IX
FISTS AND FIREWORKS
Late on the afternoon of July 3d, when the morning's catch of eighteen hundred pounds of hake had been split and salted, Spurling called a council of war. Percy attended with the others. He had gone out with Budge in the morning to haul the lobster-traps; the rest of the day he had loafed, lying on the soft turf below the beacon on Brimstone Point and reading The Three Musketeers.
Of the work that pleased him he had determined to do only as much as he liked, and not a stroke more. Lobstering was really attractive; there was enough novelty and excitement about it to keep him interested. When a pot came up it might contain no shell-fish or a half-dozen; the element of uncertainty appealed to his sporting instincts. But fishing he had stricken utterly from his list. It was too hard and too dirty. Slogging at the heavy trawls and afterward dressing the catch was too plebeian a business for the son of a millionaire.
So he let the others tire their muscles and soil their hands and clothing while he attended strictly to the business of pleasing himself. He could not help being aware of a growing coolness on the part of his associates, but it gave him no concern. His month of probation was almost up, and he had decided that, come what might, he would leave at its end. Only a few days more, and this hard, monotonous island life would be behind him forever. He would send back a check to cover the expense of his board, and that would permanently close his relations with Spurling & Company.
This resolve to pay for meals and lodging gave him a feeling of independence. Hence, though he knew the others did not care whether he attended or not, he felt himself entitled to a place at the council.
The meeting took place on the beach in front of the cabin. Spurling and Stevens had just come from the Barracouta, their oilskin "petticoats" bearing gory evidence of their work for the last two hours.
"Fellows," proposed Jim, "to-morrow let's celebrate! We can't set the trawls, for we haven't anything to bait up with. And even if we had, I don't believe in working on the Fourth. When I was at Matinicus the other day I saw a poster advertising a ball-game and big celebration at Vinalhaven. We'll have an early breakfast and run up there in the Barracouta. First, we'll go to Hardy's weir and take in a lot of herring for bait. Then we can slip round to Carver's Harbor and spend the rest of the day ashore. What d'you say?"
There was no doubt regarding the vote.
"The ayes have it!" shouted Spurling. "Now let's get everything in trim for day after to-morrow! We won't pull the traps again until then."
Filled with enthusiasm at the prospect of a holiday, Budge, Throppy, and Jim dispersed to their various tasks. Yawningly, Percy returned to Brimstone Point and The Three Musketeers. After all, doing nothing on an island twenty-five miles out at sea was pretty dull work.
The boys had an early supper and were soon asleep. Turning out at daybreak, they despatched a hearty meal of corn-bread and bacon. Everybody but Percy took hold with the dishes and helped tidy up the camp. Shortly after sunrise they were sailing out of the cove in the Barracouta.
The trip in past Saddleback Light to Vinalhaven was uneventful. By eight o'clock they were lying alongside Hardy's weir, and its owner was dipping bushel after bushel of shining herring into the pen aboard the sloop. Before ten they were anchored off the steamboat wharf at Carver's Harbor.
The town was in gala dress. Bunting streamed everywhere. Torpedoes, firecrackers, bombs, and revolvers rent the air with deafening explosions. The brass guns on two yachts in the harbor contributed an occasional salvo. As the boys rowed in to the shore the strains of "The Star-Spangled Banner" came floating over the water, and round the outer point appeared one of the small bay steamers, loaded with excursionists, including a brass band. On board also was the Camden baseball team, scheduled to play the opening game in the county league series with the home team that afternoon.
Bedlam broke loose as the steamer made fast to the wharf and the crowd aboard streamed ashore. To Spurling and his friends, after three weeks of Tarpaulin Island, the narrow, winding street with its holiday crowd afforded the bustle and varied interest of a city. Even Percy deigned to allow himself to be tempted out of the sulky dignity which he had assumed since the council of the previous afternoon.
The group scattered. Lane and Stevens wandered about town, taking in the sights and dodging the torpedoes and firecrackers of enthusiastic patriots of a more or less tender age. Spurling found an old 'longshore acquaintance from a visiting boat and went off aboard to inspect his new type of engine. Filippo struck up an eternal friendship with a fellow-countryman from the granite quarries on Hurricane. Percy, left to his own resources, invested in a new brand of cigarettes and promenaded back and forth along the main street, smoking and eying the passers-by superciliously.
Noon found the restaurants packed with hungry excursionists; but the crowds were good-natured and everybody was able to get plenty to eat. At two o'clock there was a grand rush to the baseball-grounds.
Spurling, Lane, and Stevens sat together in the front of the stand; Percy perched at the extreme right of the topmost row; while Filippo lay on the grass back of third base with his new-found, swarthy compatriot.
Evidently there was some hitch about beginning the game. The Vinalhavens had taken the field for practice. The Camden team, bunched close together, were talking earnestly, meanwhile casting anxious glances toward the street that led to the water.
The Vinalhaven scorer passed before the stand with his book.
"What's the trouble?" asked Stevens.
"Camden catcher and third-baseman haven't shown up. They started out with a party in a power-boat before the steamer. Engine must have broken down. Here it is time to call the game, and the visiting team two men short! And the biggest crowd of the season here! Can you beat that for luck?"
The Camden pitcher separated himself from his companions and strolled toward the stand.
"Anybody here want to put on a mitt and stop a few fast ones?" he inquired.
"That means you, Jim!" said Lane. "Come on! Don't be too modest!"
Spurling climbed out over the front of the stand.
"I'll try to hold you for a little while," he volunteered.
Soon he was smoothly receiving the pitcher's curves and lobbing them back. The combination went like clockwork. In the mean time the rest of the Camden team had taken the field and were warming up. The missing members had not yet appeared.
"That'll do for a while," said the pitcher.
The two drew to one side.
"What team have you been catching on?" asked the Camden man, suddenly.
"Graffam Academy."
"I knew you must have traveled with a pretty speedy bunch. My name's Beverage."
"Say, old man, I want you to do us a big favor. Catch this game for Camden, will you?"
"I've been out of practice for over a month," objected Jim.
"Never mind about that! I don't mean to flatter you, but we've got nothing in this league that can touch you. Come, now! As a personal favor to me!"
"All right. I'll do my best."
"Good for you! Now we've got to pick up a third-baseman!"
Jim hesitated.
"Our Academy shortstop is here," he said, slowly. "He can play a mighty good third at a pinch."
"If he's willing, we'll take him on your say-so, and snap at the chance."
Jim walked to the front of the stand.
"You're signed for third for this game, Budge! I'm going to catch."
"We've got a couple of spare suits," said Beverage. "Come on over to the hotel and change."
In fifteen minutes Lane and Spurling were back on the field in Camden uniforms and the game had begun.
The contest was a hot one. The teams were evenly matched, and the result hung in doubt up to the last inning. The crowd boiled with enthusiasm and the supporters of each team cheered themselves hoarse.
In the middle of the fifth inning, when the excitement was running highest, a slim, bareheaded figure with a tow pompadour sprouting above a fog-burnt face leaped suddenly up at the right end of the top row in the stand.
It was Percy. Exhilarated by the closeness of the game, he had forgotten his grudge against Spurling & Company. He flourished a roll of bills.
"Two to one on Camden!" he shouted in a high-keyed voice.
All heads turned his way. For a moment nobody spoke. Percy mistook the silence. He struck a theatric attitude.
"Three to one! Are you afraid to support your home team?"
A girl giggled. Two or three boys hooted. Then a short, dark, thick-set man in the second row whirled about and answered the challenger.
"No," he said, deliberately. "We're not afraid to support our nine. If we were, it wouldn't be playing here to-day. We expect it to do its best. If it wins, it wins. If it loses, it loses. And that's all there is to it. Whatever dollars we have to put into baseball will go to meet the regular expenses of the team. We haven't any money to fool away in betting; and we don't care for any more second-hand talk from a half-baked youngster like you! You get me?"
The crowd applauded uproariously. Pursued by the jeers and catcalls of the small fry, Percy sat down, his face, if possible, redder than before.
Spurling caught an errorless game. It was Lane's bat in the last half of the ninth that finally drove in the winning run for Camden. Five to four.
The crowd streamed noisily off the grounds. A knot of the younger element tried to heckle Percy, but he strode loftily by them, puffing his inevitable cigarette. Jim and Budge went to the hotel with the Camden team to change their suits.
Beverage was jubilant over the victory.
"It's a mean thing to say," he remarked; "but I'm glad that power-boat didn't get here. We owe the game to you two fellows. How much shall we pay you?"
"Nothing," answered Jim. "We're paid already. We've enjoyed winning as much as you have."
"Well, if you ever come to Camden, remember that you own the town."
The boys decided to stop over for the early-evening celebration. The Vinalhavens were good losers, and the excursion steamer was not to start back until nine o'clock, so the town promised to be lively enough for the next few hours.
Before it had grown very dark the streets began to blaze with fireworks. Percy's remarks of the afternoon still rankled in the minds of the junior portion of the residents, and, as he sauntered to and fro, he became the butt of many pointed jests. He ignored them all. Such trivialities were beneath the notice of a scion of the house of Whittington.
It was his air of haughty superiority that got him into trouble. Tempted beyond endurance by his cool, insolent swagger, a small boy on the other side of the street discharged a Roman candle at him point-blank. One of the fiery balls struck his right side and dropped into the open pocket of his coat, starting a lively blaze. The garment got a smart scorching, and Percy's fingers were burnt and his feelings badly ruffled before he succeeded in extinguishing the conflagration.
Singling out the offender among a group of boys dancing delightedly up and down, Percy made a sudden rush and pounced upon him like a hawk on a chicken. Holding him by the collar, he cuffed his ears soundly. The criminal wriggled and twisted, loudly and tearfully protesting his innocence.
A stocky, freckled lad of about eighteen, with a close-cut head of brown hair, came out of a neighboring house on the run. His snub nose and projecting jaw suggested a human bulldog. He thrust his face close up to Percy's.
"What're you maulin' my brother for?" he demanded, truculently.
Percy dropped his victim, having finished chastising him. The latter rubbed his eyes and howled louder than ever.
"I asked you why you were maulin' my brother," reiterated the newcomer in a still more belligerent tone.
"Because he burned this hole in my coat," replied Percy, exhibiting the damaged garment.
"I didn't do it!" howled the boy.
"You hear that?" exclaimed the freckled lad, angrily. "He says he didn't and I say he didn't."
"Well, I say he did!"
"Do you mean to tell me I lie?"
Percy became suddenly aware that a ring was forming round him. He cast a hasty glance about the lowering faces and recognized some of his would-be hecklers of the afternoon. No Tarpaulin Islanders were there. He was a stranger in a strange land. But the Whittington in him was up, and he did not blench. He faced his questioner.
"If you say he didn't burn that hole—yes!"
An indignant chorus rose from the group.
"Did you hear that, Jabe? He called you a liar. I wouldn't stand that. Make him eat those words! It's the fresh guy who made the cheap talk at the ball-game. Soak him! Do him up!"
Spurred on by these exhortations, Jabe dropped his head between his shoulders and came at his enemy with the rush of a mad bull.
Percy was a good boxer. He had taken lessons from several first-class sparring-masters, and would have been no mean antagonist for anybody of his age and weight. But Jabe was a year older and fully twenty-five pounds heavier. Evidently, too, he had the abounding health and strength that come from life in the open. The odds against the city boy were heavy, but he stood up gamely.
Jabe rushed in upon him and struck with all his might. Percy side-stepped, and the blow went harmlessly by, while his assailant's rush carried him to the other side of the ring. Whirling about with a cry of rage, he came back, swinging his arms like a windmill.
"Now, Jabe! Now, Jabe!" rose the cry.
Again Percy leaped aside, and his right arm shot out. The blow caught his foe fairly under the left ear, and he went sprawling; but he was down only for a moment. Springing to his feet, he hurled himself into the fray with redoubled fury. Again he was knocked down, and again he renewed the battle, with more strength than before.
The fight could not last long. It was muscle against science, and in the end muscle won. Percy began to tire and to grow short of breath. He had smoked too many cigarettes to be able to keep up such a whirlwind pace for many minutes. Though he landed five blows to his enemy's one, the latter's one did more damage than his five.
For the first time in the contest Jabe used his head. Hitherto he had struck straight for the mark each time. Now he feinted with his right for his foe's body. Percy dropped his guard somewhat wearily. Before he realized what was happening, Jabe's left, sent in with tremendous force, hit him a smashing blow squarely on the nose, knocking him over backward.
It was the beginning of the end. Percy tottered up, blood spurting from his nose, his head spinning. He saw Jabe preparing for another rush and knew it would be the last one. He stiffened himself to receive the knock-out.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure broke through the circle.
"What's the trouble here?"
It was Spurling's voice. His glance took in the situation.
"That'll be about all," he said. "Come away, Whittington!"
A bullet-headed, shirt-sleeved man bristled up defiantly. It was Jabe's father.
"Guess we'll let 'em fight it out," he observed.
"No," said Jim. "It's gone far enough."
"Not looking for trouble, are you?"
"No," remarked Jim, easily. "I don't want any trouble with you, and you don't want any with me."
The shirt-sleeved man glanced appraisingly at his square shoulders and strongly knit figure.
"Right you are, George!" he laughed. "I don't want any trouble with you. You must be a mind-reader. You call off your dog and I'll call off mine."
He grasped Jabe by the collar and jerked him backward. Jim dropped a compelling hand on Percy's shoulder.
"Come on, Whittington! You ought to have brains enough to know you've been licked. It's time we started for Tarpaulin Island."