The three partners walked back down the sand to the embers of the pound boats. They stood near them, warming themselves in the last of the fire. Ramsay prodded the sand with his toe.
They were right back where they had started. A whole summer's hard work had gone to satisfy the greed and lust of one man. What they had left was the seine, the row boat, the forming skeleton of the Spray II and the pier. Ramsay set his jaw. They could do it again. They had done it once.
He looked toward the Mackinaw boat, and discovered that it had gone out of the bay into the open lake. But his eyes were attracted by something else on the horizon.
A moment later he identified it as a plume of smoke. Five minutes afterward, storm-lashed but defiant, the Jackson nosed out of the lake into the sheltered bay. Manned by able seamen, sure of herself, the Jackson came up to her accustomed place at the pier. Ramsay, Hans and Pieter caught her mooring ropes.
Resplendent in his uniform, little Captain Williamson came down his rope ladder and strutted on the pier. "A blow," he said, as though a storm on Lake Michigan meant nothing to him. "We'll tie up here until it's over, then go back to Chicago. Have you got any fish?"
"Some," Ramsay admitted.
He thought of the ten barrels of whitefish that were ready for shipment, and he watched Captain Williamson's face fall. The little captain emitted a long sigh. "Some, eh? I was hoping for better news. Chicago's growing like a weed in the sun, and it's hungry. Most of the fishermen made their last shipments ten days ago. The markets are almost empty, and even sturgeon's bringing five cents a pound."
For one brief second the storm clouds parted and the sun shone through. Then the sky was again overcast and the storm leaped furiously. Ramsay turned his shining face toward Hans and Pieter. The tons of sturgeon in the pond ... At five cents a pound there would be more than enough money to replace everything and to buy the finest planking for the Spray II.
Ramsay said, "Save plenty of room on the Jackson. We'll need it."
On top of the ridge-pole, Captain Klaus fluttered his long wings and curved his sinuous neck. As though he approved thoroughly he called, "Quark!"