Harbor Jim of Newfoundland

Bob McCartney was spreading cod on the flakes and I was watching him and estimating the chances of better weather. The sun had not succeeded in rolling back the fog and St. John's was still half asleep in blankets of mist. Signal Hill was altogether hidden and the harbor entrance could not be seen. In the water-soaked atmosphere the flakes were merged together and the tiny houses of the fishers were almost joined into one long rambling house. The air was heavy with the smell of fish and the morning was not conducive to enthusiastic conversation.. Bob McCartney was a Newfoundlander born and bred and had left with his ancestors in Ireland the gift of blarney. This morning in particular he contented himself with monosyllabic answers that occasionally did not come even to the estate words but ended only in an effective grunt. Finally he condescended to speak a whole sentence with some little life in his voice.. Yes I guess she's agoin' to lift fer there goes Harbor Jim.. I strained my eyes to see thru the fog and could just discern a sail boat headed toward what I supposed was the harbor entrance.. And who is Harbor Jim? I asked.. Why he's my friend and he can knock spalls off'n any Lander in the Dominion replied Bob and then lapsed into silence as he went on slowly laying out his cod on the flakes.. Just then the sun made a gain and succeeded in piercing thru the fog and I saw suddenly a little boat some seventy-five yards out from the shore and standing out near the bow stood a man as erect as the mast behind him and looking straight out to sea.. There's Harbor Jim! and Bob pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the boat as he spoke the words.