"Well, we've got troubles of our own, and no dad with a fat bank-account to foot the bills. Why so still, Jim? Something on your mind, eh?"
Jim's forehead was wrinkled.
"Wait!" was all he deigned.
Back in his room, after supper, he unbosomed himself: "A week ago I had a letter from Uncle Tom Sprowl. He lives in Stonington, on Deer Isle, east of Penobscot Bay; but most of the time he fishes and lobsters from Tarpaulin Island, ten miles south of Isle au Haut. Last month, just after he had started the season in good shape, he was taken down with rheumatism, and the doctor has ordered him to keep off the water for three months. Now that island is one of the best stands for fish and lobsters on the Maine coast. Somebody's going to use it this summer. Why shouldn't we? If we have reasonably good luck, we can clear up two hundred and fifty dollars apiece for the season's work. I've talked the thing over with Mr. Blodgett, and he thinks it's all right. Of course we'd be in for a lot of good hard work; but it's healthy, and we're all in first-class trim. We'd soon get hardened to it. Now, boys, it's up to you."
Lane hesitated.
"Do you think that two such farmers as Throppy and I could make much of a fist at fishing?"
"Sure thing! I can show you how. I've fished since I was ten years old."
"Where did you say the island is?" asked Stevens.
"Right out in the Atlantic Ocean, a good twenty-five miles from the mainland. It's about a half-mile long and a quarter broad, partly covered with scrub evergreen, and has fifty acres of pasture. Uncle Tom's got some sheep there, too. He's afraid they'll be stolen; so he wants somebody there the earliest minute possible. He'll furnish all the gear and go halves with us on the season's catch. What do you say, Budge?"
"I'm with you, if Throppy is."