“Much obliged, but there wa’n’t no call to do it. I ain’t had nary nibble so far. I cal’ate Friday’s storm’s driv all the fish out to sea.”
“Try down by the beacon,” called Jack. “The water’s deeper there.”
He pointed ahead of him and the fisherman nodded and pulled up his pole and line. Down the shore, beyond the little rocky island called The Lump, a hand-liner was coming in with all sails set.
“That’s Desco Benton,” murmured Jack. “I guess I can sell to him if that plaguey chug-boat don’t get to him first.” He eyed his sail anxiously, eased the sheet a bit and watched for the end of the breakwater with its red beacon light set up on a tripod of timbers, for all the world like a little fat man with three legs. The sunlight shone dazzlingly on the ruby glass as Jack swung the sloop around the end of the granite barrier and across the bar. Before him lay the big round harbor, with Gull Island almost in the center, and innumerable boats lining the fish wharves or anchored in the channels. At the left the old town of Greenhaven ambled away up the hill, its white houses and crooked streets elbowing and jostling each other at every turn. Straight ahead, at the end of the mile-long basin, across what is known as the Neck Marsh, a second cluster of roofs showed where Cove Village lay along the edge of Lobster Cove.
It was a busy scene even at nine o’clock in the morning. Over at the Eastern Halibut Company’s wharves two schooners were unloading; Jack could see the sunlight glinting on the white bellies of the big fish as they were pitched from deck to wharf; on Gull Island, a short distance ahead, Abner Lacy’s Esmeralda, which had been in collision with a steamer trawler off White Face Bar a few days before, was being winched up the railway for repairs; the ring of the mallets on the blocks and the clicking of the windlass came loudly across the quiet water. Half-way between island and Neck the ferryboat was churning its way; Jack could see Captain Trufitt edging along the narrow deck taking fares. On the town side of the harbor a whale-back was unloading coal and the rattle and hum of the hoisting engine beat incessantly across. An Italian salt bark, her battered red hull deep in the water, had berthed in the broad channel and a lighter was sidling up to her. They would unload until she drew less water and then take her over to one of the wharves. At the Folsom Company’s docks a dozen schooners were fitting for their summer trips to the Banks. Small sailboats and rowboats dotted the blue expanse and just beyond the inner end of Gull Island a neat steam-yacht, resplendent in white paint and mahogany and brass, awaited her turn on the marine railway.
Over on the Neck side they were launching a sloop at Davis’s boat-yard where, hauled up on the shore and covered from the weather with canvas or boards, half a dozen sailing craft of various descriptions awaited their owners’ orders. There was a distinct odor of drying fish in the air—in almost any direction you could catch a glimpse of the “flakes” behind the fish houses—which, mingling with the odors of lumber and pitch and paint from the yards, of seaweed from the shallow beach and of the soft, salty breeze from the ocean, constituted a fragrance that was as much a part of Greenhaven as the granite hill on which it was built. Jack knew that odor well and loved it. He breathed it gratefully now as, guiding the Crystal Spring toward the broad channel, he saw Desco Benton’s Hetty and Grace rush past him near shore, shortening sail as she went. Jack cast an anxious gaze up the harbor.
“I guess that chug-boat will beat me again,” he muttered, “though I don’t see her anywhere yet. Likely she’s at the landing. Get on, you old sea-crab!”
The latter command was addressed to the Crystal Spring, which, now in the lee of the breakwater, was moving more leisurely than ever. Down the harbor the Hetty and Grace came about into the wind and Jack saw the anchor splash. It would take him ten minutes, maybe, to reach her, for he would have to tack in a moment and stand over toward the shore. And then what he feared and expected happened. Out of the press of boats around the town landing a cat-rigged boat driven by a gasoline motor chugged its way. It was painted buff, with a black strip, and to the bare mast was fixed a white placard with the word “Water” on it in black letters. Straight across to the Hetty and Grace it went and Jack sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Either I’ll have to rig up an engine or go out of business,” he muttered. “Well, I’ll try the steam-yacht.”
But when, five minutes later, the sloop wallowed up to within hailing distance of the handsome Sea Mist, a man in blue coat and brass buttons informed him shortly that her tanks were full.