The next day we gave up the search, in which we were excitedly assisted by the villagers and scattered farmers. We returned to the boat and rowed it out into the calm lake, where we waited for a breeze. The motor had again “gone punk.”
“That smoke’s jest natch’ally drifted off,” remarked Sipes philosophically, as we floated idly on the gentle swells, “but we got enough to make us rich; wot do we care? I guess that ‘dark secret’ that Bill said this trip was, was set’n on them rocks w’en we fust come in the river. Think of all wot we done fer ’im! Me offerin’ ’im that whole cupful w’en ’e was sick, an’ git’n’ milk fer ’im to cook with, an’ all them things you an’ Bill did, an’ now ’e’s hornswoggled us. They ain’t no gratitude. That smoke’s jest like all the rest of ’em!”
“You have had a prosperous trip,” I replied. “You will probably get a high price for your big pearl, and you won’t have to worry about money for quite a while. You had better get this trouble off your mind. Surplus wealth is mere dross.”
“How much dross d’ye think that damn cookie’ll git fer them jools?”
“He will get very little. You had spoiled the lustre on most of them by constantly shaking the box.”
“If I’d knowed ’e was goin’ to frisk ’em, I’d a shook the stuff’n’ out of ’em!”
During a visit to the village store, Saunders had written a letter to the “onion-skinner,” as Sipes persisted in calling the pearl-buyer, and mailed it to the address on the margin of the pamphlet. He described the location of the fish shanty, and informed him of the finding of the big pearl. He also told of the robbery, described Narcissus, and asked him to have him “nabbed” if he came to sell him the stolen pearls, which he probably would do. Saunders spent much time writing and rewriting the letter. Sipes stood over him and cautioned him repeatedly not to say anything in it that “looked like we wanted to sell the jool.”
“Cat’s paws” appeared on the water. The breeze freshened rapidly, and there were white-caps on the lake shortly after we began to make fair headway. The wind increased, the boat careened under the pressure of the broad sail, and we shipped water copiously several times. Fortunately I had left my row-boat and tent with a fisherman at the village, who was to care for them during the winter, so we did not have these to bother us. I felt relieved when we saw the shanty in the distance.
“Hard-a-port, Bill,” commanded Sipes in a stentorian tone as he loosened the main-sheet. We turned in toward shore. Like a roving galleon proudly returning from distant seas, with her treasure in her hold, the gallant Crawfish tore in through the curling waves and flying spray, and felt the foam of her home waters over her prow.
We all got soaking wet getting in through the surf. The long rope from the windlass on the sand, composed of many odd pieces, knotted together, was finally attached to the iron ring on the bow, and the now historic craft was hauled out over the wooden rollers to its berth on the beach.