Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 26

"Percy!" he exclaimed. "Do you remember the two fellows we caught stealing sheep the first night we were on Tarpaulin? I feel sure as ever I was of anything in my life that they're both on board that schooner.

That's Captain Bart Brittler, sticking his head out of the companionway; and Dolph's somewhere below."

"But what are they doing on the _Ca.s.sie J._? Their vessel was named the _Silicon._"

"They're one and the same craft! I'm certain of it. I recognize her rig now, even if it was night when I saw her the first time. As for the name, it's only paint-deep, anyway; you can see that those letters look fresh. Of course it's an offense against the law to make a change, but such a little thing as breaking a law wouldn't trouble a man like Brittler."

"Do you think they tried to run us down?"

"Not a doubt of it! Brittler and Dolph stayed below, afraid we might recognize 'em. They didn't see our faces that night, so they don't know how we look; but they tried to make me talk enough so that they might recognize my voice. Guess that lookout's not so deaf as he pretended to be! Once Brittler felt sure who it was, he gave orders to the wheelman to run over us. He'd have done it, too, if I hadn't seen the schooner's bow start swinging the wrong way."

The _Ca.s.sie J._ slowly outdistanced the sloop. By the time the stranger was a quarter-mile off six or seven men had appeared on her deck.

"Feel it's safe for 'em to come up now," commented Spurling. "Wonder what they're cruising along the coast for, anyway! Something easier and more crooked than fis.h.i.+ng, I guess! Here's hoping they steer clear of Tarpaulin!"

At dinner that noon the boys related their narrow escape to the others, and all agreed it would be well to keep a sharp lookout for Brittler and his gang.

"They've got a grudge against us, fast enough," said Lane. "They intend to even matters up if they can find the chance."

That afternoon Percy again wielded the splitting-knife.

"You'll soon get the knack of it," approved Jim. "Don't pitch in too hard at first. Later on, after you grow used to it, you can work twice as fast, and it won't tire you half so much."

In dressing a fifteen-pound hake Percy came upon a ma.s.s of feathers in the stomach. He was about to throw them aside, when a silvery glint caught his eye.

"What's that?" he exclaimed.

Rinsing the ma.s.s in a pail of water, he picked from it the foot of a bird; round its slender ankle was a little band of German silver or aluminum, bearing the inscription, "U43719." He held it up for the others to inspect.

"That's the foot of a carrier-pigeon!" said Throppy. "I know a fellow at home who makes a specialty of raising 'em. The bird that owned this foot was taking a message to somebody. Perhaps he was shot; or he may have become tired, lost his way, and fallen into the water, and the hake got him."

They looked at the little foot with the white-metal band.

"My uncle Tom was fis.h.i.+ng once in eighty fathoms off Monhegan," Spurling remarked, "and pulled up an odd-patterned, blue cup of old English ware.

The hook caught in a 'blister,' a brown, soft, toadstool thing, that had grown over the cup. He's got it on his parlor mantel now."

"I'll keep this foot as a souvenir," said Percy.

They finished the hake shortly after four. Percy shed his oil-clothes, went into the camp, and reappeared with his sweater. Going down to the ledges, he pulled off a big armful of rockweed. This he stuffed into the sweater, and tied it together, making a close bundle. The others watched him curiously.

"What are you going to do with that?" inquired Lane.

Percy smiled, but there was a glitter of determination in his eyes.

"I'll tell you some time," was all the reply he vouchsafed.

Taking the bundle, now somewhat larger than a football, he climbed the steep path at the end of the bank, and started for the woods.

"I'll be home before supper," he flung back as he disappeared beyond the crest of the bluff.

In less than an hour he was back, bringing the sweater minus the rockweed. His face was flushed, and streaked with lines where the perspiration had run down it, and he was breathing hard. Evidently he had been through some sort of strenuous physical exercise.

"It's all right, boys," he said, in response to their chaffing. "Just a little secret between me and myself. No, I'm not trying to reduce the size of my head. Later on you'll know all about it."

And with that they had to be content.

XIII

FOG-BOUND

Dog-Days began about the 20th of July. Before that the dwellers in Camp Spurling had experienced occasional spells of fog, but nothing very dense or long-continued. Now they got a taste of the real thing. They were dressing fish on the _Barracouta_ one afternoon when a cold wind struck from the southeast.

Spurling held up his hand.

"We're in for it!" said he. "Feel that? Right off the Banks! In less than an hour we'll need a compa.s.s to get ash.o.r.e in the dory."

He was so nearly right that there was no fun in it. The wind hauled more to the east, and in its wake came driving a gray, impenetrable wall. The ocean vanished. The points on each side of the cove were swallowed up.

Quickly disappeared the cove itself, the beach, the camp and fish-house, and the bank beyond them. The sloop was blanketed close in heavy mist.

Jim made a pretense of scooping a handful out of the air and shaping it like a s...o...b..ll.

"Here you go, Budge!" he exclaimed. "Straight to third! Put it on him!

Fresh from the factory in the Bay of Fundy! If this holds on until midnight, we won't be able to see outside our eyelids when we start trawling; there's no moon."

"Will you go, if it's thick as it is now?" inquired Lane.

"Sure! Here's where the compa.s.s comes in. If we stayed ash.o.r.e for every little fog-mull, we wouldn't catch many hake the next six weeks. This isn't a circ.u.mstance to what it is sometimes. I've known it to hang on for two weeks at a stretch. Ever hear the story of the Pen.o.bscot Bay captain who started out on a voyage round the world? Just as he got outside of Matinicus Rock he shaved the edge of a fog-bank, straight up and down as a wall. He pulled out his jack-knife and pushed it into the fog, clean to the handle. When he came back, two and a half years later, there was his knife, sticking in the same spot. He tried to pull it out, but the blade was so badly rusted that it broke, and he had to leave half of it stuck in the hole."

"Must have had some fog in those days!" was Lane's comment. "Did you say this all comes from the Bay of Fundy?"

"Not all of it. Fog both blows and makes up on the spot. Sometimes it rises out of the water like steam. I've heard my uncle say that Georges Bank makes it as a mill makes meal. It's worst in August. Then the smoke from sh.o.r.e fires mingles with it; and the wind from the land blowing off, and that from the sea blowing in, keep it hazy along the coast all summer."

Jim's predictions proved correct, as they generally did. While there were occasional stretches of fine weather during the next few weeks, the fog either hovered on the horizon or lurked not far below it, ready to bury the island at the slightest provocation in the way of an east or southeast wind. Despite its presence, the routine of trawling and lobstering went on as usual. Every Friday came the regular trip to Matinicus to dispose of the salted fish and procure groceries, gasolene, and salt, as well as newspapers and mail.

On each of these visits Percy always weighed himself on the scales at the general store. Beginning at one hundred and thirty-five, he climbed steadily, pound by pound, toward one hundred and fifty. An active, out-of-door life, combined with regular hours and a simple, wholesome diet, together with the exclusion of cigarettes, resulted inevitably in increasing weight and strength. At the close of each afternoon he climbed the bluff with his sweater stuffed with rockweed. The others joked him considerably about these mysterious trips, but failed to extract any information from him regarding them. When he chose, Percy could be as close-mouthed as his father.

At about this time a letter from the millionaire reached his son through the Matinicus office. It bore the postmark of San Francisco, and ran as follows:

DEAR PERCY,--Stick to it.

Affectionately,

JOHN P. WHITTINGTON.

It actually surprised Percy to find out how glad he was to receive this laconic epistle from his only living relative. He cast about for a suitable reply.