out of doors, darkness and sleet; within the cottage parlor, a grand fire and a good supper, the latter, however, no longer in evidence.

four people sat round the hearth: a woman not so old in years as aged in looks by what the war had done to her; a burly, bearded, middle-aged man, her brother; a young, rather stern-visaged fellow, the last of her sons; and a girl of twenty or so, with a sedate mouth and bright eyes, her daughter-in-law to be. the two men were obviously seafarers. as a matter of fact, the uncle was skipper of an ancient tramp which had somehow survived those three years of perilous passages; the nephew, a fisherman before war, afterwards and until recently in the patrol service, was now mate on the same old ship, though he had still to make his first trip on her.

said mrs. cathles, breaking silence, to her brother: “did ye see any u-boats comin’ home, alick?” possibly she spoke then just to interrupt her own thoughts, for it was not like her to introduce such a subject.

the skipper was busy charging his pipe. “is it u-boats ye’re askin’ about, maggie?” he said slowly, in his loud voice. “i’m tellin’ ye, on that last home’ard trip, the peeriscopes was like a forest!”

david cathles winked to his sweetheart; then p. 158perceiving that the answer had scared his mother, he said:

“come, come, uncle! surely ’twasn’t quite so bad as that. ‘a forest’ is a bit thick, isn’t it?”

“well, there was room for the hesperus to get through, i’ll allow,” the skipper said, striking a match extracted from his vest pocket, “otherwise i wouldn’t be settin’ here tellin’ the blessed truth every time.” he lay back and puffed complacently, staring at the fire.

“never you mind him, mother,” said the young man. “’tis me he’s seekin’ to terrify: he’d just as soon i didn’t sail wi’ him, after all; ’fraid o’ me learnin’ what a poor skipper he is!”

now david ought to have known better. people who are good at giving chaff are seldom good at taking it. the girl, however, was quick to note the stiffening of the burly figure.

“captain whinn,” she remarked promptly, but without haste, “ye must be a terrible brave man to ha’ come through all ye ha’ come through, since the war started.”

“not at all, my dear,” was the modest reply; “i’m no braver’n several cases i’ve heard on.”

david, who had seen his own blunder, was grateful to esther for the diversion, and sought to carry it further.

“well, uncle whinn,” he said respectfully, “i think we’d all like to hear what yourself considers the pluckiest bit o’ work done by a chap in the merchant service durin’ the—”

“haven’t done it yet.” with a wooden expression of countenance, the skipper continued to stare at the fire.

mrs. cathles spoke. “ah, david, ’tis little use p. 159tryin’ to pick the bravest when all is so brave. but i do think none will ever do braver’n what that fishin’ skipper did—him we was hearin’ about yesterday.”

“ay, that was a man!” her son agreed.

“what was it?” the girl inquired, with a veiled glance of indignation at captain whinn, who appeared quite uninterested, if not actually bored.

“you tell it, david,” said the mother. “big moniments ha’ been put up for less.”

“go on, david,” murmured esther.

“’twas something like this,” he began. “they had hauled the nets and was makin’ for port in the early mornin’, in hazy weather, when a u-boat comes up almost alongside. i reckon they was scared, for at that time fishin’ boats was bein’ sunk right and left. then the commander comes on deck and asks, in first-class english, which o’ the seven was skipper. and the skipper he holds up his hand like as if he was a little boy in the school. ‘all right,’ says the ’un, ‘i guess you can navigate hereabouts—eh?’ the skipper answers slow that he has been navigatin’ thereabouts ’most all his life. ‘very well,’ says the ’un, ‘there’s a way you can save your boat, and the lives o’ them six fine men, and your own.’ he waits for a little while; then he says: ‘this is the way. you come on board here, and take this ship past the defenses and into —. that’s all. i give you three minutes to make up your mind.’

“’tis said the skipper looked like a dyin’ man then, and all the time one o’ the u-boat’s guns was trained on the fishin’ boat. ‘time’s up,’ says the ’un; ‘which is it to be?’ and the skipper says: ‘i’ll do what ye want.’ i never heard what his p. 160mates said; and i should think their thoughts was sort o’ mixed. but they puts him on board the u-boat and clears out, as he told them to do; and the last they see of him was him standin’ betwixt two ’uns, each wi’ a revolver handy. and then him and the ’uns goes below, and so does the u-boat.”

“he was surely a coward!” the girl exclaimed.

“wait a bit,” said david. “can’t ye see that he saved the lives o’ his mates?”

“and his own!” she cried. “and he took the u-boat in!”

“ay, he did that—and her commander, too! oh, he took her in right enough—safe into the big steel net! . . . they found him there wi’ the dead ’uns, later on—only he had been murdered.”

esther clasped her hands. “none braver’n that!” she said in a whisper.

mrs. cathles turned to her brother, who had not altered his attitude, though he had let his pipe go out.

“alick,” she said, “what do ye say to that?”

“’twasn’t so bad,” he said softly, “’twasn’t so bad, maggie. ha’ ye any matches?”

shortly afterwards he took his departure, and then david saw esther home.

on the way she broke a silence by remarking: “david, i wish ye wasn’t sailin’ wi’ that man.”

“how so?”

“he’s not natural. something’s wrong about him.”

“oh, i wouldn’t be sayin’ that, esther,” said david. “i allow i can’t make anything o’ uncle whinn nowadays, but the war has turned many a man queerish. still, i never heard him so boastful-like afore tonight—”

p. 161“‘’twasn’t so bad,’” she quoted resentfully, “‘’twasn’t so bad!’—and it the bravest thing a human man could do? oh, david, i do wish ye wasn’t sailin’ wi’ him, though he is your uncle. he’s a coward—that’s what he is, i’m sure.”

“i wouldn’t be sayin’ that, neither,” the young man gently protested. “he’s maybe feared—i surely doubt he is—but that’s not the same as bein’ a coward—not by a long chalk.”

“he’s got neither wife nor family, and he’s oldish,” she persisted.

“but i s’pose life’s sweet even when a man’s oldish. as for bein’ feared—out yonder wi’ the patrol, i was seldom anything else,” said david quietly.

“david cathles, i don’t believe ye!”

“i’m feared now; i’ll be feared all this comin’ trip. uncle whinn has got more to be feared o’ ’n me.

“i don’t see that.”

“well, if a u-boat gets the better o’ the old hesperus—and she hasn’t got a gun yet—’tis ten to one the ’uns make a prisoner o’ uncle whinn. ’tisn’t cheerful to ha’ that on your mind all the time—is it now, esther?”

“i grant ye that, david,” she said, with unexpected compunction. “only he shouldn’t be so big about hisself and so small about the pluck o’ other men. i’d ha’ said he was feared o’ the very sea itself.”

“a common complaint, my dear! but now ye ha’ touched on a thing which is maybe only too true, for i could ’most allow my uncle is feared o’ death in the water—not that his fear is aught to be ashamed on.”

p. 162“not if a man be modest about hisself!”

“uncle whinn used to be modest enough, and careless enough, too, about what happened to him,” said david. “but when i was on board wi’ him, this mornin’, i see a thing so queer and strange, it makes me creep yet.”

“david, i knew there was something wrong!”

“and ’twas only a simple matter, after all,” he proceeded. “’twas all about a life belt hangin’ above his bunk, in the chart room, where he berths nowadays. ’twas an ordinary, everyday life belt, but all the time we was settin’ there smokin’ an’ chattin’, i noticed he never hardly took his eyes off o’ it. and at last i gets up and goes over, just to see if there was anything extra about it. well, he was after me like a tiger! ‘don’t ye put finger on that, my lad!’ he says, not so much as if he was angered as feared. and then he draws me back to the table, and says, as if he was a bit ’shamed o’ hisself: ‘ye’ll excuse me, david, but i can’t bear to see that there life belt touched. t’other day, i was as near as near to killin’ the cook—the poor sinner said it needed dustin’. ’tis my foolishness, no doubt, but we’ve all got our fancies, and i don’t want the belt to be missin’ or unhandy when the time comes. so there it hangs, an’ i’ll thank ye for your word, here and now, david, that ye won’t never touch it.’ of course i give him my word, but wi’ no great feelin’ o’ pleasure. . . . what do ye think about it, esther?”

“’tis terrible that a great big man should be so feared. now i’m sort o’ sorry for him. i daresay he needs ye badly on his ship, and so i’ll say no more about it, david.”

“ye always see things right, once ye let your p. 163kind heart go,” he said tenderly. “and i can’t think that uncle whinn’ll play the coward if ever he’s really up against it. . . . and now, what about us two gettin’ married on my next leave?”

the hesperus sailed a couple of days later. the outward voyage was completed without mishap or adventure, and she was within a day’s run of the home port when her end came.

after a brief but havoc-working bombardment, her helpless skipper gave orders to abandon ship, and signaled the enemy accordingly. there were two lifeboats,—the third had been smashed,—and in the natural course of things david would have been in charge of one of them. but captain whinn decreed otherwise.

“i want ye wi’ me,” he said to his nephew, as they came down from the tottering bridge. “cast off!” he bawled at the boat whose crew included the second mate.

he drew david into the chartroom.

when they emerged, a couple of minutes later, he was wearing the belt, and his countenance was pale. but the young man’s was ghastly.

now there were blurs of smoke on the horizon. captain whinn indicated them, remarking:

“a little bit too late. poor old hesperus!”

the blurs had evidently been observed from the u-boat also, for a “hurry up!” came in the form of a shell aimed just high enough to clear the deck.

skipper and mate went down the ladder, and the boat was cast off. at a safe distance, the rowers, at a sign from the skipper, lay on their oars. speedily the u-boat put her victim into a sinking p. 164condition. during the operation whinn neither moved nor spoke; seemingly he did not hear the several remarks softly addressed to him by his nephew. his face was set; all the skin blemishes stood out against the tan of many years, upon which had come a grayish pallor; there was moisture on his brow.

then through the slightly ruffled sea the u-boat, her gunners’ job over, moved toward them. a hail came from the commander, a tall young man with an unslept, nervous look on his thin face.

“come alongside, and look sharp about it. i want the captain,” he called.

none of the boat’s crew moved, but all at once the elderly cook broke forth in a voice of grievous exasperation:

“godalmighty, cap’n, whatever made ye put on your best duds? why the hell didn’t ye get into some old slops?—an’ then i could ha’ passed for ye easy!”

the glimmer of a smile appeared in the skipper’s eyes, and his mouth quivered pathetically just for an instant. then he said briefly:

“get alongside.”

“maybe they would take me instead,” said david, but again his uncle seemed not to have heard.

whinn did not speak again until he was standing on the submarine’s deck. then steadily he addressed his nephew:

“kind love to your mother, david; best respects to your young lady.”

to the crew: “so long, lads,” he said, and gave a little wave of the hand.

then he was hurried below, and almost before p. 165the hesperus’ boat was clear, the great engine of destruction began to submerge.

david sat with his face bowed in his hands, and now and then a shudder went through him.

two nights later he was back in his mother’s house, seated with esther at the parlor fire, which burned as grandly as on that night a month ago. mrs. cathles had gone to the kitchen to make the supper.

there had been a long silence. suddenly david’s clasp of the girl’s hand tightened almost painfully.

“why, what is it, lad?” she exclaimed.

“esther, i don’t know what to do. . . . ye see, when i was telling you an’ mother about uncle whinn, i kept back something—a lot. i couldn’t think how to tell the whole tale—to mother, anyway.”

“is it—dreadful, david?”

“ay, dreadful—in a way. well, i’ll try and tell yourself now, an’ then, perhaps— ’sh! i bear her comin’! ’twill have to wait.”

mrs. cathles came in, but without the expected laden tray. she crossed to her accustomed place and seated herself. presently she looked over at her son.

“david, i was thinkin’ just now, and it came on me that ye hadn’t told me everything about your uncle, my own brother, alick. now, dearie, ye must not keep aught back. ’tis my right to know, and i can bear a lot nowadays.” she wetted her lips. “david, tell me true, what happened to my brother when they got him on board the u-boat. did they—shoot him?”

p. 166“no, mother”—david cleared his throat—“‘’twas far finer’n that! . . . ah, well, now i’ll tell everything. ’twas this way. you—we’ll never see uncle whinn again, mother, but he was a great man. he stepped on board that u-boat as brave as a lion, and when the ’un commander spoke to him, polite enough, too—he looked at him as if he was dirt. and then he give me the messages i ha’ told ye. and then they took him below. and then the u-boat started for to dive— now don’t ye be too upset, mother.”

“go on, david.”

“well, then, the u-boat, as i was tellin’ ye, started for to dive. . . . but she wasn’t half under when—when she blowed up—all to smash—exploded into little bits, it seemed—our boat was near to bein’ swamped.” david ceased abruptly.

in the silence the girl rose and went to the woman, and put her arm about the bent shoulders.

david spoke again, in little more than a whisper. “’tis not all told; and now comes the worst—and the best, too. . . . when all was over on the old hesperus, and we was makin’ ready to leave her, uncle whinn draws me into the chartroom. without sayin’ anything he takes off his old coat and cap and puts on split new ones. after that, he takes down the life belt that hung above his bunk, and puts it on very careful. then, at last, he speaks to me. ‘david,’ he says, ‘they’re nailin’ us skippers in these times, so maybe you and me shan’t meet again.’ and he holds out his hand. hardly knowin’ what to say, i says: ‘even if they do take ye prisoner, the war won’t last for ever and ever, and maybe ye’ll escape afore long.’ he shakes his head, smilin’ a little. ‘if they takes p. 167me, they takes the consequences, and so does i.’ and then he tells me his secret— god! to think o’ the man’s pluck!”

david wiped his face.

“my uncle whinn says to me: ‘my lad, i thought to tell nobody, but ’twould be too lonesome-like for me to go like that. but ye needn’t make a story about it. . . . this here life belt,’ says he, ‘was my own idea. ’tisn’t made o’ corks. t’is made o’ high, powerful explosive—enough to wreck a battleship. and all i ha’ got to do is just to pull this little bit o’ string.’ . . .”

j. j. bell.