“Waal, I’ll be dummed-gosh dummed!” snorted Zenas, his thin nostrils dilating angrily.
“Put up a fence now, have they?” he continued. “Waal, if thet ain’t ther beatingest! A passel of city kids ter come hyar and think they kin run things in Casco Bay!”
“I reckon thet fence ain’t goin’ ter hinder us powerful much, dad.”
“Waal, I swan not. Come on, Zeb, look lively with them pots; we’ve got ter git across ther island an’ back ez slippy ez we kin.”
But as father and son resumed their journey, the thick brush suddenly parted and down a narrow path a boyish figure came suddenly into view. The newcomer was a tall, muscular youth, with a face tanned to a healthy brown by constant outdoor life. His clean-cut figure and frank, open countenance formed a striking contrast to Zenas’ crabbed features and the shifty look of his son.
“Where do you intend going?” demanded the boy, as he halted a few paces on the opposite side of the fence.
“You know waal enough, Frank Chester, or whatever yer name is,” growled out Zenas, “we’re goin’ across ther Island ter stow our lobster pots, just as we’ve bin a-doin’ fer years.”
“I’m very sorry. I don’t want to seem unfair, but, as I explained to you the other day, this island is now private property. It was rented from Mr. Dunning of Portland on the express condition that we were not to be interfered with.”
“Land o’ Goshen! So ye think yer kin come hyar an’ run things ter suit yerselves, do yer?”
“We rented the island for that purpose. As I said before, we are all very sorry if it interferes with your convenience; but there’s Woody Island half a mile below, and closer in to Motthaven, too, why won’t that suit you as well?”