A large, bronze-colored negro paused in his task of rigging a line, and cast an eye to sea through the driveway.
“An’ we mens bes’ make de mores ob it,” he observed. “Dem Septumbuh storm due soon, an’ fish ain’t likes eas’ win’ an’ muddy watuh.”
Jake laughed reassuringly.
“Go ’long wid yuh. Ain’t yuh done know we hab one stiff gale las’ summer, an’ he nebber come two yeah han’ runnin’.”
His wife came toward him with a baby in her arms, and, giving him the child to hold, took up the mess of fish which he was cleaning in a leisurely fashion.
“Ef yuh ain’t mans enough tuh clean fish no fastuh dan dat, yuh bes’ min’ de baby, an’ gib um tuh a ’oman fuh clean!” she said scornfully, as she bore away the pan.
The group laughed at that, Jake’s somewhat shamefaced merriment rising above the others. He rocked the contented little negro in his strong arms, and followed the retreating figure of the mother with admiring eyes.
“All right, mens,” he said, returning to the matter in hand. “I’m all fuh ridin’ luck fer as he will tote me. Turn out at fo’ tuhmorruh mornin’, and we’ll push de ‘Seagull’ clean tuh de blackfish banks befo’ we wets de anchor. I gots er feelin’ in my bones dat we goin’ be gunnels undeh wid de pure fish when we comes in tuhmorruh night.”
The news of Jake’s prediction spread through the negro quarter. Other crews got their boats hastily in commission and were ready to join the “Mosquito Fleet” when it put to sea.
On the following morning, when the sun rose out of the Atlantic, the thirty or forty small vessels were mere specks teetering upon the water’s rim against the red disc that forged swiftly up beyond them.