XII
PULLING TOGETHER
The next hour and a half was anything but fun for young Whittington. His mind was set on reaching Camp Spurling before the hands of the alarm-clock came together at midnight. At any cost he must be in his bunk before the others woke.
It was a long, hard row, a battle every second with the tide running against him with untiring strength. It demanded every ounce of energy Percy possessed. His back complained dully. His arms felt as if they would drop off. Time and again he decided that the next stroke must be his last, that he must lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest; but each time he tapped some hitherto unknown reservoir of power within himself, and kept on pulling.
With the stern demand on his physical forces a change was being wrought in his brain. His foolish pride, his false sense of shame at changing his hasty plan to desert, his bitter feeling toward the others, gradually disappeared. Every oar-stroke brought him not only nearer the island, but also nearer a sane, wholesome view of life itself.
His thoughts turned naturally to the group at the camp, this clean, independent, self-respecting crowd, who cared no more for his money than for the pebbles on the beach; who estimated a fellow, not by what he had, but by what he was. After all, that was the real test; Percy could not help acknowledging it.
Saddleback glimmered astern. The whistle south of Roaring Bull was growing fainter. Percy felt encouraged. He turned his head. Yes, Tarpaulin was certainly nearer. Disheartening though the pull was, he had gained perceptibly. But the southwest breeze had stiffened, adding its opposition to that of the tide.
It was now past eleven. He had decided that he must reach the cabin not later than quarter to twelve. Barely half an hour longer! His hands were blistered, his breath came in sobs, but he dragged fiercely at the oars. At last he was stemming the strong tide-rip off Brimstone Point.
The next ten minutes were worse than all that had gone before. As he surged unevenly backward and forward, the current swung the pea-pod's bow first one way, then the other. Deaf and blind to everything but the work in hand, Percy swayed to and fro. Foot by foot the boat crept round the fringing surf at the base of the bluffs.
Hands seemed to be plucking at her keel, holding her back. It was no use. They were too strong for him. All at once their grasp weakened. He glanced up with swimming eyes. He had passed the eddy, and the entrance of the cove was near. A few strokes more and the pea-pod grounded on the beach. It was twenty minutes to twelve!
Percy staggered up to the cabin. All was dark and quiet. Gently lifting the latch, he slipped inside, pulled the door to again, and stood listening. The regular breathing of his sleeping mates reassured him. Compelling himself to walk noiselessly to his bunk, he crept under his blanket without even taking off his shoes.
He had been gone three hours; and they had been the most momentous hours of his life.
Kling-ng-ng-ng-ng ...
Off went the clock. It was midnight. Muttering drowsily, Filippo slid out of his bunk, checked the alarm, and lighted a lamp. Then he busied himself with his cooking-utensils.
The last thing Percy heard was a spoon clinking against a pan. Dead tired, he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep.
It was eight in the morning before he woke. What had made his arms and back so lame and raised those big blisters on his hands? Percy remembered. He lay for a few minutes, his eyes shut. An unpleasant duty was before him, and he must be sure to do it right.
Aching in every joint, he rolled out at last and stood up stiffly. Filippo, who was washing the breakfast dishes, turned at the sound. His face was neither hostile nor friendly.
"Your breakfast in oven," said he. "Sit down and I get it."
He set before Percy a plate of smothered cod and a half-dozen hot biscuits. It was more thoughtfulness than Percy had expected.
"Much obliged, Filippo," he said, gratefully.
Filippo made no reply to this acknowledgment; but, as Percy ate, he could feel the young Italian watching him curiously. It was the first time Whittington had ever thanked him, and he did not understand it.
After he had finished eating, Percy took his plate, knife, and fork to the sink.
"Let me wash these, Filippo," he said.
"No," returned the Italian, "I do it."
But a look of surprise crossed his face. What had come over the millionaire's son?
Percy spent the rest of the forenoon on the ledges. At noon he came back to the cabin. He had steeled himself for the task before him, and he was not the fellow to do things half-way. The John P. Whittington in him was coming out.
Everybody else was in camp when he stepped inside. Lane did not look at him at all. Spurling and Stevens nodded coolly. Percy drew a long breath and launched at once into the brief speech he had spent the last three hours dreading.
"Fellows," he stammered, "I've been pretty rotten to all of you. There's no need of wasting any more words about that. Last night I took one of the boats and started to row up to Isle au Haut. But I got to thinking matters over out there on the water, and it changed my mind about a lot of things. So I came back. Jim, I want to apologize to you for what I said last night. I deserved what you gave me, and it's done me good. I want to stay here with you for the rest of the summer—if you're willing. I'll try to do my full share of the work. You can send me off the first time I shirk."
He ceased and awaited the verdict, looking eagerly from one to the other. There was a moment of silence. Surprise was written large on the faces of the three Academy men. Then Spurling stepped forward and held out his hand.
"Percy," said he, with a break in his voice, "I've always thought you had the right stuff in you, if you'd only give yourself half a chance. For one, I'll be more than pleased to have you stop. What do you say, boys?"
He glanced toward Lane and Stevens.
"Sure!" exclaimed Lane, heartily; and Stevens seconded him.
The boys shook hands all round; and they sat down to the table with good appetites. Everybody enjoyed the meal.
"Boys," said Jim as they got up at its close, "this is the best dinner we've had since we came out here."
Percy's heart warmed toward the speaker. He knew that it was not the food alone that made Jim say what he did.
It had been Percy's habit to smoke three or four cigarettes during the half-hour of rest all were accustomed to take after the noon meal. He went, as usual, to his suit-case, and this time took out, not merely one package, but all he had, including his sack of loose tobacco and two books of wrappers.
"Got a good fire, Filippo?" he inquired, approaching the stove.
A burst of flame answered him as he lifted the cover. In went the whole handful. He watched it burn for a moment before dropping the lid.
"I'm done with you for good," he said.
As Lane and Spurling started for the Barracouta to dress the fifteen hundred pounds of hake they had taken off the trawls that morning Percy joined them, clad in oilskins.
"Jim," he petitioned, "I want you to teach me how to split fish."
"Do you mean it, Percy?" asked Spurling.
"You heard what I said this noon about shirking. I'm through with dodging any kind of work just because it's unpleasant. I want to take my part with the rest of you."
"I'll teach you," said Jim.
He did, and found that he had an apt pupil. Percy worked until the last pound of the fifteen hundred was salted down in the hogshead. He discovered that it was not half so bad as it had looked, and felt ashamed that he had not tried his hand at the trick before.
"You've earned your supper to-night," observed Jim.
"Yes; but I'm glad it's something besides fish."
"You'll get so you won't mind it after a while."
That night Throppy played his violin and the boys sang. They passed a pleasant hour before going to bed.
"I'd like to go out with you to the trawls, Jim, to-morrow morning," said Percy.
"Glad to have you," responded Spurling, heartily.
Two hours before light they were gliding out of the cove in the Barracouta, bound for Medrick Shoal, four miles to the eastward.
"Percy," said Jim as the sloop rolled rhythmically on the long Atlantic swells, "I want to tell you something. I was awake the other night when you left camp. I watched you row north and come back; and I saw the hard fight you had round Brimstone. I'm glad you made a clean breast of the whole thing, even when you thought nobody knew anything about it. It showed me you intended to turn over a new leaf and play fair. You'll find that we'll meet you half-way, and more."
Percy was silent for a moment.
"Glad I didn't know you heard me go out," he remarked. "If I had I might not have had the courage to come back. Well, I've learned my lesson. From now on I'll try not to give you fellows any reason to find fault with me."
Medrick Shoal yielded a good harvest. About eighteen hundred pounds of hake lay in the pens on the Barracouta when they started for home at ten o'clock. As they took the last of their gear aboard, a schooner with auxiliary power, apparently a fisherman, approached from the eastward.
"The Cassie J.," read Spurling, deciphering the letters on the bow. "Somehow she looks natural, but I don't remember ever hearing that name before. Probably from Gloucester. Wonder what she wants of us."
The vessel slowed down and changed her course until she was running straight toward the Barracouta. One of her crew stood in the bow, near the starboard anchor; another held the wheel; but nobody else was visible.
"Where are you from, boys?" hailed the lookout, when the stranger was only a few yards off.
"Tarpaulin Island," answered Spurling.
The man put his hand behind his ear.
"Say that again louder, will you?" he shouted. "I'm a little deaf."
Jim raised his voice.
"I said we were from Tarpaulin Island."
The lookout passed the word back to the helms-man. The latter repeated it, evidently for the benefit of somebody in the cabin. Then the man at the wheel took up the conversation, prompted by the low voice of an unseen speaker below.
"How many fish have you got there?"
"Eighteen hundred of hake."
"What's that?"
Was everybody aboard hard of hearing? Jim raised his voice.
"Eighteen hundred of hake!"
"What'll you take for 'em just as they are? We'll give you fifty cents a hundred."
"Can't trade with you for any such figure as that."
"Good-by, then!"
The tip of the Cassie J.'s bowsprit was less than two yards from the port bow of the Barracouta, altogether too near for comfort.
"Keep off!" roared Spurling. "You'll run us down!"
The steersman whirled his wheel swiftly in the apparent endeavor to avert a collision. Unluckily, he whirled it the wrong way. Round swung the schooner's bow, directly toward the sloop. A few seconds more and she would be forced down beneath the larger vessel's cutwater, ridden under.
Only Jim's coolness prevented the catastrophe. The instant he saw the Cassie J. turn toward his boat he flung his helm to port. The sloop, under good headway, responded more quickly than the schooner. For a moment the bowsprit of the latter seesawed threateningly along the jibstay of the smaller craft. Then the two drew apart.
Jim was white with anger. It was only by the greatest good fortune that the Barracouta had escaped.
"What do you mean, you lubber?" he cried. "Can't you steer?"
"Jingo! but that was a close shave!" responded the man at the wheel. "I must have lost my head for a minute."
The mock concern in his face and voice would have been evident to Spurling without the lurking grin that accompanied his reply. An angry answer was on the tip of Jim's tongue. He choked it down. Soon the two craft were some distance apart.
On the Cassie J. a man's head rose stealthily above the slide of the companionway. He fastened a steady gaze on the sloop. The distance was now too great for the boys to distinguish his features, but a sudden idea struck Jim. He slapped his thigh.
"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 Cassie 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 Cassie 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 fishing, 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 mass 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 mass 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 fishing 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 compass to get ashore 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 snowball.
"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 compass comes in. If we stayed ashore for every little fog-mull, we wouldn't catch many hake the next six weeks. This isn't a circumstance to what it is sometimes. I've known it to hang on for two weeks at a stretch. Ever hear the story of the Penobscot 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 shore 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.
"I want to send something that'll please him," he thought. "He hasn't had much satisfaction, so far, out of me."
Finally, after mature deliberation, he indited the following:
| Dear Dad,—I'm sticking. Your affectionate son, Percy. |
The Three Musketeers gathered dust on the wooden shelf. Percy had faced squarely the fact of his college conditions, and had determined that they must be made up at the opening of the fall term; so his spare time went into Virgil and Cæsar and algebra and geometry, instead of being spent on Dumas. He rarely asked for assistance from the others; they had little leisure, and it was his own fight. He buckled down manfully.
Another task that he set before himself was the establishment of cordial relations with the other members of the party. He realized that his own fault had made this necessary. It had been an easy matter to get on good terms with Jim, Budge, and Throppy. With Filippo it was a little harder; but soon he, too, thawed out when he found that Percy treated him courteously and was willing to do his share of the camp work. Even Nemo wagged his tail when Percy appeared, and the crow grew tame enough to eat fish out of his hand.
One afternoon, when the fog had lifted sufficiently to make it possible to see a few hundred feet from the island, a motor-boat unexpectedly appeared from the north and swung round Brimstone Point into the cove. She ran up alongside the Barracouta, where the boys were baiting their trawl.
"I'm the warden," said one of the two newcomers, a gray-mustached, keen-eyed man. "I've come to look over your car."
Jim took his dip-net and stepped into the motor-boat, and they ran up to the lobster-car. A few minutes' investigation of its contents satisfied the official that it contained no "shorts."
"Glad to be able to give you a clean bill of health," said he as he set Jim back on board the sloop. "I wish some other people I know of did business as clean and aboveboard as you young fellows."
A quarter-hour later the sound of his exhaust had died away in the fog to the northward.
"What would he have done if he'd found any 'shorts'?" asked Percy.
"Fined us a dollar for every one," answered Jim. "Taken the cream off the summer, wouldn't it? Sometimes it pays, even in dollars and cents, to be honest."
The next morning was hot and muggy. The sea about the island was clear of fog for one or two miles. Jim and Budge had started long before light to set the trawl, and Throppy wished to make some changes on his wireless; so Filippo was glad enough of the chance to go out with Percy to haul the lobster-traps.
The little Italian had lost much of his melancholy. He enjoyed his work and the good-fellowship of the camp. The weeks of association with his new friends had made of him an entirely different fellow from the lonely, homesick lad they had picked up on the steamboat wharf at Stonington.
The two boys started in the pea-pod at six o'clock. A glassy calm overspread the sea. Even the perpetual ocean swell seemed to have lost much of its force.
"I'll row!" volunteered Percy.
He stripped off his oil-coat and sweater and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.
"It'll be hot up in the granite quarries to-day, hey, Filippo? S'pose you're sorry not to be there?"
"Io sono contento" ("I am satisfied"), replied the Italian.
Hauling and rebaiting the hundred-odd traps was a good five hours' job and more for the couple, neither of whom had ever handled a small boat or seen a live lobster before the previous month. As the forenoon advanced the air seemed to grow thicker and more breathless. Over the water brooded a languid haze, through which the sun rays burned with a moist, intense heat.
Percy's bare arms began to grow red and painful.
"Feel as if they were being scalded," he complained. "I've heard Jim say a fog-burn was worse than any other kind. Now I know he's right."
Eleven o'clock, and still twenty-five traps to be pulled. Most of these were on the Dog and Pups, a group of ledges more than a mile northeast of the island. It was the best spot for lobsters anywhere about Tarpaulin. Percy hesitated.
"Fog seems to be closing in a little," he observed, "and we haven't any compass. Should hate to get out there and have it shut down thick. Might be hard work to find the island again."
He glanced at the tub of lobsters.
"If the Dog and Pups keep up anywhere near their average, we'll beat the record. What d'you say, Filippo? Shall we take a chance and surprise the rest of 'em?"
Filippo flashed his white teeth.
"I go with you," he smiled.
"Then go it is!" decided Percy.
He headed the pea-pod for the Dog and Pups.
"We'll keep a sharp lookout, and if it starts to grow anyways thick we'll strike back for old Tarpaulin."
A pull of about twenty minutes brought them to the ledges, around which the traps were set in a circle. They began hauling at the point in the circumference nearest to the island, following the buoys west and north. The catch exceeded their hopes.
"We'll need another tub, if this keeps up," chuckled Percy.
Filippo laughed jubilantly. The fog was forgotten. Their entire attention was centered on the contents of each trap as it was pulled.
Round on the edge of the circle farthest from the island a pot refused to leave bottom. Percy tugged till he was red in the face, but he could not start it.
"Catch hold with me, Filippo!" he puffed.
The Italian joined his strength to Percy's, but to no avail. The slacker still clung to the bottom. The boys straightened up, panting.
"We'll have to leave it," acknowledged Percy, disappointedly. "Probably there's half a dozen two-pound lobsters in it."
He looked about and gave a startled cry.
"Where's the island?"
The wooded bluffs of Tarpaulin had disappeared. While they had been wrestling with the stubborn trap the fog had stolen a march on them. On all sides loomed a horizon of gray mist, not a half-mile distant and steadily drawing nearer. They must locate the island and get back to it at once.
Percy tossed over the buoy and the warp at which they had been pulling. Tarpaulin lay southwest; but which way was southwest? Busied with the trap, he had utterly lost all sense of direction. The sun? He glanced hopefully up. No; that would not help any. The fog was too dense. Ha! The surf?
"Listen hard, Filippo!" he exhorted.
They strained their ears. No sound. The swell was so gentle that it did not break on the ledges of the island loudly enough to be heard a mile and a quarter off. The heaving circle of which they were the center was contracting fast. Its misty walls were now less than five hundred feet away.
"Guess we'd better take a buoy aboard, and hang to it till Jim comes out to hunt us up. It'd make me feel cheap to do it, but it's the only safe way. But wait! What's that?"
Both listened again. A sound reached their ears, plain and unmistakable, the rote of dashing water.
"There's the surf!" rejoiced Percy. "Don't you hear it?"
"Si, I hear it," answered Filippo.
Dropping the buoy he had just gaffed, Percy took the oars and began rowing hard toward the sound, which gradually grew louder. The fog came on with a rush, sliding over them like an avalanche. It was hardly possible to see beyond the tips of the oar-blades.
"Lucky we can hear that surf!" said Percy, comfortably. "But strange it sounds so loud and so near."
Now it was close ahead. He stopped rowing, puzzled. A blast of cold air smote them. Suddenly there was a rushing all around. It was not the surf at all, but waves, breaking before the coming wind. They were lost in the fog!
Percy faced Filippo blankly. For a moment his head went round. With bitter regret he now realized that in dropping the buoy he had given up a certainty for an uncertainty that might cost them dearly. But nothing was to be gained by yielding to discouragement. He reviewed his scanty stock of sea lore.
"That wind is probably blowing from some point between northeast and southeast. If we turn around, and run straight before it, we'll be likely to hit the island."
He swung the pea-pod stern to the breeze.
"Here goes! Watch out sharp for lobster-buoys, Filippo!"
But no buoys appeared. They might pass within ten feet of one and never see it. Five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed; and still no sign of Tarpaulin. The wind was becoming stronger, the waves higher; their rushing was now loud enough to drown the sound of any surf that might be breaking on the ledges of the island. Percy rowed for a quarter-hour longer, dread plucking at his heart-strings. At last he rested on his oars.
"We've missed it," he acknowledged, despondently.
They were lost now in good earnest. It was one o'clock. The fog hung over them like a heavy gray pall, so damp and thick that it was almost stifling. Percy turned the pea-pod bow to the wind and began rowing again.
"We must try to hold our own till it clears up," he observed, with attempted cheerfulness.
But his tones lacked conviction. It might not clear for two or three days. By degrees his strokes lost their force, until the oars were barely dipping. The boat was going astern fast.
Two o'clock. Long ere this Jim and Budge must have returned from trawling and realized that the pea-pod and its occupants were lost. They were probably searching for them now, perhaps miles away on the other side of the island, wherever it might be.
A gruff bark startled them. A round, black, whiskered head suddenly thrust up out of the water close to the port gunwale. Filippo cried out in alarm, but Percy reassured him.
"Only a seal!"
Abruptly the sea grew rough. All around them tossed and streamed and writhed long, black aprons of kelp. They were passing over a sunken ledge. Soon it lay behind them; the kelp vanished and the waves grew lower.
Three o'clock went by; then four. The afternoon was waning. The thick, woolly gray that surrounded them assumed a more somber shade. Night was coming, pitchy and starless, doubly so for the two lost boys, adrift on the open ocean.
Hark! What was that? They both heard it, far distant, off the port bow! Percy leaped up in excitement.
"The shot-gun!" he cried. "They're signaling!"
Heading the boat toward the sound, he rowed his hardest, while Filippo strained forward, listening. Ten minutes dragged by, and once again—pouf!—slightly louder, and slightly to starboard. Percy corrected his course and again threw his whole heart into his rowing.
So it went for an hour, the signals sounding at ten-minute intervals, each louder and nearer than the one before. At last Percy thought it possible that their voices might be heard against the wind. He stopped rowing.
"Now shout, Filippo!"
Their cries pealed out together. They were heard. An answering hail came back. Soon the puff-puff-puff of the Barracouta's exhaust was driving rivets through the fog. A little later they were on board the sloop, answering the inquiries of Jim and Budge, while the empty pea-pod towed astern.
"Your seamanship wasn't bad, Perce," was Jim's judgment. "After you dropped the buoy, and then found you'd been rowing into the teeth of the wind, it might have been better to have tried only to hold your own until we came out to look you up. That breeze at first was nearer north than northeast, and when you ran before it you went south past the island. After that you were all at sea. But I might have done just the same thing. I can't tell you, though, how glad we are to see you back, even if it did cost next to our last shell of birdshot. The Gulf of Maine's a pretty homesick place to be kicking round in on a foggy night."
"You aren't any gladder than we are," replied Percy.
He glanced at the pea-pod towing astern.
"But say, Jim! Just cast your eye over that tub. When it comes to catching lobsters, haven't Filippo and I got the rest of the bunch beat to a frazzle?"