They fished steadily throughout the long summer days and worked to the north and east. On St. Pierre Bank they “jigged” a great baiting of squid—an octopus-like creature which may be caught near the surface on calm nights by dangling a small, umbrella-like hook overside. The squid enveloped the jig with its tentacles and would be whisked aboard squirting sepia in protest. With this bait—beloved by cod—they fished on St. Pierre and over on Grand Bank, and the rough grained salt in the bins got lower and lower, and the kenched cod in the fish-room grew daily higher, and the West Wind settled deeper in the water with the weight of it.
Times there were when they fished in plenteous company, and many a dawn would show sails all around the horizon. Oft-times they swung a dory over and “visited”—sitting in a stranger’s cabin with all hands crowded in listening while the skippers talked “fish.” In these visits, Nickerson would pick up all the news and gossip of the great fleet which did business on the huge watery areas from Le Have to the Virgin Rocks, and he would give information and prospects as freely as the other man. On one occasion they boarded a large French topsail schooner out from St. Servan, and Donald essayed a conversation in halting French. The outcome of this visit did not result in much fishery news, but the skipper received a bottle of cognac in return for a few plugs of tobacco, and McKenzie came away wondering how the deuce the Frenchmen got around in the clumsy, straw-stuffed sabots and ponderous cow-hide, wood-soled sea-boots they wore.
In mid-August, they ran down to Western Bank again on the strength of a rumor that cod were extremely plentiful there, but they had only made one set when one of the crew developed a sickness which looked suspiciously like typhoid fever.
“We’ll run to Eastville, Donald,” said Judson. “We’d better land Wesley at his home and we’ll fill up the tanks with water that we’re sure of.” At this announcement, McKenzie felt a strange thrill. “Eastville ... Ruth!” The names were synonymous, and it was quite possible that the skipper had the same incentive, but with a different objective. Under all sail, they crowded her home in a rare sailing breeze, and “with the Eastville girl ahauling on the tow-line,” they stormed in past the Capes on a lovely August morning and tied up to the dock. Wesley, muffled in blankets, was landed and rushed to his home, and the doctor pronounced it as a touch of typhoid, not a bad case, but enough to keep him in bed and ashore for a spell.
“I’ll have to pick up another man for his dory,” said Judson, but Donald broke in, “How about me, Skipper? Don’t you think I’m able enough to go in the dory with Jack Thomas?” The skipper laughed. “If Jack will agree, I will! It’ll leave me without a spare hand, though, but as the summer’s near over, I don’t mind.” Jack Thomas was agreeable, and McKenzie would go in the dory as a full-fledged fisherman when the West Wind made her next set.
After landing the sick man and giving orders for the tanks to be disinfected and re-filled, Judson and Donald went up to the house. Donald, feeling strangely elated, walked with springing steps, wondering if Ruth would be as glad to see him as he to see her. There was no sign of her on the veranda when they approached, and it was Mrs. Nickerson who met them, surprised and pleased. McKenzie nervously awaited Ruth’s appearance.
“Where are the girls?” enquired the skipper, after kissing his mother.
“They’ve both gone to Halifax for a visit,” replied the old lady. “Just went this morning, too. Isn’t that too bad!” Donald said nothing, but felt it was a calamity. Another month now before he would see her again, and a month is an age when one is in love. He felt very blue, but when Judson was called away to the telephone, he perked up and chatted with Mrs. Nickerson as amiably as if he had never been disappointed in his life.
When the skipper came back, he announced, “Tom Haskins wants to buy aour fish. Wants to git some dried an’ shipped afore the fleet comes in, and he offers a good price. We’ll unload right away and git aout to-night so’s we’ll git a day’s fishin’ to-morrow. We’ll come up for supper, mother.”
With Captain Bill Smith, the harbor-master, checking the weights as they discharged the fish, they emptied the West Wind’s hold clean to the floors. “You got a good jag, Judson,” said the Captain. “You must ha’ fished hard to git all them in that time.”