During the next week Evans spent a good part of his time training Kendrick in the use of certain radio apparatus, and at the same time striving to assure himself as to his loyalty. Gradually the conviction grew in both Barton and Evans that Kendrick was a man they could trust without fear, but still they said little to him of his mission.
About this time there arrived from the States a long, narrow crate addressed to Evans. The supply clerk who handled the shipment remarked—“That’s some box, Gunner; what do you expect’s in it?”
“Looks like an eight-day clock,” was the answer. “Still, my watch keeps pretty good time,” he added with a puzzled look.
“Do you want to open it here?” asked the clerk.
“No; it will litter things up to scatter the crate round here. I’ll get it lugged down to the shore where I can turn it adrift.”
So some hands were summoned and, having moved the crate down to the shore, were dismissed. Evans then opened it by himself. The wildest guess which the supply clerk could have made as to its contents would have been far from the truth, for never in his life had he seen such an object. It contained a sort of narrow, decked-over canoe built essentially on the lines of an Eskimo kayak. To the unfamiliar observer it would give the impression of frailty such that he who would venture beyond easy swimming distance from shore in such a craft must be foolhardy to the verge of madness. In point of fact, as the Eskimo well knows, this type of boat is so seaworthy as to be safe in almost any gale that blows.
Evans had a friend who had traveled much among the Eskimos and studied their ways, and especially the handling of their kayaks. This man had built himself two or three of these light craft, patterned in the main on the lines used by the Eskimos, and in years gone by had taught Evans to handle them in rough water. It was one of these that he had now placed at Evans’s disposal.
As he ripped off the last of the crate and brought to view the graceful lines of the little craft, Evans smiled at the memory of pleasant hours spent paddling off the rough New England coast. He fitted together the two halves of the double-bladed paddle which came with her, then lifted the kayak on his shoulder, carried her to the water’s edge and launched her. Then, getting in and sitting in the bottom, Eskimo-fashion, he paddled away along the shore. With a thrill of joy he felt the familiar responsive motion as the light and buoyant little craft sped forward. Skirting the shore line, he came in a few minutes to a secluded and unfrequented spot where the contour of the rocks afforded a sheltered and convenient place to land. Lifting the kayak out of the water, he concealed her well above high-water mark.
The next day he took Kendrick to the spot where the kayak lay hidden, dragged her out into view, and said:
“Do you think you could make a landing on an exposed seacoast in that?”