A Madonna Of Tinkle Tickle

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Title:     A Madonna Of Tinkle Tickle
Author: Norman Duncan [More Titles by Duncan]

It was at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, with the trader Quick as Wink in from the sudsy seas of those parts, that Tumm, the old clerk, told the singular tale of the Madonna of Tinkle Tickle.

"I'm no hand for sixpenny novels," says he, with a wry glance at the skipper's dog-eared romance. "Nursemaids an' noblemen? I'm chary. I've no love, anyhow, for the things o' mere fancy. But I'm a great reader," he protested, with quick warmth, "o' the tales that are lived under the two eyes in my head. I'm forever in my lib'ry, too. Jus' now," he added, his eye on a dismayed little man from Chain Harbor, "I'm readin' the book o' the cook. An' I'm lookin' for a sad endin', ecod, if he keeps on scorchin' the water!"

The squat little Newfoundland schooner was snug in the lee of False Frenchman and down for the night. A wet time abroad: a black wind in the rigging, and the swish and patter of rain on the deck. But the forecastle bogey was roaring, and the forecastle lamp was bright; and the crew--at ease and dry--sprawled content in the forecastle glow.

"Lyin' here at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, with Tinkle Tickle hard-by," the clerk drawled on, "I been thumbin' over the queer yarn o' Mary Mull. An' I been enjoyin' it, too. An old tale--lived long ago. 'Tis a tale t' my taste. It touches the heart of a woman. An' so, lads--'tis a mystery."

Then the tale that was lived page by page under the two eyes in Tumm's head:

"Tim Mull was fair dogged by the children o' Tinkle Tickle in his bachelor days," the tale ran on. "There was that about un, somehow, in eyes or voice, t' win the love o' kids, dogs, an' grandmothers. 'Leave the kids have their way,' says he. 'I likes t' have un t' come t' me. They're no bother at all. Why, damme,' says he, 'they uplift the soul of a bachelor man like me! I loves un.'

"'You'll be havin' a crew o' your own, some day,' says Tom Blot, 'an' you'll not be so fond o' the company.'

"'I'll ship all the Lord sends.'

"'Ah-ha, b'y!' chuckles Tom, 'He've a wonderful store o' little souls up aloft.'

"'Then,' says Tim, 'I'll thank Un t' be lavish.'

"Tom Blot was an old, old man, long past his labor, creakin' over the roads o' Harbor with a staff t' help his dry legs, an' much give t' broodin' on the things he'd found out in this life. ''Tis rare that He's mean with such gifts,' says he. 'But 'tis queer the way He bestows un. Ecod!' says he, in a temper, 'I've never been able t' fathom his ways, old as I is!'

"'I wants a big crew o' lads an' little maids, Tom,' says Tim Mull. 'Can't be too many for me if I'm to enjoy my cruise in this world.'

"'They've wide mouths, lad.'

"'Hut!' says Tim. 'What's a man for? I'll stuff their little crops. You mark me, b'y!'

"So it went with Tim Mull in his bachelor days: he'd forever a maid on his shoulder or a lad by the hand. He loved un. 'Twas knowed that he loved un. There wasn't a man or maid at Tinkle Tickle that didn't know. 'Twas a thing that was called t' mind whenever the name o' Tim Mull come up. 'Can't be too many kids about for Tim Mull!' An' they loved him. They'd wait for un t' come in from the sea at dusk o' fine days; an' on fine Sunday afternoons--sun out an' a blue wind blowin'--they'd troop at his heels over the roads an' hills o' the Tickle. They'd have no festival without un. On the eve o' Guy Fawkes, in the fall o' the year, with the Gunpowder Plot t' celebrate, when 't was

Remember, remember,
The Fifth o' November!

't was Tim Mull that must wind the fire-balls, an' sot the bonfires, an' put saleratus on the blisters. An' at Christmastide, when the kids o' Harbor come carolin' up the hill, all in mummers' dress, pipin',--

God rest you, merry gentlemen;
Let nothin' you dismay!

't was Tim Mull, in his cottage by Fo'c's'le Head, that had a big blaze, an' a cake, an' a tale, an' a tune on the concertina, for the rowdy crew.

"'I love un!' says he. 'Can't be too many for me!'

"An' everybody knowed it; an' everybody wondered, too, how Tim Mull would skipper his own little crew when he'd shipped un.

"Tim Mull fell in love, by-an'-by, with a dark maid o' the Tickle. By this time his mother was dead, an' he lived all alone in the cottage by Fo'c's'le Head. He had full measure o' the looks an' ways that win women. 'Twas the fashion t' fish for un. An' 'twas a thing that was shameless as fashion. Most o' the maids o' Harbor had cast hooks. Polly Twitter, for one, an' in desperation: a pink an' blue wee parcel o' fluff--an' a trim little craft, withal. But Tim Mull knowed nothin' o' this, at all; he was too stupid, maybe,--an' too decent,--t' read the glances an' blushes an' laughter they flung out for bait.

"'Twas Mary Low--who'd cast no eyes his way--that overcome un. She loved Tim Mull. No doubt, in the way o' maids, she had cherished her hope; an' it may be she had grieved t' see big Tim Mull, entangled in ribbons an' curls an' the sparkle o' blue eyes, indulge the flirtatious ways o' pretty little Polly Twitter. A tall maid, this Mary--soft an' brown. She'd brown eyes, with black lashes to hide un, an' brown hair, growin' low an' curly; an' her round cheeks was brown, too, flushed with red. She was a maid with sweet ways an' a tender pride; she was slow t' speak an' not much give t' laughter; an' she had the sad habit o' broodin' overmuch in the dusk. But she'd eyes for love, never fear, an' her lips was warm; an' there come a night in spring weather--broad moonlight an' a still world--when Tim Mull give way to his courage.

"'Tumm,' says he, when he come in from his courtin', that night, 'there'll be guns poppin' at Tinkle Tickle come Friday.'

"'A weddin'?' says I.

"'Me an' Mary Low, Tumm. I been overcome at last. 'Twas the moon.'

"'She's ever the friend o' maids,' says I.

"'An' the tinkle of a goat's bell on Lookout. It fell down from the slope t' the shadows where the alders arch over the road by Needle Rock. Jus' when me an' Mary was passin' through, Tumm! You'd never believe such an accident. There's no resistin' brown eyes in spring weather. She's a wonderful woman, lad.'

"'That's queer!' says I.

"'A wonderful woman,' says he. 'No shallow water there. She's deep. I can't tell you how wonderful she is. Sure, I'd have t' play it on the concertina.'

"'I'll lead the chivari,' says I, 'an' you grant me a favor.'

"'Done!' says he.

"'Well, Tim,' says I, 'I'm a born godfather.'

"'Ecod!' says he. An' he slapped his knee an' chuckled. 'Does you mean it? Tobias Tumm Mull! 'Twill be a very good name for the first o' my little crew. Haw, haw! The thing's as good as managed.'

"So they was wed, hard an' fast; an' the women o' Tinkle Tickle laughed on the sly at pretty Polly Twitter an' condemned her shameless ways."

* * * * *

"In the fall o' that year I went down Barbadoes way in a fish-craft from St. John's. An' from Barbadoes, with youth upon me t' urge adventure, I shipped of a sudden for Spanish ports. 'Twas a matter o' four years afore I clapped eyes on the hills o' Tinkle Tickle again. An' I mind well that when the schooner hauled down ol' Fo'c's'le Head, that day, I was in a fret t' see the godson that Tim Mull had promised me. But there wasn't no godson t' see. There wasn't no child at all.

"'Well, no, Tumm,' says Tim Mull, 'we hasn't been favored in that particular line. But I'm content. All the children o' Harbor is mine,' says he, 'jus' as they used t' be, an' there's no sign o' the supply givin' out. Sure, I've no complaint o' my fortune in life.'

"Nor did Mary Mull complain. She thrived, as ever: she was soft an' brown an' flushed with the color o' flowers, as when she was a maid; an' she rippled with smiles, as then, in the best of her moods, like the sea on a sunlit afternoon.

"'I've Tim,' says she, 'an' with Tim I'm content. Your godson, Tumm, had he deigned to sail in, would have been no match for my Tim in goodness.'

"An' still the children o' Tinkle Tickle trooped after Tim Mull; an' still he'd forever a maid on his shoulder or a wee lad by the hand.

"'Fair winds, Tumm!' says Tim Mull. 'Me an' Mary is wonderful happy t'gether.'

"'Isn't a thing we could ask for,' says she.

"'Well, well!' says I. 'Now, that's good, Mary!'

"There come that summer t' Tinkle Tickle she that was once Polly Twitter. An' trouble clung to her skirts. Little vixen, she was! No tellin' how deep a wee woman can bite when she've the mind t' put her teeth in. Nobody at Tinkle Tickle but knowed that the maid had loved Tim Mull too well for her peace o' mind. Mary Mull knowed it well enough. Not Tim, maybe. But none better than Mary. 'Twas no secret, at all: for Polly Twitter had carried on like the bereft when Tim Mull was wed--had cried an' drooped an' gone white an' thin, boastin', all the while, t' draw friendly notice, that her heart was broke for good an' all. 'Twas a year an' more afore she flung up her pretty little head an' married a good man o' Skeleton Bight. An' now here she was, come back again, plump an' dimpled an' roguish as ever she'd been in her life. On a bit of a cruise, says she; but 'twas not on a cruise she'd come--'twas t' flaunt her new baby on the roads o' Tinkle Tickle.

"A wonderful baby, ecod! You'd think it t' hear the women cackle o' the quality o' that child. An' none more than Mary Mull. She kissed Polly Twitter, an' she kissed the baby; an' she vowed--with the sparkle o' joyous truth in her wet brown eyes--that the most bewitchin' baby on the coast, the stoutest baby, the cleverest baby, the sweetest baby, had come straight t' Polly Twitter, as though it wanted the very prettiest mother in all the world, an' knowed jus' what it was about.

"An' Polly kissed Mary. 'You is so kind, Mary!' says she. ''Tis jus' sweet o' you! How can you!'

"'Sweet?' says Mary, puzzled. 'Why, no, Polly. I'm--glad.'

"'Is you, Mary? 'Tis so odd! Is you really--glad?'

"'Why not?'

"'I don't know, Mary,' says Polly. 'But I--I--I 'lowed, somehow--that you wouldn't be--so very glad. An' I'm not sure that I'm grateful--enough.'

"An' the women o' Tinkle Tickle wondered, too, that Mary Mull could kiss Polly Twitter's baby. Polly Twitter with a rosy baby,--a lusty young nipper,--an' a lad, t' boot! An' poor Mary Mull with no child, at all, t' bless Tim Mull's house with! An' Tim Mull a lover o' children, as everybody knowed! The men chuckled a little, an' cast winks about, when Polly Twitter appeared on the roads with the baby; for 'twas a comical thing t' see her air an' her strut an' the flash o' pride in her eyes. But the women kep' their eyes an' ears open--an' waited for what might happen. They was all sure, ecod, that there was a gale comin' down; an' they was women,--an' they knowed the hearts o' women,--an' they was wise, if not kind, in their expectation.

"As for Mary Mull, she give never a sign o' trouble, but kep' right on kissin' Polly Twitter's baby, whenever she met it, which Polly contrived t' be often; an' I doubt that she knowed--until she couldn't help knowin'--that there was pity abroad at Tinkle Tickle for Tim Mull.

"'Twas at the Methodist treat on Bide-a-Bit Point that Polly Twitter managed her mischief. 'Twas a time well-chosen, too. Trust the little minx for that! She was swift t' bite--an' clever t' fix her white little fangs. There was a flock o' women, Mary Mull among un, in gossip by the baskets. An' Polly Twitter was there, too,--an' the baby. Sun under a black sea; then the cold breath o' dusk, with fog in the wind, comin' over the hills.

"'Tim Mull,' says Polly, 'hold the baby.'

"'Me?' says he. I'm a butterfingers, Polly.'

"'Come!' says she.

"'No, no, Polly! I'm timid.'

"She laughed at that. 'I'd like t' see you once,' says she, 'with a wee baby in your arms, as if 'twas your own. You'd look well. I'm thinkin'. Come, take un, Tim!'

"'Pass un over,' says he.

"She gave un the child. 'Well!' says she, throwin' up her little hands. 'You looks perfectly natural. Do he not, Mary? It might be his own for all one could tell. Why, Tim, you was made for the like o' that. Do it feel nice?'

"'Ay,' says poor Tim, from his heart. 'It do.'

"'Well, well!' says Polly. 'I 'low you're wishin', Tim, for one o' your own.'

"'I is.'

"Polly kissed the baby, then, an' rubbed it cheek t' cheek, so that her fluffy little head was close t' Tim. She looked up in his eyes. ''Tis a pity!' says she. An' she sighed.

"'Pity?' says he. 'Why, no!'

"'Poor lad!' says she. 'Poor lad!'

"'What's this!' says Tim. 'I've no cause for grief.'

"There was tears in little Polly's blue eyes as she took back the child. ''Tis a shame,' says she, 'that you've no child o' your own! An' you so wonderful fond o' children! I grieves for you, lad. It fair breaks my heart.'

"Some of the women laughed. An' this--somehow--moved Mary Mull t' vanish from that place.

* * * * *

"Well, now, Polly Twitter had worked her mischief. Mary Mull was never the same after that. She took t' the house. No church no more--no walkin' the roads. She was never seed abroad. An' she took t' tears an' broodin'. No ripple o' smiles no more--no song in the kitchen. She went downcast about the work o' the house, an' she sot overmuch alone in the twilight--an' she sighed too often--an' she looked too much at t' sea--an' she kep' silent too long--an' she cried too much in the night. She'd have nothin' t' do with children no more; nor would she let Tim Mull so much as lay a hand on the head of a youngster. Afore this, she'd never fretted for a child at all; she'd gone her way content in the world. But now--with Polly Twitter's vaunt forever in her ears--an' haunted by Tim Mull's wish for a child of his own--an' with the laughter o' the old women t' blister her pride--she was like t' lose her reason. An' the more it went on, the worse it got: for the folk o' the Tickle knowed very well that she'd give way t' envy an' anger, grievin' for what she couldn't have; an' she knowed that they knowed an' that they gossiped--an' this was like oil on a fire.

"'Tim,' says she, one night, that winter, 'will you listen t' me? Thinkin' things over, dear, I've chanced on a clever thing t' do. 'Tis queer, though.'

"'I'll not mind how queer, Mary.'

"She snuggled close to un, then, an' smiled. 'I wants t' go 'way from Tinkle Tickle,' says she.

"'Away from Tinkle Tickle?'

"'Don't say you'll not!'

"'Why, Mary, I was born here!'

"'I got t' go 'way.'

"'Wherefore?' says he. ''Tis good fishin' an' a friendly harbor.'

"'Oh, oh!' says she. 'I can't stand it no more.'

"'Mary, dear,' says he, 'there's no value in grievin' so sore over what can't be helped. Give it over, dear, an' be happy again, like you used t' be, won't you? Ah, now, Mary, won't you jus' try?'

"'I'm ashamed!'

"'Ashamed?' says he. 'You, Mary? Why, what's all this? There never was a woman so dear an' true as you.'

"'A childless woman! They mock me.'

"''Tis not true,' says he. 'They----'

"'Ay, 'tis true. They laugh. They whispers when I pass. I've heard un.'

"''Tis not true, at all,' says he. 'They loves you here at Tinkle Tickle.'

"'Oh, no, Tim! No, no! The women scoff. An' I'm ashamed. Oh, I'm ashamed t' be seen! I can't stand it no more. I got t' go 'way. Won't you take me, Tim?'

"Tim Mull looked, then, in her eyes. 'Ay,' says he, 'I'll take you, dear.'

"'Not for long,' says she. 'Jus' for a year or two. T' some place where there's nobody about. I'll not want t' stay--so very long.'

"'So long as you likes,' says he. 'I'm wantin' only t' see you well an' happy again. 'Tis a small thing t' leave Tinkle Tickle if we're t' bring about that. We'll move down the Labrador in the spring o' the year.'"

* * * * *

"In the spring o' the year I helped Tim Mull load his goods aboard a Labradorman an' close his cottage by Fo'c's'le Head.

"'Spring weather, Tumm,' says he, 'is the time for adventure. I'm glad I'm goin'. Why,' says he, 'Mary is easin' off already.'

"Foreign for me, then. Spring weather; time for adventure. Genoa, this cruise, on a Twillingate schooner, with the first shore-fish. A Barbadoes cruise again. Then a v'y'ge out China way. Queer how the flea-bite o' travel will itch! An' so long as it itched I kep' on scratchin'. 'Twas over two years afore I got a good long breath o' the fogs o' these parts again. An' by this time a miracle had happened on the Labrador. The good Lord had surprised Mary Mull at Come-By-Guess Harbor. Ay, lads! At last Mary Mull had what she wanted. An' I had a godson. Tobias Tumm Mull had sot out on his cruise o' the seas o' this life. News o' all this cotched me when I landed at St. John's. 'Twas in a letter from Mary Mull herself.

"'Ecod!' thinks I, as I read; 'she'll never be content until she flaunts that child on the roads o' Tinkle Tickle.'

"An' 'twas true. 'Twas said so in the letter. They was movin' back t' Tinkle Tickle, says she, in the fall o' the year, t' live for good an' all. An' as for Tim, says she, a man jus' wouldn't believe how tickled he was.

"Me, too, ecod! I was tickled. Deep down in my heart I blessed the fortune that had come t' Mary Mull. An' I was fair achin' t' knock the breath out o' Tim with a clap on the back. 'Queer,' thinks I, 'how good luck may be delayed. An' the longer luck waits,' thinks I, 'the better it seems an' the more 'tis welcome.'

"'Twas an old letter, this, from Mary; 'twas near a year old. They was already back at Tinkle Tickle. An' so I laid in a silver spoon an' a silver mug, marked 'Toby' in fine fashion, against the time I might land at the Tickle. But I went clerk on the Call Again out o' Chain Harbor, that spring; an' 'twas not until midsummer that I got the chance t' drop in t' see how my godson was thrivin'. Lyin' here at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, one night, in stress o' weather, as now we lies here, I made up mind, come what might, that I'd run over t' Tinkle Tickle an' give the mug an' the spoon t' wee Toby when the gale should oblige us. 'July!' thinks I. 'Well, well! An' here it is the seventeenth o' the month. I'll drop in on the nineteenth an' help celebrate the first birthday o' that child. 'Twill be a joyous occasion by Fo'c's'le Head. An' I'll have the schooner decked out in her best, an' guns poppin'; an' I'll have Tim Mull aboard, when 'tis over, for a small nip o' rum.'

"But when Tim Mull come aboard at Tinkle Tickle t' greet me, I was fair aghast an' dismayed. Never afore had he looked so woebegone an' wan. Red eyes peerin' out from two black caves; face all screwed with anxious thought. He made me think of a fish-thief, somehow, with a constable comin' down with the wind; an' it seemed, too, that maybe 'twas my fish he'd stole. For he'd lost his ease; he was full o' sighs an' starts an' shifty glances. An' there was no health in his voice; 'twas but a disconsolate whisper--slinkin' out into the light o' day. 'Sin on his soul,' thinks I. 'He dwells in black weather.'

"'We spied you from the head,' says he--an' sighed. 'It gives me a turn, lad, t' see you so sudden. But I'm wonderful glad you've come.'

"'Glad?' says I. 'Then look glad, ye crab!' An' I fetched un a clap on the back.

"'Ouch!' says he. 'Don't, Tumm!'

"'I congratulate you,' says I.

"'Mm-m?' says he. 'Oh, ay! Sure, lad.' No smile, mark you. An' he looked off t' sea, as he spoke, an' then down at his boots, like a man in shame. 'Ay,' says he, brows down, voice gone low an' timid. 'Congratulate me, does you? Sure. That's proper--maybe.'

"'Nineteenth o' the month,' says I.

"'That's God's truth, Tumm.'

"'An' I'm come, ecod,' says I, 't' celebrate the first birthday o' Tobias Tumm Mull!'

"'First birthday,' says he. 'That's God's truth.'

"'Isn't there goin' t' be no celebration?'

"'Oh, sure!' says he. 'Oh, my, yes! Been gettin' ready for days. An' I've orders t' fetch you straightway t' the house. Supper's laid, Tumm. Four places at the board the night.'

"'I'll get my gifts,' says I; 'an' then----'

"He put a hand on my arm. 'What gifts?' says he.

"'Is you gone mad, Tim Mull?'

"'For--the child?' says he. 'Oh, sure! Mm-m!' He looked down at the deck. 'I hopes, Tumm,' says he, 'that they wasn't so very--expensive.'

"'I'll spend what I likes,' says I, 'on my own godson.'

"'Sure, you will!' says he. 'But I wish that----'

"Then no more. He stuttered--an' gulped--an' give a sigh--an' went for'ard. An' so I fetched the spoon an' the mug from below, in a sweat o' wonder an' fear, an' we went ashore in Tim's punt, with Tim as glum as a rainy day in the fall o' the year."

* * * * *

"An' now you may think that Mary Mull was woebegone, too. But she was not. Brown, plump, an' rosy! How she bloomed! She shone with health; she twinkled with good spirits. There was no sign o' shame upon her no more. Her big brown eyes was clean o' tears. Her voice was soft with content. A sweet woman, she was, ever, an' tender with happiness, now, when she met us at the threshold. I marveled that a gift like Toby Mull could work such a change in a woman. 'Tis queer how we thrives when we haves what we wants. She thanked me for the mug an' the spoon in a way that made me fair pity the joy that the little things give her.

"'For Toby!' says she. 'For wee Toby! Ah, Tumm, Tumm,--how wonderful thoughtful Toby's godfather is!'

"She wiped her eyes, then; an' I wondered that she should shed tears upon such an occasion--ay, wondered, an' could make nothin' of it at all.

"''Tis a great thing,' says she, 't' be the mother of a son. I lost my pride, Tumm, as you knows, afore we moved down the Labrador. But now, Tumm,--now, lad,--I'm jus' like other women. I'm jus' as much a woman, Tumm,' says she, 'as any woman o' Tinkle Tickle!'

"With that she patted my shoulder an' smiled an' rippled with sweet laughter an' fled t' the kitchen t' spread Toby Mull's first birthday party.

"'Tim,' says I, 'she've done well since Toby come.'

"'Mm-m?' says he. 'Ay!'--an' smoked on.

"'Ecod!' says I; 'she's blithe as a maid o' sixteen.'

"'She's able t' hold her head up,' says he. 'Isn't afeared she'll be laughed at by the women no more. That's why. 'Tis simple.'

"'You've lost heart yourself, Tim.'

"'Me? Oh, no!' says he. 'I'm a bit off my feed. Nothin' more. An' I'm steadily improvin'. Steadily, Tumm,--improvin' steadily.'

"'You've trouble, Tim?'

"He gripped his pipe with his teeth an' puffed hard. 'Ay,' says he, after a bit. 'I've trouble, Tumm. You got it right, lad.'

"Jus' then Mary Mull called t' supper. There was no time t' learn more o' this trouble. But I was bound an' determined, believe me, t' have Tim Mull aboard my craft, that night, an' fathom his woe. 'Twas a thousand pities that trouble should have un downcast when joy had come over the rim of his world like a new day."

* * * * *

"Places for four, ecod! Tim Mull was right. 'Twas a celebration. A place for Tim--an' a place for Mary--an' a place for me. An' there, too, was a place for Tobias Tumm Mull, a high chair, drawed close to his mother's side, with arms waitin' t' clutch an' hold the little nipper so soon as they fetched un in. I wished they'd not delay. 'Twas a strain on the patience. I'd long wanted--an' I'd come far--t' see my godson. But bein' a bachelor-man I held my tongue for a bit: for, thinks I, they're washin' an' curlin' the child, an' they'll fetch un in when they're ready t' do so, all spick-an'-span an' polished like a door-knob, an' crowin', too, the little rooster! 'Twas a fair sight to see Mary Mull smilin' beyond the tea-pot. 'Twas good t' see what she had provided. Cod's-tongues an' bacon--with new greens an' potatoes--an' capillaire-berry pie an' bake-apple jelly. 'Twas pretty, too, t' see the way she had arrayed the table. There was flowers from the hills flung about on the cloth. An' in the midst of all--fair in the middle o' the blossoms an' leaves an' toothsome plenty--was a white cake with one wee white taper burnin' as bright an' bold as ever a candle twice the size could manage.

"'Mary Mull,' says I, 'I've lost patience!'

"She laughed a little. 'Poor Tumm!' says she. 'I'm sorry your hunger had t' wait.'

"''Tis not my hunger.'

"She looked at me with her brow wrinkled. 'No?' says she.

"'I wants t' see what I've come t' see.'

"'That's queer!' says she. 'What you've come t' see?'

"'Woman,' cries I, 'fetch in that baby!'

"Never a word. Never a sound. Mary Mull drawed back a step--an' stared at me with her eyes growin' wider an' wider. An' Tim Mull was lookin' out o' the window. An' I was much amazed by all this. An' then Mary Mull turned t' Tim. 'Tim,' says she, her voice slow an' low, 'did you not write Tumm a letter?'

"Tim faced about. 'No, Mary,' says he. 'I--I hadn't no time--t' waste with writin'.'

"'That's queer, Tim.'

"'I--I--I forgot.'

"'I'm sorry--Tim.'

"'Oh, Mary, I didn't want to!' says Tim. 'That's the truth of it, dear. I--I hated--t' do it.'

"'An' you said never a word comin' up the hill?'

"'God's sake!' cries Tim, like a man beggin' mercy, 'I couldn't say a word like that!'

"Mary turned then t' me. 'Tumm,' says she, 'little Toby--is dead.'

"'Dead, Mary!'

"'We didn't get much more than--jus' one good look at the little fellow--afore he left us.'

* * * * *

"When I took Tim Mull aboard the Call Again that night," the tale ran on, "'twas all clear above. What fog had been hangin' about had gone off with a little wind from the warm inland places. The lights o' Harbor--warm lights--gleamed all round about Black hills: still water in the lee o' the rocks. The tinkle of a bell fell down from the slope o' Lookout; an' a maid's laugh--sweet as the bell itself--come ripplin' from the shadows o' the road. Stars out; the little beggars kep' winkin' an' winkin' away at all the mystery here below jus' as if they knowed all about it an' was sure we'd be surprised when we come t' find out.

"'Tumm, ol' shipmate,' says Tim Mull, 'I got a lie on my soul.'

"''Tis a poor place for a burden like that.'

"'I'm fair wore out with the weight of it.'

"'Will you never be rid of it, man?'

"'Not an I keeps on bein' a man.'

"'So, Tim?'

"He put his hand on my shoulder. 'Is you a friend o' Mary's?' says he.

"''Tis a thing you must know without tellin'.'

"'She's a woman, Tumm.'

"'An' a wife.'

"'Woman an' wife,' says he, 'an' I loves her well, God knows!' The tinkle o' the bell on the black slope o' Lookout caught his ear. He listened--until the tender little sound ceased an' sleep fell again on the hill. 'Tumm,' says he, then, all at once, 'there never was no baby! She's deceivin' Tinkle Tickle t' save her pride!'"

Tumm closed the book he had read page by page.

[The end]
Norman Duncan's short story: Madonna Of Tinkle Tickle

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