“Oh, there’s plenty market. Herrin’s been that scarce this winter that people been from everywhere lookin’ for a load—yes. But I was savin’ them for Wesley. But if Wesley’s gone, and you’re such a great friend of Wesley’s—any friend of Wesley’s a friend of mine—and sailin’ from the same firm in Gloucester, you say?”
“The same firm, the Duncans.”
“That so? Well, I can’t say as ever I heard Wesley speak of you or any mention of your name down this way before—but that ain’t extraor’nary, maybe. Anyway, being as you’re a friend of Wesley’s, you can have them herrin’ just the same as if you was Wesley himself.”
The loading of the Calumet was a record performance. By dark she was off and away.
And as she cleared the last headland of Placentia Bay, as she squeezed by Shag Rocks and left Lamalin astern, Captain Harry Glover had to laugh aloud. “O Lord, but I call that getting ahead of a man!” he chuckled. “It was too easy. Talk about strategy!”
II
The Lucy Foster was lying into Big Whale Gut with Wesley Marrs chafing to complete his cargo. Five hundred barrels would just about fill her up—fill her up nicely.
A man in a rowboat came into the cove. The one sail on the boat had evidently been blown away, for only some strips of canvas were tied to the little mast.
Wesley Marrs, leaning against the main rigging of the Lucy, watched the weary oarsman approach.
“Looks as if he’d been boxin’ the compass in strange waters,” commented Wesley meditatively. “What’s wrong?” he hailed.