"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."