That evening after René had been put to bed—Mrs. Chaisson had decreed the season too early for sleeping on the porch, and had placed a cot in one corner of old Simon’s room for the little boy—the rest of them gathered around the air tight stove in the sitting room. The evenings were likely to be cool, and even Rex crept in to lie at their feet and enjoy the welcome heat of a wood fire.
“Matty,” began her father, “I was tellin’ the young feller,” laying his hand on Jack’s knee as he spoke, “he’d better stay on here until after the lobsters are in.”
“A good idea, if he doesn’t need to hurry back,” agreed Mrs. Chaisson, picking up her sewing.
“You see,” went on the old man, turning to Desiré, “there’s quite a bit of profit in lobsters, and the boy says he has nothin’ in sight for the present; so why not pick up a few dollars?”
She did not know how to reply on the spur of the moment, and looked at Jack for inspiration.
“I don’t know a thing about the business,” said the boy slowly.
“Huh! I can teach ye all ye need to know in half a day,” declared the old man.
“Yes, indeed. Father’s a good hand at it, or was before he got the rheumatism,” said his daughter, biting off her thread.
“Now I’ll tell ye just what I thought,” said Simon. “I’ve an old hut down on the shore toward Lower Woods Harbor way, and pots and markers enough for you. Many of them need mending, but I’ll show you how to do that; and I thought mebbe you’d take the outfit, if this girl don’t mind roughing it a bit—”
“But—” began Jack.