Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 21

Before going to sleep, Spurling outlined their work for the morrow.

"Throppy, you and I'll try our luck on Martingale Bank. It's only a half-mile northwest of the island, and sometimes you can get a big catch there. I've been saving it for a time like this. Budge, you and Percy ought to get at least a couple of hundred pounds out of those lobster-traps. They'll have been down two days and should yield some good-sized ones. Set the clock at four, Filippo! We'll be lazy for once."

Percy's sleep was broken. He dreamed of being chased along the main street of Vinalhaven by a crowd of small boys shooting at him with Roman candles. He dodged into an open doorway, only to be driven out by a giant with Jabe's face and a half-dozen pairs of arms the fists of which were studded with a double allowance of knuckles. He was fast being pounded to a pulp when the alarm-clock went off. He woke in a cold sweat.

Lying with closed eyes, he pretended to be asleep while Jim and Throppy finished a hasty breakfast. Soon the exhaust of the _Barracouta_ proclaimed that they were on their way to Martingale Bank. Percy dozed, but remained conscious of Filippo's culinary operations.

At five Lane turned out, according to schedule. He shook Percy vigorously.

"Wake up, Whittington! Breakfast!"

"Don't care for mine yet."

"Aren't you going out with me to haul those traps?"

"No!" retorted Percy, sourly.

"Suit yourself!" was Lane's brief response.

Percy knew that Budge would rather go without him. He heard him give a whistle as he examined Nemo's leg; the animal cringed and whimpered.

"Poor fellow! Too bad!" sympathized Lane.

The remark was evidently intended for Percy's ears. At least the lad took it so. He felt sorry if Nemo was really hurt. Lane went out, and Percy turned over for another nap. When he next woke it was almost seven and the cabin was empty. He got up and dressed leisurely.

Looking out of the window, he saw Filippo digging clams on the flats across the cove. That meant chowder for dinner, a dish he particularly detested. He made a wry mouth and turned to the larder, but could discover nothing but some cold fish and fried potatoes. The fire had gone out, and he determined to await Filippo's return before breakfasting.

Deliberately scratching a match, he lighted a cigarette, thereby breaking the rule against smoking in the cabin. Then he stretched himself out on his bunk and began reading _The Three Musketeers_.

Filippo returned before he had finished his chapter. The Italian's eyes grew round at the tobacco smoke.

"You know Misser Jim say no smoking!"

"Mister Jim isn't here now. You mind your own business and I'll mind mine. Get me some breakfast, will you?"

"Fire gone out while you sleep and everything grow cold. You bring some wood and I build another."

To Percy's still overstrained nerves Filippo's way of putting the matter suggested a condition on which the meal depended rather than a request.

"Bring it yourself!" he growled. "I'm no servant! I don't s.h.a.g kindling for any Dago!"

At this insult Filippo's olive cheeks became quite pale. Into his eyes flashed a look Whittington had never seen there before. For an instant he almost feared that the young foreigner was about to seize a knife and spring upon him. Then the look pa.s.sed and Filippo's color came back.

"All right!" he laughed. "No wood, no breakfast!"

Stepping out to the fish-house, he began sh.e.l.ling the clams he had just dug. Percy vacillated between pride and hunger. Hunger won.

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"I didn't mean that, Filippo," he repented. "I beg your pardon. I'll get the wood."

He did, and Filippo heated up the fish and potatoes. Percy tried to engage him in conversation, but was able to extract only monosyllables in return. Evidently his hasty words still rankled in the Italian's breast.

Breakfast over, Percy took his book and started for the beacon. It was a beautiful July morning. The sea rippled blue and sparkling to the horizon. Budge was hauling his traps on the ledges around the base of Brimstone. A half-mile farther out Jim and Throppy were busy at their trawls. Conditions for fis.h.i.+ng could not have been more ideal.

For a time Percy tried to read; but somehow Dumas's heroes failed to keep his interest. The sense of contrast between his own idleness and his mates' industry took all the pleasure out of his book. He tossed it aside and stood up. A motor-boat was rounding the eastern point. Percy recognized her as the _Calista_. Ordinarily he would have been glad to exchange chaff with Captain Higgins and Brad while they dipped the lobsters out of the car. This morning, however, he felt too much disgruntled to joke with anybody.

A hawk with a flapping fish clutched in its talons scaled in from the south and disappeared among the evergreens. Percy suspected that there was a nest somewhere in the scrub growth. The search for it promised just enough of novelty to keep him interested. Making a detour around the north sh.o.r.e, so as to keep out of sight of Captain Higgins, he began hunting for the nest in the tops of the low trees.

Two hours went by fruitlessly. It was hot and breathless in the close woods. Despite his dislike for clam chowder, Percy found himself growing hungry. At last he gave up the search in disgust, and started back for camp by the shortest route.

As he emerged into the cool breeze on the summit of the high southern sh.o.r.e he saw that the _Calista_ still lay at anchor in the cove. Lane was alongside her in the pea-pod, while Jim and Throppy were rounding Brimstone Point in the _Barracouta_, with the dory in tow. The keenness of Percy's appet.i.te made him careless of whether he was seen or not. He took the trail leading along the edge of the pasture. Directly below him the bank broke off in an abrupt dirt slope seventy-five feet high, overhung by a brow of sagging turf.

Behind and above the cabin the slope was unusually steep. As Percy reached this point his eye was caught by a smoke-feather on the southern horizon. Steamers always interested him. Stopping, and shading his eyes with his hand, he gazed intently at the distant vessel. The _Barracouta_ was now just entering the cove; the thudding of her exhaust echoed loudly against the barrier of earth beneath his feet.

The rapid detonations, beating upon Percy's ear-drums, drowned until too late the quick pad-pad of hoofs from the opposite direction. Engrossed in watching the steamer, he had forgotten everything else. A nasal, threatening bleat, rising suddenly behind, roused him to a sense of danger. He whirled about.

Charging straight at him, head down, only a few feet distant, old Aries, the ram, spurned the turf with drumming hoofs.

Behind lay the treeless pasture; in front the bank fell away steeply.

Instant flight along the trail was Percy's only resort. He turned to run.

As he jammed his heel down hard to gain momentum for his start, the overhanging sod broke suddenly. His foot slumped, and before he could recover himself his foe was upon him.

Biff!

Struck from behind with the force of a battering-ram, Percy shot over the brink. As he fell he described a partial somersault, landing on hands and knees half-way down the slope. His momentum carried him heels over head, and he rolled and tumbled the rest of the way, bringing up in a heap at the bottom.

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He scrambled to his feet, wild with rage. Peals of mirth from the cove reached his ears. His mates and Captain Higgins, as soon as they saw that he was not seriously hurt, had doubled up with laughter. Their outburst of merriment increased Percy's fury.

A triumphant bleat resounded above. Outlined clearly against a background of blue sky, legs well apart and hoofs braced stoutly, Aries stood on the brink, gazing proudly down upon his overthrown enemy.

White with wrath, Percy groped for a stone and launched it viciously. It just grazed the ram's head. The laughter from the cove redoubled.

A new idea struck Percy. Darting into the cabin, he ran out with Uncle Tom's shot-gun.

"None of that, Whittington!" bellowed Spurling.

Heedless of the shouted command, Percy clapped the gun to his shoulder and pulled first one trigger and then the other. Click! Click! Both barrels were empty. He might have remembered that so careful a fellow as Jim would never leave a loaded gun standing about. But there were a half-dozen sh.e.l.ls in a box on the shelf. Laying the gun down, he rushed back into the cabin.

Spurling realized what Percy was after. Springing into the dory, he sculled rapidly to the beach. He had almost reached the sh.o.r.e when Whittington dashed out of the door with the sh.e.l.ls in his hands. He crammed two into the breech, while the ram gazed haughtily down upon him.

"Put that gun down!" shouted Jim as the dory grounded and he leaped out on the beach.

Up went the weapon to Percy's shoulder. His finger sought the trigger, but no report followed. The ram had vanished and the sky-line was unbroken.

Before the exasperated lad could decide on his next step Jim was at his side, clutching at stock and barrel with strong hands.

"Give it to me!"