A NIGHT IN A FISHING HUT. 



281 



He stopped and patted the old accordion, 

 and 1 said, "I never knew anyone lived 

 here with you, Hank. Didn't he come 

 hack? Where is he now?" 



Hank turned and looked at me with a 

 steady questioning look. "I dun know 

 where he is," he answered, "not fer sure. 

 I've a notion ter tell ye," he whispered, 

 "I've often thought I'd feel easier ter tell 

 someone ; thought of it ter night when 

 I see ye comin' in here, an' then I give th' 

 idee up agin. Ye aint a talkin' man?" he 

 asked, and, without waiting, answered him- 

 self. "No, I know ye aint. I kin tell gin'- 

 ally. Ye'll keep yer mouth shet an' ye can't 

 do no good by talkin' anyways. Promise." 



"All right," I said, and made ready for 

 his story by again filling and lighting my 

 pipe, and adjusting myself more comfort- 

 ably in my chair. 



Hank had placed the accordion on the 

 floor, by his side, and resumed his leaning 

 position. He sat without speaking so long 

 that I thought he had forgotten me. Then, 

 without changing his position, he began : 



"Seven years ago today I come home 

 from fishin', 'bout 3 in the afternoon, an' 

 found a man here talkin' with Adam, my 

 partner. Adam ' made us acquainted an' 

 said th' feller was a lawyer The feller 

 said he'd come 'bout some property belong- 

 ed to Adam — been willed to him — an' said 

 that Adam must go West with him, where 

 tiie property was, or else give up some writ- 

 in's he had. Ef he'd give him up the writ- 

 in's, he'd settle the business an' Adam 

 needn't to bother 'bout comin'. I hadn't 

 never seen no writin's, an' I said so ; but 

 Adam he said, yes, he had 'em, and then 

 he showed 'em to me, tied up with a red 

 string. The lawyer he said the papers 'uld 

 do jes' as well as Adam goin', but Adam 

 wouldn't give 'em up. Well, they talked 

 together an' kept argyin' till after dark; 

 • but 1 didn't hear much o' what they said, 

 except that the lawyer urged Adam ter give 

 him up th' writin's, and Adam refused ter 

 give 'em up. Then they went outside and 

 I heerd Adam talkin' loud an' excited like, 

 an' at last he hollered out. 'Well then I'll 

 go,' an' then he come inside an' says he, 

 'Hank, I got ter go, an' the sooner I go, 

 the sooner I'll git back,' an' he began mak- 

 in' up a bundle. 'Lords sake, Adam,' says I, 

 'don't go to-night, wait till daylight. It's 

 blowin' hard an' it's dark, an' ye can't git 

 through the woods, to say nothin' o' gittin 

 across in the boat.' 'No,' says Adam, 'I'm 

 goin' now. We'll git over all right, an' I 

 know the trail well enough to feel it a'most. 

 I'll be back in a couple o' weeks or a 

 month anyway,' says he, an' he grabbed 

 his bundle an' his gun, an' he put the writ- 

 in's in his coat, an' went out an' me an' 

 the lawyer we went out after him. When 



I got down to the shore, Adam he was 

 shovin' an' pushin' at the boat like a crazy 

 man, tryin' ter git her turned 'round so's 

 we could shove her in bow first, on account 

 o' the sea rollin' so ; an' we shoved her in 

 an' Adam says ter the lawyer 'git in,' says 

 he, an' he got in the starn an' Adam give 

 him his bundle an' his gun. Well, they 

 started, Adam rowin' an the lawyer sittin' 

 in the starn. 'Twas blowin' most too hard 

 fer 'em, but Adam was a good man in a 

 boat. There was a leetle moon, 'bout a 

 quarter full, an' a few clouds driftin' fast 

 over it, an' thicker ones comin'. I stood 

 an' watched 'em till they was out o' sight, 

 an' fer a long time after I stood lookin/ 

 at where they'd gone an' then I hollered 

 out, 'Good-by Adam,' says I; fer it had all 

 happened so suddin' I was kinder dazed 

 an' hadn't thought o' it afore, but I don't 

 spose he culd a heerd me, fer they'd been 

 gone 'bout half an hour. Then I started 

 fer the cabin, feelin' kinder low spirited. 

 'Twas 'bout 7 o'clock, I guess, an' jes' as I 

 turned I heerd a gun go off an' a yell. I 

 wheeled 'round, an' there they was agin. 

 I culd see 'em plain, standin' up in that 

 bobbin' boat, an' they had holt o' each other 

 an' was wrastlin'. Then a cloud come, an' 

 I couldn't see nothin', but I heerd 'em over 

 the wind, cursin' an' chokin', an' then I 

 heerd a yell agin' — a dyin' man's yell, like 

 as I've heerd 'em in the army; an' I ran 

 down to th' beach, an' I yelled ter 'em, 

 'stop ; God A'mighty, stop !' an' I shoved my 

 boat off an' jumped in an' she swamped, 

 an' I kep' shovin' her in, an' she kep' 

 swampin' till I was nigh drownded. I 

 didn't know nothin' fer a good while, an' 

 yet it seems ter me I kinder remember 

 runnin' up an' down the beach stumblin' 

 an' fallin', but I aint sure 'bout it." Hank 

 paused, and I could hear his jaws working 

 like those of one trying to swallow with 

 dry tongue and throat. 



"Well?" I said, inquiringly. 



"That's all," said Hank; "I haint never 

 seen him since. % I found the boat, 2 days 

 after, on t'other shore, an' on that night 

 the wind was blowin' nearly on this shore; 

 but it might have drifted over when the 

 wind changed. The boat had one oar into 

 it an that was all, an'," he added, with a 

 quivering voice, "it had blood on it — on the 

 seat an' on the rail ; it might ha' been from 

 fish, fer Adam had been spearin' the day 

 he left, an', besides, I should ha' thought 

 fresh blood wuld ha' washed away such a 

 night as that was ; but I've heerd that a 

 man's blood, spilt unlawful, don't wash 

 away easy." 



Hank was, by this time, in a state of 

 dreadful agitation. He looked nervously 

 at the door and window, his hands opened 

 and shut and the sweat broke out on his face. 



