ the big seas.’

“It wasn’t nice t’ see the gentle wretch squattin’ there on his haunches. It made me feel bad. I wisht he was home t’ Jug Cove thinkin’ of his soul.

“‘Botch,’ says I, ‘I wisht you was somewheres else!’

“‘Now, don’t you trouble about that, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Please don’t! The ice is all on the outside. I’m perfeckly comfortable inside.’

“He took it all so gracious that somehow or other I begun t’ forget that he was froze t’ the pan an’ bound out t’ sea. He was ’longside, now; an’ I seed un smile. So I sort o’ got his feelin’; an’ I didn’t fret for un no more.

“‘An’, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’ve had a wonderful grand night. I’ll never forget it so long as I lives.’

“‘A what?’ says I. ‘Wasn’t you cold?’

“‘I—I—I don’t know,’ says he, puzzled. ‘I was too busy t’ notice much.’

“‘Isn’t you hungry?’

“‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, in s’prise, ‘I believes I is, now that you mentions it. I believes I’d like a biscuit.’

“‘I wisht I had one t’ shy,’ says I.

“‘Don’t you be troubled,’ says he. ‘My arms is stuck. I couldn’t cotch it, anyhow.’

“‘Anyhow,’ says I, ‘I wisht I had one.’

“‘A grand night!’ says he. ‘For I got a idea, Tumm. They wasn’t nothin’ t’ disturb me all night long. I been all alone—an’ I been quiet. An’ I got a idea. I’ve gone an’ found out, Tumm,’ says he, ‘a law o’ life! Look you! Tumm,’ says he, ‘what you aboard that berg for? ’Tis because you had sense enough t’ get there. An’ why isn’t I aboard that berg? ’Tis because I didn’t have none o’ the on’y kind o’ sense that was needed in the mess last night. You’ll be picked up by the fleet,’ says he, ‘when the weather clears; an’ I’m bound out t’ sea on a speck o’ flat ice. This coast ain’t kind,’ says he. ‘No coast is kind. Men lives because they’re able for it; not because they’re coaxed to. An’ the on’y kind o’ men this coast lets live an’ breed is the kind she wants. The kind o’ men this coast puts up with ain’t weak, an’ they ain’t timid, an’ they don’t think. Them kind dies—just the way I ’low I got t’ die. They don’t live, Tumm, an’ they don’t breed.’

“‘What about you?’ says I.

“‘About me?’ says he.

“‘Ay—that day on the Pillar o’ Cloud.’

“‘Oh!’ says he. ‘You mean about she. Well, it didn’t come t’ nothin’, Tumm. The women folk wasn’t able t’ find me, an’ they didn’t know which I wanted sove, the mother or the child; so, somehow or other, both went an’ died afore I got there. But that isn’t got nothin’ t’ do with this.’

“He was drifted a few fathoms past. Just then a big sea fell atop of un. He ducked real skilful, an’ come out of it smilin’, if sputterin’.

“‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if we was t’ the s’uth’ard, where they says ’tis warm an’ different, an’ lives isn’t lived the same, maybe you’d be on the pan o’ ice, an’ I’d be aboard the berg; maybe you’d be like t’ starve, an’ I’d get so much as forty cents a day the year round. They’s a great waste in life,’ says he; ‘I don’t know why, but there ’tis. An’ I ’low I’m gone t’ waste on this here coast. I been born out o’ place, that’s all. But they’s a place somewheres for such as me—somewheres for the likes o’ me. T’ the s’uth’ard, now, maybe, they’d be a place; t’ the s’uth’ard, maybe, the folk would want t’ know about the things I thinks out—ay, maybe they’d even pay for the labor I’m put to! But here, you lives, an’ I dies. Don’t you see, Tumm? ’Tis the law! ’Tis why a Newf’un’lander ain’t a nigger. More’n that, ’tis why a dog’s a dog on land an’ a swile in the water; ’tis why a dog haves legs an’ a swile haves flippers. Don’t you see? ’Tis the law!’

“‘I don’t quite find you,’ says I.

“Poor Botch shook his head. ‘They isn’t enough words in langwitch,’ says he, ‘t’ ’splain things. Men ought t’ get t’ work an’ make more.’

“‘But tell me,’ says I.

“Then, by Botch’s regular ill luck, under he went, an’ it took un quite a spell t’ cough his voice into workin’ order.

“‘Excuse me,’ says he. ‘I’m sorry. It come too suddent t’ be ducked.’

“‘Sure!’ says I. ‘I don’t mind.’

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘it all comes down t’ this: The thing that lives is the kind o’ thing that’s best fit t’ live in the place it lives in. That’s a law o’ life! An’ nobody but me, Tumm,’ says he, ‘ever knowed it afore!’

“‘It don’t amount t’ nothin’,’ says I.

“‘Tis a law o’ life!’

“‘But it don’t mean nothin’.’

“‘Tumm,’ says he, discouraged, ‘I can’t talk t’ you no more. I’m too busy. I ’lowed when I seed you there on the berg that you’d tell somebody what I thunk out last night if you got clear o’ this mess. An’ I wanted everybody t’ know. I did so want un t’ know—an’t’ know that Abraham Botch o’ Jug Cove did the thinkin’ all by hisself! But you don’t seem able. An’, anyhow,’ says he, ‘I’m too busy t’ talk no more. They’s a deal more hangin’ on that law ’n I told you. The beasts o’ the field is born under it, an’ the trees o’ the forest, an’ all that lives. They’s a bigger law behind; an’ I got t’ think that out afore the sea works up. I’m sorry, Tumm; but if you don’t mind, I’ll just go on thinkin’. You won’t mind, will you, Tumm? I wouldn’t like you t’ feel bad.’

“‘Lord, no!’ says I. ‘I won’t mind.’

“‘Thank you, Tumm,’ says he. ‘For I’m greatly took by thinkin’.’

“An’ so Botch sputtered an’ thunk an’ kep’ his neck limber ’til he drifted out o’ sight in the snow.”

But that was not the last of the Jug Cove philosopher.

“Next time I seed Botch,” Tumm resumed, “we was both shipped by chance for the Labrador from Twillingate. ’Twas aboard the dirty little Three Sisters—a thirty-ton, fore-an’-aft green-fish catcher, skippered by Mad Bill Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle. An’ poor Botch didn’t look healthful. He was blue an’ wan an’ wonderful thin. An’ he didn’t look at all