In a few minutes the bow scraped upon the sand, and in another Stubbs had leaped out with his bag. Wilson clambered after. Then to his amazement, the latter saw the oarsman calmly shove off and turn the boat’s prow back to the wharf. He shot a glance at Stubbs and saw that the latter had seen the move, and had said nothing. For the first time he began to wonder in earnest just what sort of a mission they were on.
Stubbs stamped his cramped legs, gave a hitch to his belt, and filled his clay pipe, taking a long time to scrape out the bowl, whittle off a palmful of tobacco, roll it, and stuff it into the bowl with a care which did not spill a speck of it. When it was fairly burning, he swept the island with his keen eyes and suggested that they take a walk.
The two made a circle of the barren acres which made up the island and returned to their starting point with scarcely a word having been spoken. Stubbs 126 picked out a bit of log facing the ship and sat down. He waved his hand towards the yacht.
“That,” he said, “is the craft that’ll take us there––if it don’t go down.”
“Why don’t we go aboard, then?” ventured Wilson.
“’Cause why? ’Cause we’re goneter wait fer the other fishermen.”
“I hope they have found as comfortable a fishing-ground as we have.”
He studied Stubbs a moment and then asked abruptly,
“What’s the meaning of this fishing story?”
Stubbs turned upon him with a face as blank as the cloudless sky above.