"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.