Tom to go get a bite to eat, for it was time for them to be away
fishing.

All that morning the recollection of the night before hung over Tom
Chist like a great cloud of boding trouble. It filled the confined area
of the little boat and spread over the entire wide spaces of sky and
sea that surrounded them. Not for a moment was it lifted. Even when he
was hauling in his wet and dripping line with a struggling fish at the
end of it a recurrent memory of what he had seen would suddenly come
upon him, and he would groan in spirit at the recollection. He looked
at Matt Abrahamson's leathery face, at his lantern jaws cavernously and
stolidly chewing at a tobacco leaf, and it seemed monstrous to him that
the old man should be so unconscious of the black cloud that wrapped
them all about.

When the boat reached the shore again he leaped scrambling to the
beach, and as soon as his dinner was eaten he hurried away to find the
Dominie Jones.

He ran all the way from Abrahamson's hut to the Parson's house, hardly
stopping once, and when he knocked at the door he was panting and
sobbing for breath.

The good man was sitting on the back-kitchen door-step smoking his long
pipe of tobacco out into the sunlight, while his wife within was
rattling about among the pans and dishes in preparation of their
supper, of which a strong, porky smell already filled the air.

Then Tom Chist told his story, panting, hurrying, tumbling one word
over another in his haste, and Parson Jones listened, breaking every