Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 4

"Needs salting, doesn't he? Well, he'll get it out there."

Down in Parker's general store on the main street the boys purchased their supplies. They laid in a generous stock of provisions of all sorts, and under Jim's expert direction reinforced the weak spots in their wardrobes to adapt them to the demands of the next three months.

Oil-clothes, heavy under-clothing, hip boots of red rubber, white, doughnut-shaped woolen "nippers" for pulling trawls, and various other articles for convenience and comfort were added to their outfits.

Percy regarded it all in the light of a huge lark. Dressing himself in oilskins and rubber boots, he paraded up and down the store, much to the proprietor's disgust.

"Pretty fresh, isn't he?" remarked Parker to Jim. "After he's been out in two or three storms he'll find those clothes aren't so much of a joke."

The party's purchases were sent down to the steamboat wharf, to be added to the baggage already there. The boys followed, Percy swaggering superciliously along after the others, with his eternal cigarette.

Captain Nemo, towing behind Spurling on his leash, got in Percy's way, and the boy stepped on his foot. Nemo yelped, then growled and bristled.

"Get out, you cur!" exclaimed Percy, launching a kick at the beast.

"Easy, Whittington!" warned Spurling. "A dog doesn't forget. You don't want to make an enemy of him at the start."

"Enemy?" sneered Percy. "What do I care for that mangy cur! It'll teach him to keep out of my way."

Jim bit his lip, but said nothing. In a few minutes they were on the wharf.

A wiry, dark-complexioned lad of perhaps fifteen stood near the steamboat slip. He wore a faded suit of blue serge, a gray-flannel s.h.i.+rt with red necker-chief, and a soft black hat. His olive face and black eyes bespoke the Italian. Spurling and the others glanced at him casually; their interest was centered on a.s.sembling and loading their flotilla.

"There's the _Barracouta!_" said Jim, pointing to a sloop moored a hundred yards away. "And there's Stinson's pea-pod tied to her stern.

That yellow dory up on the ledge must be Uncle Tom's. He said we'd find her oars and fittings at Haskell's boatshop."

Soon pea-pod and dory were being loaded beside the wharf. The young Italian had come to the string-piece, and was watching the embarkation.

Jim saw that tears were trickling down his cheeks.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The boy turned away, his breast heaving. Jim tossed the painter to Lane.

"Look out for the boat a minute, Budge! I want to find what the trouble is with that young fellow."

The lad had stepped across the wharf and was gazing sadly down into the water. Jim touched his shoulder.

"Don't you feel well, son?"

The kindly words had a surprising effect--the lad burst into tears. Jim tried to soothe him.

"There, there! It can't be so bad as all that! Tell me about it."

Little by little the boy's story came out. He was a Sicilian from a little village (_un villaggio_) not far from Messina. His name was Filippo Canamelli. His father was a mason (_un muratore_). Filippo and his older brother Frank had decided to seek their fortunes in America.

Frank had gone over the year before, promising to send money back to pay for Filippo's pa.s.sage. He had done so that winter, in _Febbrajo_.

Filippo had sailed from Naples the next month, and had landed in New York in April. There he chanced upon a friend with whom his brother had left word for him to come to a certain address in Boston. But in that city he had lost all track of Frank. Searching aimlessly for him, he had drifted down to Stonington and had gone to work in the granite quarries.

But he found the labor too hard and he was desperately homesick. He had given up his job the day before. What he should do and where he should go next he did not know. He talked rapidly between his sobs, while Jim listened.

When he had finished, Spurling stepped across the wharf to his waiting friends. Very briefly he rehea.r.s.ed the Italian's story.

"Boys," he concluded, "what do you say to asking him to come down with us to Tarpaulin? I believe he's a clean, straight little fellow, and he can more than make up for his board by cooking and doing odd jobs. We can afford to pay him something to boot."

Before either Budge or Throppy had a chance to express an opinion Percy spoke out decidedly:

"Take that little Dago with us? I say no. You can't trust his kind. I know 'em. They're a thieving, treacherous lot, smooth to your face, but ready to stab you the minute your back's turned. I'll bet you a five-dollar bill he's got a knife hid somewhere about him. He might take a notion some night to cut all our throats."

"Whittington," said Spurling, bluntly, "under the circ.u.mstances it might be better taste for you not to speak until you've heard from the rest of us. My throat's worth just as much to me as yours is to you, and I don't feel I'd be running any great risk by inviting that boy to come along with us."

Lane and Stevens agreed.

"It's three against one, Whittington," said Jim.

He walked over to the Italian and said a few words to him. The lad's face lighted up with grat.i.tude. Impulsively he bent and kissed Spurling's hand. Jim flushed with embarra.s.sment as he and the stranger came back to the others.

"He'll be glad to go with us, fellows. Now let's get a move on and hustle this stuff aboard. We want to be settled at Tarpaulin before dark."

Soon all their goods were on the sloop. The dory was made fast to her stern and the pea-pod's painter tied to the dory. The expedition was ready to start. On board the _Barracouta_ Lane and Stevens, standing side by side, faced Jim and brought their palms to their foreheads.

"Attention!" ordered Lane. "Spurling & Company! Salute!"

Jim returned the compliment with a sweep of his hand. He threw on the switch and rocked the wheel; the engine started--click-click-click....

Gathering headway, the _Barracouta_ nosed south, dory and pea-pod trailing behind her. Before them lay an archipelago of granite islands.

"This is an old stamping-ground of mine," said Jim. "I've fished and lobstered round here so much that I know every rock and shoal for miles.

That's Crotch Island on our west, with the derricks and quarries; they've taken no end of granite off it."

He held up his hand.

"Breezing up from the southwest. That'd be dead ahead if we went west of Isle au Haut as I'd planned. Guess we'll go east of it; then we can use our canvas to help us along. Steer for me, Budge, while I get sail on her!"

Soon outer jib, jumbo and mainsail were set and trimmed close, and Spurling again took the helm. The _Barracouta_ ran southeast through Merchant's Row, a procession of rugged islets slipping by on either side; then south past Fog and York islands, with the long, high ridge of Isle au Haut walling the western horizon; down between Great Spoon and Little Spoon, past White Horse and Black Horse, toward the heaving blue of the open ocean.

A grum, melancholy note came floating over the long sea swells--Oo-oo-oo-ooh! And again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!

"What's that!" exclaimed Percy.

"Whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge. One of our nearest neighbors. We'll hear that voice pretty often, when the wind's from the north."

They pa.s.sed two miles east of the whistler, and gradually its warning blast grew fainter and fainter. On the horizon straight ahead a little black mound was slowly rising above the breaking waves. Jim swung his hand toward it.

"There's Tarpaulin! Our home for the next three months! Looks kind of small and lonesome when you're running offsh.o.r.e for it; but it's pretty good to make after an all-day fis.h.i.+ng-trip. What's the matter, Whittington?"

Percy's face was somewhat white; for the last half-hour he had been strangely subdued.

"I don't feel very good," said he.

Spurling eyed him critically, then scanned the faces of the others. The _Barracouta_ was rising and falling on the long swells in a manner decidedly disconcerting to weak stomachs. Stevens and the young Italian did not look much happier than Percy. Jim could not help smiling a little.

"Good seasick weather!" he observed, judicially. "Excuse me for laughing, boys! It's a mean thing to do, but I can't help it. I've been there myself--years ago. You'll be worse before you're better."