“But when Uncle Vance saw that he was furious. He smashed the waterwheel and flogged me good. Then he set to work and gathered every knife and hatchet he could find in Ascog and made me sharpen ’em on an old foot stone just to teach me that laziness never profited any one. I was only eight years old, but I never forgot that. Always since then I’ve taken particular pains to hide everything I made.
“All this Spring I was working on a model of a non-sinkable metal lifeboat. You see, I had an idea I might have it patented and perhaps make money enough out of it to go to high school. Uncle Vance says my schooling days are over and that any more learning would make me lazier than I am. And I just simply want to go to high school so that some day I can go to college and study engineering. Well, about the lifeboat.
“When we started off after swordfish on this last cruise, I smuggled the model aboard the yawl, because I thought I’d get a chance to do some tinkering on it when Uncle Vance wasn’t looking. That was the worst thing I could have done. Last Monday he caught me working on it and he was thundering mad. He just rushed at me and tore it out of my hands. Then he threw the thing overboard and got a rope end. And when he whaled me so I couldn’t stand it any longer and pulled away from him, he threw a belaying pin at me and hit me on the shoulder. Oh, he’s a fine uncle, you can bet. Can’t blame me for being bitter, can you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Mr. Warner.
“That’s sort of tough treatment,” said Jack with sympathy.
“I guess it was. Well, I decided after that I would quit Uncle Vance. Last night I took the plugs out of all the dories after they had been hoisted aboard and then made up my mind to skip to the first land we sighted. And here I am. I guess Uncle Vance will miss me a little at that. He’ll miss flogging me with a rope end. And he’ll miss me if Old Bart gets seasick, as he often does. Old Bart is the harpooner and next to him I was the best harpooner of the—”
Ray stopped talking abruptly and looked with horror toward the door. There stood a big, burly, black-whiskered individual, who fitted exactly Jack’s idea of an old-time buccaneer. He was hatless and his shirt was open at the throat and his great brawny arms were bared to the elbow. In his hand he gripped two knotted rope ends. For a moment he paused there, glowering at Ray. Then with a roar he lunged forward as if he intended to tear the boy in two.
“Oh, it’s Uncle Vance!” screamed Ray, leaping back in fear.
And as quickly as the lad jumped out of the path of the fisherman, into his path stepped Big O’Brien, the camp foreman. This rapid change of principals seemed to disconcert the intruder for a moment, for he stopped abruptly and faced the big Irishman. Both were silent and tense. Not a word did they exchange, but as they stood there glaring at each other it was evident that each was ready to crush the other with a blow. The fisherman’s face was as black as a thunder cloud.
“Let me at t’ whelp,” he hissed.