But, though the storm blew over, as such springtime storms will, Dan had learned a lesson, and felt that he never again wished to venture on the dizzy heights where wise heads turn and strong feet falter. Though Dud and Jim, who both had pocket money in plenty, made arrangements at the Boat Club for the use of a little motor boat several times a week, Dan held his own line as second mate at Killykinick, and was contented to share old Neb’s voyaging. They went out often now; for, under the old sailor’s guidance, Dan was becoming an expert fisherman. And soon the dingy boat, loaded with its silvery spoil, became known to camps and cottages along the other shores. Poor old Neb was too dull-witted for business; but customers far from markets watched eagerly for the merry blue-eyed boy who brought fish, “still kicking,” for their early breakfast,—clams, chaps, and lobsters, whose freshness was beyond dispute. Neb’s old leather wallet began to fill up as it had never been filled before. And the dinners that were served on the “Lady Jane,” the broiled, the baked, the fried fish dished up in rich plenty every day, shook Brother Bart’s allegiance to Irish stews, and, as he declared, “would make it aisy for a heretic to keep the Friday fast forever.”
Then, Dan had the garden to dig and weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to feed,—altogether, the days were most busy and pleasant; and it was a happy, if tired, boy that tumbled at night into his hammock swung beneath the stars, while old Jeb and Neb smoked their pipes on the deck beside him.
Three letters had come from Aunt Winnie,—a Government boat brought weekly mail to the lighthouse on Numskull Nob. They were prim little letters, carefully margined and written, and spelled as the good Sisters had taught her in early youth. She took her pen in hand—so letters had always begun in Aunt Winnie’s schooldays—to write him a few lines. She was in good health and hoped he was the same, though many were sick at the Home, and Mrs. McGraw (whom Dan recalled as the dozing lady of his visit) had died very sudden on Tuesday; but she had a priest at the last, and a Requiem Mass in the chapel, with the altar in black, and everything most beautiful. Poor Miss Flannery’s cough was bad, and she wouldn’t be long here, either; but, as the good Mother says, we are blessed in having a holy place where we can die in peace and quiet. And Aunt Winnie’s own leg was bad still, but she thanked God she could get around a bit and help the others. And, though she might never see him again—for she would be turned on seventy next Thursday,—she prayed for her dear boy nights, and dreamed of him constant. And, begging God to bless him and keep him from harm, she was his affectionate aunt, Winnie Curley.’
The other letters were very much in the same tone: some other old lady was dying or failing fast; for, with all its twilight peace, Aunt Winnie was in a valley of the shadow, where the light of youth and hope and cheer that whistling, laughing Dan brought into Mulligans’ attic could not shine.
“I’ve got to get her home,” resolved Dan, who was keen enough to read this loss and longing between the old-fashioned neatly-written lines. “It’s Pete Patterson and the meat shop for me in the fall and good-bye to St. Andrew’s and ‘pipe dreams’ forever! Aunt Winnie has to come back, with her blue teapot on her own stove and Tabby purring at her feet again or—or” (Dan choked at the thought) “they’ll be having a funeral Mass at the Little Sisters for her.”
And Dan lay awake a long time that night looking at the stars, and stifling a dull pang in his young heart that the heights of which he had dreamed were not for him. But he was up betimes next morning, his own sturdy self again. Old Neb had a bad attack of rheumatism that made his usual early trip impossible.
“They will be looking for us,” said Dan. “I promised those college girls camping at Shelter Cove to bring them fresh fish for breakfast.”
“Let them catch for themselves!” growled old Neb, who was rubbing his stiffened arm with whale oil.
“Girls,” said Dan in boyish scorn. “What do girls know about fishing? They squeal every time they get a bite. I’ll take Freddy to watch the lines (Brother Bart isn’t so scary about him now), and go myself.”
XIX.—A Morning Venture.