As the party neared the fishing fleet, voices carried flatly across the water, and now and then a dog barked. Tom Jonah answered these canines ashore with explosive growls. He stood forward, his paws planted firmly on the deck, and snuffing the sea air. Tom Jonah was a good sailor.
“Got your scare?” a voice came out of the darkness, quavering across the cove. “Going to be thick outside.”
Neale grabbed the fish-horn and blew a mighty blast on it. Similar horns answered from all about the fleet.
A towering mast, with its big sail bending to the breeze, shot past them—the big cat-boat, Susie, bound for her lines of lobster-pots just off the mouth of the cove. Her crew hailed the launch and her party—four sturdy young fellows in jerseys and high sea-boots.
“Whew!” said Joe. “Smell that lobster bait! I’d hate to go for a pleasure trip on the Susie.”
The Hattie G. was just ahead and Mr. Stryver shut off the engine. The drab, dirty looking old craft tugged sharply at her taut mooring cable. She had two short masts, and on these heavy canvas was being spread by the crew, which consisted of five men and a boy.
One of the men was the skipper, another the mate, a third the cook; but all hands had to turn to to make sail. There were several sweeps (heavy oars) held in bights of rope along the rail. Both ends of the Hattie G. were sharp; in other words she had two bows. Thus the name, “double-ender”—a build of craft now almost extinct save in a few New England ports out of which ply the swordfishermen.
Skipper Joline came to the rail. He was a hoarse, red-faced man with a white beard, cut like a paintbrush, on his chin.
“Climb aboard, folks,” he said. “Steve will get breakfast shortly. There’s a bit of fog and some swell outside. Better all lay in a good foundation of scouse and sody biscuit. Ye’ll need it later.”
“That sounds rather suggestive, Ruth,” whispered Agnes. “Do you suppose he expects us landlubbers to be really sick?”