From the western point a spur extended into the cove, forming a little haven amply large enough for a modest fleet of fishing-boats. Near by on the sea-wall stood two structures, one low, oblong, flat-roofed, with a rusty iron stovepipe projecting from its farther end; the other a small, paintless shed with a large door. Percy gave them only a casual glance.
"You said we were going to live in a camp. Where is it?"
Jim pointed to the first structure.
"There! It's the cabin of an old vessel that came ashore here in a southerly gale years ago. Uncle Tom jacked it up a foot, put in a good floor, and made it into a first-rate camp. It's got bunks for half a dozen, and at a pinch could hold more. The roof's a bit leaky, but we'll soon fix that. There's a good stove, and always plenty of driftwood on the beach. It's a mighty snug place on a stormy day."
Percy turned up his nose at this list of good points.
"What's that pile of chicken-coops near it?"
"Lobster-traps."
"And that big box with its top just above water?"
"A lobster-car. All that we catch in the traps we put in there until the smack comes."
The mooring-buoy was now alongside. Making the Barracouta fast, the boys went ashore in the dory and pea-pod. Percy became conscious that he was thirsty.