Whether the Pony Islands or not––and whether Big Pony or Little Pony––clearing weather would disclose. Meantime, as Archie Armstrong somewhat tartly pointed out, the Spot Cash was to be looked to. She had gone aground at low tide, 258 it seemed; and she was now floating at anchor, free of the bottom. The butt of her bowsprit had been driven into the forecastle; and the bowsprit itself had gone permanently out of commission. Otherwise she was tight and ready. The practical-minded Archie Armstrong determined, with a laugh, that notwithstanding the loss of a bowsprit the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company would not have to go out of business for lack of insurance. And after an amazingly hearty and hilarious breakfast, which Bagg, the cook––Bagg was the cook––presently announced, the folk of the Spot Cash went ashore to take observations.
“We’ll rig a bowsprit o’ some sort,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay remarked, “afore the fog lifts.”
The fog was already thinning.
Meantime, on the easterly coast of the Little Pony, the Black Eagle was being warped in towards shore and moored with lines to a low, sheer rock, which served admirably as a landing wharf. The gangplank was run out, the hatches were lifted, the barrows were fetched from below; and all these significant operations were directed in a half-whisper by the rat-eyed little Tommy 259 Bull. Ashore went the fish––ashore by the barrow-load––and into a convenient little gully where the tarpaulins would keep it snug against the weather. Fortune favoured the plan: fog hid the island from the sight of all men. But the faces of the crew grew longer as the work advanced; and the voice of the rat-eyed little clerk fell lower, and his manner turned still more furtive, and his hand began to shake.
In the cabin the skipper sat, with an inspiring dram, engaged in melancholy and apprehensive brooding. Armstrong & Company had not served him ill, after all (thought he); but, pshaw! the Black Eagle was insured to the hilt and would be small loss to the firm. Well, well! she was a tight little schooner and had many a time taken the evil fall weather with a stout heart. ’Twas a pity to scuttle her. Scuttle her? The skipper had much rather scuttle Tom Tulk! But pshaw! after all ’twould but make more work for Newfoundland ship-builders. Would it never be known? Would the murder never out? Could Tommy Bull and the crew be trusted? The skipper had already begun to fear Tommy Bull and the crew. He had caught himself deferring to the cook. 260
To the cook!
“Pah!” thought the skipper, as he tipped his bottle, “George Rumm knucklin’ down to a cook! A pretty pass t’ come to!”
Tommy Bull came down the ladder. “Skipper, sir,” said he, “you’d best be on deck.”
Skipper George went above with the clerk.