“Where are they going?” Betty asked in a faint whisper as the sound of rowing grew louder, then began to fade away in the distance.
“House Island, perhaps.”
“There’s nothing over there.”
“Only an abandoned house and the old fort. No one living there. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Really mysterious,” Betty agreed.
“We’ll row around the Black Gull, then we’ll go home,” said Ruth.
Visiting the Black Gull, an ancient six-master that had lain at anchor in the harbor months on end, was one of Ruth’s chief delights.
Steam and gasoline, together with the high price of canvas, high wages and demand for speed, had brought this slow going craft to anchor for good.
So there she stood, black and brooding, her masts reaching like bare arms toward heaven, her keel moving with the tide yet ever chafing at the massive anchor chain that was never drawn.
Night was the time to visit her. Then, looming out of the dark, she seemed to speak of other days, of the glory of Maine’s shipping, of fresh cut lumber, of fish and of the boundless sea.