“‘Life,’” she quoted thoughtfully, “‘is a joke. Life is a joke. What’s the use of making a fuss?’”
She took down a box from a what-not in the corner. There was money in the box, the last of the swordfish money. She had bought a punt because it was truly needed. She had meant to spend the remainder for useful things about the house and for fishing tackle which was also very practical.
But now, “Life is a joke.” She allowed the coins to slip through her fingers like grains of sand.
“A figured taffeta dress,” she thought. “I’ve always wanted one, and a new hat, and new pumps. I’ll have them, too. Life is a joke.”
Had she truly convinced herself that it was not worth while to look upon the business of living as a serious matter? Who can say? Perhaps she did not know herself.
As for Don and Pearl, they hurried back and were soon busily engaged in the business of preparing to salvage the wreck.
To Pearl, who kept repeating to herself, “If we can only do it. If only we can!” the moments consumed by Don in rolling barrels and carrying chains to the sloop seemed endless. But at last with the meager deck of the Foolemagin piled high, they headed once more for Witches Cove.
The cove, as they neared it this time, seemed more fearsome and ghostly than ever before. The moon was under a cloud. The clump of firs hung like a menacing thing over the cliff. The light from the mysterious stranger’s cabin was gone. Pearl shuddered as she caught the long drawn wail of a prowling cat.
She shook herself free from these fancies. There was work to be done. Would they succeed? She prayed that they might. The tide was still rising. That would help. The empty barrels, once they were sunk beneath the surface and chained to the broken hull, would help to buoy the sailboat up.
With practiced hand Don began the task that lay before him. Pearl helped when she could.