Commodore Jones had just settled himself on his little platform, for a morning smoke, and running up on the hurricane deck, they leaned out, toward him, as they passed, and called:
“Good-bye, Mr. Jones. Want any fish?”
“Good-bye,” he shouted, waving his pipe. “Yes; bring ’em—when you get ’em!”
Through the draw sped the Harriett, and on past the Mosher Lumber Mill (disfigured but busy), past Eagle Island (Bob not deigning a glance at his old homeplace), and on, with a stop or so, until soon the Deep Creek landing was right ahead.
This landing was at a government light upon a small peninsular. A few rods above, the Monga, a shallow but wide and swift stream, emptied into the Mississippi, and to reach the Deep Creek grounds it was necessary to cross. People who had no skiff with them signaled to Joe and Sam, fishermen who lived beside the creek, to come and ferry them over. Ned and Hal and Bob, however, had the scull-boat; and when they and their traps and their craft had been dumped ashore, all at once, and the Harriett was fussily hurrying away, they lost no time in loading up and pushing off.
Now, Deep Creek was not truly a creek. It was a narrow slough, extending parallel with the Mississippi, between an island and the shore. It was a popular resort for fishing parties, and a number of Beaufort men had erected a little cabin beside it, for use as a club-house.
Having passed the mouth of the Monga the boys entered the slough. Sam and Joe, always upon the outlook for a job when the Harriett was due, were standing in front of their shanty, and opposite them Hal and Ned rested on their oars, to ask:
“How’s fishing?”
“Good,” replied the brothers, together.
“Anybody else down here?” queried Ned.