# Greater Love Hath No Man/Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI
THE OLD "BANKER"
VARGE had headed steadily south—always south. What better plan could he have adopted than that so naïvely suggested by the doctor—to make Gloucester and ship on a fishing smack for the Grand Banks? He would be away for months, out of touch with the world and safe from pursuit; he would be earning something the while, and on his return—well, the time to think of that had not yet come.
Night after night he had left the miles behind him. The prison suit had long since disappeared—well hidden in the hollow trunk of a fallen tree close to the spot where Doctor Kreelmar had met him. Little by little, in the general stores of the small hamlets, an article at a time, he had supplied himself with the necessities that he lacked. The tell-tale underclothing, with its "777" stamped glaringly, indelibly upon it, was discarded; his coat was no longer buttoned tightly around a bare throat, for he now had collar, shirt and tie; the heavy prison boots were replaced by those of less ostentatious manufacture; the warden's battered soft-felt hat by one of like design but of more respectability. He would have bought new clothes as well, but, though his money was sufficient for the purpose, he had not dared to drain too heavily upon his slender capital—and after all, if old, the clothes had not yet reached that stage of shabbiness or indecency that would provoke suspicion or distrust.
​The same general stores too, but more often the farm houses, had supplied him with food. Few questions had been asked him—the money in his pocket had proved a passport that had made his way one of almost ridiculous ease. Yet still he had preserved always the utmost caution, hiding by day, travelling never but by night, making wide detours to avoid the larger towns and more thickly settled districts.
And so the journey had been made—and now, very early one morning, two weeks since his escape, he came out upon a road close to the beach on the outskirts of Gloucester. He stood for a while gazing at the blue sweep of sea; then his eyes fell contemplatively upon his more immediate surroundings.
Near him was a small shack built almost on the sand itself; a dory was pulled up beyond the tide line; and spread out on the beach was a black, tarred net, over which a twisted little old man was assiduously engaged. The man's back was turned, and Varge watched him for a moment speculatively. He had little idea where the fishing fleet was to be found; nor, indeed, in an intimate way, anything about it. In common with every one, he had heard of the Gloucester fishermen—but that was the extent of his knowledge. Inquiries he would have to make, and this appealed to him as a favourable opportunity—he had no wish to be in evidence in the city itself any more than was absolutely necessary.
His mind made up to accost the old fisherman, Varge stepped quickly across the sand.
"Good-morning," he said pleasantly, halting a yard from the other.
The back of the black jersey, darned here and there ​in spots with brown yarn, remained presented imperturbable to Varge.
"Good-morning," Varge repeated, raising his voice, and stepping nearer.
The old fisherman turned his head slowly and squinted at Varge.
"Haow?" He jabbed a gnarled forefinger at his ear. "I be a mite deef."
Varge promptly sat down on the sand, drew up his legs, clasped his hands around his knees—and smiled into the crimped surface of bronzed wrinkles that made the other's face. He liked the puckered little nest of lines at the corners of the old fellow's eyes, and the lurking twinkle in the blue depths of the eyes themselves under the shaggy grey brows.
Varge's smile was contagious.
"Fine mornin'! Fine mornin'!" said the old man, in a high, piping voice; then in cautious amendment: "But I dunno but what we'll have wind. Kind o' looks to me as though we would. 'Baout due naou—allus got the rheumatiz in my knee 'fore a down-easter."
Varge nodded gravely in agreement. The sky and sea were a glorious blue; the sun just creeping over the world's edge kissed the tops of the long, smooth rollers, transforming them into undulating, gleaming streaks of burnished gold. Not a speck, not a cloud showed clear to the horizon rim. Again Varge nodded gravely; then:
"I saw you working down here on the beach," he said. "I'm a stranger here, and I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me a few things I want to know."
"Lord!" said the old fellow simply. "I don't mind. What might it be you want to know?"
​"Well, principally, where the fishing fleet is," replied Varge.
The old fellow wriggled his hand into his trousers' pocket, brought out a plug of tobacco, eyed the horizon meditatively, bit generously into the plug, wrestled with it till his teeth met, restored it to his pocket, gazed contemplatively again at the horizon, and finally spat profoundly.
"That's a purty tall question," he drawled. "Takin' everything into consideration, weather we've had an' usual conditions, I'd say mabbe they was on the Banquereau, or I dunno but what as mabbe the Saint Pierre."
"Where's that?" asked Varge.
The old fisherman waved his arm with an expansive gesture oceanwards.
"Guess you're kind o' new 'raound these parts, ain't you?" he remarked, his eyes twinkling at Varge. "Them two is two o' the fishin' banks. There's a hull string of 'em—West'rn, Banquereau, Saint Pierre, Green an' the Grand, an' they gen'rally fishes the hull lot on the v'yage, less they get all their salt wet 'fore they strike the Virgin, which don't happen more'n once in a hundred years—takes a hull heap o' fish to wet all the salt, quintals an' quintals of 'em—old Banker I be myself."
Varge was kicking in the sand with the toe of his boot—the other's words had come to him with a shock.
"You mean," he said slowly, "that they've left here?"
"Why, tee-hee," tittered the old fellow, "you didn't expect to find 'em here, did you? But then I dunno as you didn't, kind o' looks as though you did. Weeks ago ​they left—'twon't be more'n another three months naow 'fore they'll be comin' back. What might be your interest in 'em?"
"Well," said Varge frankly, "I wanted to make a trip on one of the boats."
"Did you naow!" ejaculated the old fellow, screwing up his eyes and regarding Varge critically. "Well, they sometimes takes 'em for a consideration, but you don't look nohow run down. What would it be naow—lungs?"
"Oh, no," said Varge smiling. "I believe my lungs are sound enough—sound enough so that I counted on working my way."
The mender of nets shook his head judicially.
"Mostly," said he, "they starts in as boys, 'baout ten or there'baouts, an' by 'baout the time they're thinkin' o' gettin' married they get to be some handy aboard."
Varge's eyes shifted from the old fisherman and fixed on a sail where, the sun striking full upon it, it lay glistening white far out over the water. A keen sense of disappointment was upon him. He had never questioned the feasibility of the plan—he had imagined that the coming and going of the schooners was a matter of almost daily occurrence.
The old fisherman put an added damper upon his hopes.
"Know anything 'baout slittin' or packin' or, most of all, doryin'?" he inquired, his jaws wagging busily upon his tobacco.
"No," admitted Varge, a little dully; "I'm afraid I don't."
​There was a long silence. Varge, still gazing seaward, could feel the other studying him intently.
"Kind o' real sot on it, weren't you?" volunteered the old fisherman, nodding his head sympathetically.
Varge turned now and faced the other again.
"Yes," he said; "I was. I was very anxious to go. Are you sure there aren't any schooners that haven't gone yet?"
"No," said the other, scratching thoughtfully behind his ear, "no; I dunno of any as ain't gone, 'cept mabbe—tee-hee,"—he tittered suddenly and very softly—"'cept mabbe Jonah Sully, though I wouldn't advise you on no accounts to go along with him, though I reckon he'd take you, allus purvided you didn't rile him up at first sight."
"Who is Jonah Sully?" asked Varge quickly.
"Jonah Sully o' the Mary K. Jones"—the old fisherman's jaws forgot to work for a moment; then he slapped his thigh a resounding whack. "Lord bless us!" he ejaculated. "Didn't know as there was any one hadn't heerd o' Jonah! Sailed out o' here, man an' boy, these forty year—never knew such a man for everlastin' hard luck. Took 'em a long time 'fore they got 'raound to callin' him Jonah regular—a matter o' twenty-five year—wanted to give him a chance to lose it overboard 'fore they branded him with it solemn; but 'twarn't no use, so fin'lly it come to it an' Jonah says himself there ain't no use callin' things other'n they be. Never see such gol-dinged luck cling to any man. Broke his leg fallin' down the hatch first time he went to sea. That started it, an' it's kept up ever since with one thing or another. Schooner he had 'fore the Mary ​K. Jones was cut clean in two on the Banks by a liner in a fog. Never've known him to make a v'yage something didn't happen—either he'd come back with his flag half-mast, showin' one or more o' the crew had gone, or else he'd had a plaguey poor catch, or else something had gone wrong with the schooner an' he'd come limpin' in under jury rig."
"That's strange," said Varge, leaning forward interestedly. "I mean it's strange that luck like that would stick to a man so consistently."
"Well, 'tis an' 'tisn't," submitted the old salt reflectively. "I've an idee a hull lot of it lays to the fact that he thinks slow. Jonah's a powerful slow thinker. By the time he gets 'raound to makin' up his mind, there's a mite less call to make it up 'cause things have kind o' taken their own course without any interference from him—tee-hee."
Varge laughed outright—the old fellow's chuckle was genuine; it seemed to start from the soles of the heavy sea-boots and work its way along upward till it set the ocean of furrows in the bronzed face to rippling and tumbling over one another.
"And how is it he didn't sail this time when the others did?" Varge questioned.
"Pendyceetus," said the old fellow. "Went down to Boston more'n six weeks ago to have it cut out. Bein' Jonah, they had to do it twice, an' it kept him there longer'n it would most folks. I heerd he clalc'lated to get off with the ebb tide this mornin' to pick up what he could get, rather'n lose the hull season."
"And you think he would take me?" queried Varge quietly.
​"Lord, I dunno! I should think he would. Luck's an awful big thing in the eyes o' the Bankers. Jonah, he's gen'rally scramblin' 'raound for a crew—an' with 'em all away naow he's probably scramblin' harder than ever. 'Tain't everybody hankers to sail with Jonah. Can't keep a wife on a poor catch, to say nothin' o' what else might happen. Yes; I dunno but what he'd take you—but, mind you, I ain't recommendin' it an' I wouldn't want none o' the responsibility—wouldn't go myself, by jinks, not if he gave me the Mary K. Jones!"
"Where will I find him?" asked Varge, rising. "I think I'll risk it if he will take me—and if he is sailing this morning I guess I had better hurry along."
"Why, you'll find him fast enough down to Varley's fish wharf—any one 'll show you the place."
Varge held out his hand.
"I'm more than obliged to you," he said gratefully. "Thanks very much indeed."
"Ain't no thanks called for," said the old fellow, shaking Varge's hand up and down like a pump handle. "Glad to have met you. Just foller that road there right along till you get into the town."
"Thanks," said Varge heartily. "Good-bye."
He crossed the beach, reached the road, started along it, then stopped suddenly and turned, as the other shouted after him.
"Hi, young fellow! Hi!"
"Yes?" Varge answered.
The old fisherman was scratching earnestly at his head, and conscientious worry was written large on the crinkled face.
​"I ain't takin' no responsibility 'count o' Jonah Sully!" he piped shrilly.
Varge waved his hand.
"All right," he called back, laughing—and went on again.