“Where you been, Jack?” he growled. “I been waitin’ all the mornin’ for you.”
“I’m sorry, Desco. I saw the other boat putting out to you and I thought you’d got water.”
“Them Portuguese? Oh, I sent ’em off in a hurry. That stuff they pump ain’t water, it’s pizen. One of ’em says to me awhile back, he says, ‘Cap’n, this water’s the finest spring water in Greenhaven.’ ‘Spring water’ says I. ‘Spring water! If it is it’s last Spring water!’” And Desco leaned on the rail and laughed hoarsely at his joke. “Where’d they get that stuff, Jack?”
“Right out of the hydrant at the landing,” replied Jack with a smile. “I guess it’s all right when there isn’t a break in the main, but there usually is. Then it’s about the color of pea soup. Have a good trip, Desco?”
“Fair to middlin’! I landed ’em down to Boston. Here, give me hold o’ that pipe. How you gettin’ on, Jack?”
“About the same way—fair to middling,” answered Jack as he uncoiled the hose. “There isn’t much doing just now. Folsom’s boats get their water at the wharves these days. They had a pipe put in. I suppose it’s cheaper for them that way.”
“Huh, I cal’ate it is. An’ Folsom never was a man to waste money. Cal’ate that’s how he’s come by so much on it. I got two butts ’most empty, Jack, and the deck cask, too. Here, Manuel, lug this down to the butts and sing out when you’re ready.”
While Jack pumped the master of the Hetty and Grace leaned across the rail and talked. He was a big, broad-shouldered, yellow-bearded Nova Scotian, of thirty-five or thirty-six years, a good sailor and a lucky master. Desco Benton’s luck was proverbial around Greenhaven and it had stood him in good stead many times. “As lucky as Desco Benton” was a common saying among the fishermen. The Hetty and Grace was a small but staunch little knockabout schooner, Essex built, with the lines of a pleasure yacht. Desco owned every plank and nail in her and was immensely proud of her. She could sail, too. That fact had been demonstrated two years before when Desco had beaten every schooner in the fisherman’s race to Boston Light and back, having his anchor down and all sails snug when his nearest competitor came racing around the breakwater.
“How’s your folks?” he asked presently. “I cal’ate that sister o’ yours is quite grown up by now.”
“Faith’s thirteen, I guess,” Jack replied as he worked at the long pump handle. “She’s going to high school.”