"Goin' to have this 'ere haddock an' some o' my good baked potatoes; must eat to live," responded my companion with great pleasantness and open approval.I found that I had suddenly left the forbidding coast and come into the smooth little harbor of friendship.
"You ain't never been up to my place," said the old man.
"Folks don't come now as they used to; no, 'tain't no use to ask folks now.My poor dear she was a great hand to draw young company."I remembered that Mrs.Todd had once said that this old fisherman had been sore stricken and unconsoled at the death of his wife.
"I should like very much to come," said I."Perhaps you are going to be at home later on?"Mr.Tilley agreed, by a sober nod, and went his way bent-shouldered and with a rolling gait.There was a new patch high on the shoulder of his old waistcoat, which corresponded to the renewing of the Miranda's mainsail down the bay, and I wondered if his own fingers, clumsy with much deep-sea fishing, had set it in.
"Was there a good catch to-day?" I asked, stopping a moment.
"I didn't happen to be on the shore when the boats came in.""No; all come in pretty light," answered Mr.Tilley."Addicks an' Bowden they done the best; Abel an' me we had but a slim fare.
We went out 'arly, but not so 'arly as sometimes; looked like a poor mornin'.I got nine haddick, all small, and seven fish; the rest on 'em got more fish than haddick.Well, I don't expect they feel like bitin' every day; we l'arn to humor 'em a little, an' let 'em have their way 'bout it.These plaguey dog-fish kind of worry 'em." Mr.Tilley pronounced the last sentence with much sympathy, as if he looked upon himself as a true friend of all the haddock and codfish that lived on the fishing grounds, and so we parted.
Later in the afternoon I went along the beach again until Icame to the foot of Mr.Tilley's land, and found his rough track across the cobblestones and rocks to the field edge, where there was a heavy piece of old wreck timber, like a ship's bone, full of tree-nails.From this a little footpath, narrow with one man's treading, led up across the small green field that made Mr.
Tilley's whole estate, except a straggling pasture that tilted on edge up the steep hillside beyond the house and road.I could hear the tinkle-tankle of a cow-bell somewhere among the spruces by which the pasture was being walked over and forested from every side; it was likely to be called the wood lot before long, but the field was unmolested.I could not see a bush or a brier anywhere within its walls, and hardly a stray pebble showed itself.This was most surprising in that country of firm ledges, and scattered stones which all the walls that industry could devise had hardly begun to clear away off the land.In the narrow field I noticed some stout stakes, apparently planted at random in the grass and among the hills of potatoes, but carefully painted yellow and white to match the house, a neat sharp-edged little dwelling, which looked strangely modern for its owner.I should have much sooner believed that the smart young wholesale egg merchant of the Landing was its occupant than Mr.Tilley, since a man's house is really but his larger body, and expresses in a way his nature and character.
I went up the field, following the smooth little path to the side door.As for using the front door, that was a matter of great ceremony; the long grass grew close against the high stone step, and a snowberry bush leaned over it, top-heavy with the weight of a morning-glory vine that had managed to take what the fishermen might call a half hitch about the door-knob.Elijah Tilley came to the side door to receive me; he was knitting a blue yarn stocking without looking on, and was warmly dressed for the season in a thick blue flannel shirt with white crockery buttons, a faded waistcoat and trousers heavily patched at the knees.These were not his fishing clothes.There was something delightful in the grasp of his hand, warm and clean, as if it never touched anything but the comfortable woolen yarn, instead of cold sea water and slippery fish.
"What are the painted stakes for, down in the field?" Ihastened to ask, and he came out a step or two along the path to see; and looked at the stakes as if his attention were called to them for the first time.
"Folks laughed at me when I first bought this place an' come here to live," he explained."They said 'twa'n't no kind of a field privilege at all; no place to raise anything, all full o'
stones.I was aware 'twas good land, an' I worked some on it--odd times when I didn't have nothin' else on hand--till I cleared them loose stones all out.You never see a prettier piece than 'tis now; now did ye? Well, as for them painted marks, them's my buoys.
I struck on to some heavy rocks that didn't show none, but a plow'd be liable to ground on 'em, an' so I ketched holt an' buoyed 'em same's you see.They don't trouble me no more'n if they wa'n't there.""You haven't been to sea for nothing," I said laughing.
"One trade helps another," said Elijah with an amiable smile.
"Come right in an' set down.Come in an' rest ye," he exclaimed, and led the way into his comfortable kitchen.The sunshine poured in at the two further windows, and a cat was curled up sound asleep on the table that stood between them.There was a new-looking light oilcloth of a tiled pattern on the floor, and a crockery teapot, large for a household of only one person, stood on the bright stove.I ventured to say that somebody must be a very good housekeeper.
"That's me," acknowledged the old fisherman with frankness.
"There ain't nobody here but me.I try to keep things looking right, same's poor dear left 'em.You set down here in this chair, then you can look off an' see the water.None on 'em thought I was goin' to get along alone, no way, but I wa'n't goin'
