“When we have all seen it, we’ll tell someone, perhaps Captain O’Connor. Can’t go to-morrow morning,” Ruth said thoughtfully. “I promised to go over and lift Don’s lobster traps. Might get back in time to go over in the afternoon.”
So they left the beach with the Portland lights still winking and blinking at them, to return home and to their beds.
As Ruth lay once more in her own bed looking out on the harbor, she caught the slow movement of some great dark bulk, and knew it was the ancient sailing ship, Black Gull. Never before had this ship spoken so clearly of the glorious past of dear old Maine, of ships and the sea, of settlement and glorious conquest, and of her brave sons who in every generation had given their lives for freedom.
Never before had she so longed to see the old ship, with every patched and time-browned sail set, go gliding out into the free and open sea. Perhaps this longing was prophetic of that which was shortly to come.
CHAPTER XIII
UNDER FIRE
It was another day, another golden link in the wondrous chain that is life. Both Ruth and Betty were some distance away from their island home, from cottage and big summer house. Fort Skammel, with its haunting mysteries, and Witches Cove were far away in the dreamy distance and well nigh forgotten in the charm of rocks, sky, sea and summer fragrance that was all about them. They had come on a little journey all their own, these two, and for a purpose. At the present moment Ruth was seated upon a rocky ledge completely surrounded by wild sweet peas in full bloom and Betty was somewhere out to sea in a punt.
Green Island, the rugged bit of broken waste on which Ruth sat, is the home of the seagulls. No one has ever lived on that island, but, as evening falls on Casco Bay, many a seagull, weary with his day’s search for food, may be seen winging his way across the dark waters to this, his haven of rest.
Of all the spots near Portland Harbor, the rugged shoals off Green Island are best for lobster fishing. Don had set a number of traps here. Having been called to Portland, he had asked Ruth to sail the Foolemagin out to the island to lift the traps and bring in the catch.
She had asked Betty to go with her. Betty had brought clams and a cod line. There is no better cod fishing to be had than on the shoals by Green Island.
Betty had asked permission to fish over the shoals from Ruth’s punt. Since the day was calm, Ruth had given consent. Such a thing is always risky, for a sudden fog or a squall may come up at any moment. But perhaps Ruth still held in the back of her head the city boy’s declaration, “Life is a joke.” At any rate, Betty had gone. The weather had continued calm and clear.