The Voyage of the Hoppergrass Part 18

"I will eat marline-spikes," said Mr. Daddles, "if you've got any of them on board. I've never seen one,--though I've heard of them a great deal."

"I'll eat crackers," declared Jimmy Toppan.

"So will I," said Sprague, "and glad to get 'em. I might be gnawing a bone in jail, now, instead."

"And there's no milk," said the Chief, "we were going to get some, and some bread, this morning in Bailey's Harbor."

"If you had endured the sufferings that _I_ have in Bailey's Harbor--" began Sprague.

"There are three dozen eggs," said Pete, "and that's more than four apiece, and there is plenty of bacon,--stop talking and get busy."

In ten minutes we were eating breakfast. They had trouble to keep us all supplied with fried eggs, until two skillets were put into commission. Then there was silence for a time.

"There's an apple pie down there," remarked Sprague, as he helped himself to another cup of coffee.

Mr. Daddles hurried below, and soon came up with the pie.

"I hope some of you will," said he, "you do, in this region, don't you?"

"In obscure parts of the ulterior," said Pete, "I have heard that the habit lingers of eating pie for breakfast. It's merely a tradition in my family, I regret to say."

"The old, robust stock is dying out," said Sprague, mournfully, "but my father has told me that in his youth he often saw his father do it. We are over civilized, but if there should be any great national crisis,--a war, or anything like that,--I have no doubt that New England would rally once again, and--"

"I am so much disappointed," said Daddles, turning slowly about, with the pie in one hand, "my poor grandmother has often told me about it, and I did hope to see the weird, old custom practised on its native heath--won't you? Or you?"

He turned to one after the other of us.

"Yer can give me a mejum piece," observed Gregory the Gauger, looking up from his fifth fried egg.

Mr. Daddles cut a large slice in evident delight. Gregory ate it, slowly and thoughtfully.

"Have some more?"

The Gauger held out his plate.

"Jes' mejum," said he.

After breakfast, we of the "Hoppergra.s.s" held a council.

"The Captain will come back to Bailey's Harbor," said Jimmy Toppan, "but we can't go there at all. We'll have to go somewhere else, and send a message to him."

"We might go to that place--what's its name? Squid Cove," Ed Mason suggested.

"And send a message to him by the car-driver," I added.

"We'll have to write it in cipher," said Mr. Daddles, "for it would never do to have it fall into the hands of Eb."

"How do you know that he will come back there?" I asked.

"I don't," said Jimmy, "but it's the most likely thing to happen, isn't it?"

"The most likely thing doesn't seem to happen on this trip,"

remarked Ed Mason, who was feeding Simon, the duck, with cracker crumbs.

Sprague broke in on our conversation.

"This charming little island," said he, pointing over his shoulder, toward the land, "is not an island, at all, it seems. It is a cape, or promontory, or perhaps more properly a peninsula.

Its name, so the Squire tells us, is Briggs's Nose. Probably the man who gave it that name perished long ago,--slain, no doubt, by the residents. At any rate, it is so far from the nearest town on the mainland that we believe it will be safe to land the Squire there. He can take the steamer this afternoon and get home before dusk. All who wish to kiss the Squire good-bye should therefore get ready. The line forms on the left."

Gregory the Gauger was disposed to grumble at being set ash.o.r.e.

"Fear not, Squire," said Sprague, "crowns for convoy shall be put into your purse. Many a s.h.i.+p's crew would have marooned you on a desert island, or set you adrift."

"With some s.h.i.+p's bread and a beaker of water," added Mr. Daddles.

"Quite so," said Sprague, "only we couldn't find a beaker on board,--and wouldn't have known one if we HAD found it."

Pete and the silent Chief prepared to row Gregory ash.o.r.e. Just before they left Sprague gave the prisoner some money for steamboat fare, and Mr. Daddles presented him with the remains of the apple pie, begging him to keep some of it for breakfast next day.

Twenty minutes later our friends were on board again, and we were getting up the anchor. Jimmy Toppan, the Chief, and Sprague went below to consult a chart, while the rest of us got the yacht under way. When they came back on deck the Chief took the wheel, announcing:

"Lanesport it is."

"Why Lanesport?" asked Pete.

"It's the nearest town on the mainland to Bailey's Harbor," said Jimmy Toppan.

"Then I should think you'd better steer clear of it."

"Oh, they won't have heard anything yet," answered Sprague, lying down on a seat, with his banjo. And he added: "a.s.sisted by Simon, I will now give you a little song."

"Do you think we'll find the 'Hoppergra.s.s' at Lanesport?" inquired Ed Mason.

"We can but try. We'll do a little sleuth-work there, anyhow."

"Who will you inquire from?"

"Oh, anybody. Do not interrupt me again, or I will sing 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.' Honest, I will."

A little before noon, we sailed up the river to Lanesport. The old town lay very still in the baking sun. There were schooners in the stream, and one or two at the wharves. A few sloop-yachts and cat- boats were at anchor in the river, but none of them was the "Hoppergra.s.s." Old and dilapidated wharves ran down to the river, some of them deserted, and covered with gra.s.s. There were tumble- down buildings at the water's edge, and they were mostly black with age. The town looked as if it had been sound asleep for a hundred years.

The Chief skilfully sailed our boat up to a wharf, where there was a landing-stage, and all of us, except our skipper, went ash.o.r.e.

Half way up the wharf we found a man, painting a row-boat. He knew nothing about the "Hoppergra.s.s" and said he had never heard of it.

"We'll walk up into the town," remarked Pete, "we've got to get some grub, anyway."

We strolled up the wharf, and along a quaint and crooked street.

The sidewalk was so narrow that we had to walk in single file, and the curb-stone, as Mr. Daddles put it, was made of wood. There were a few shops, but as most of them sold s.h.i.+ps' supplies, we did not go in any of them. A pleasant smell of tar came from each door.