The Rival Campers Afloat; or, The Prize Yacht Viking

by Ruel Perley Smith

The summer days went by pleasantly now, with naught to interrupt the enjoyment of the yachtsmen. The three yachts, the Viking, the Surprise, and the Spray, went on a friendly cruise around Grand Island, putting in at little harbours overnight, and the crews waking the stillness of many a small hamlet with their songs and skylarking at twilight. They had races from port to port, the largest boat giving the other two time-allowance. They fished and swam and grew strong.

Toward the middle of August, the crew gave up lobster catching and stored the lath-pots away for another year. The Surprise took to going on voyages down the bay, fishing on its own account. In fact, Harvey’s four charges had developed a surprising and most commendable ability to look out for themselves, without assistance from him and Henry Burns.

The Viking, too, went on a ten days’ fishing voyage to the outer islands, cleaned up a good catch of cod and hake, and came back, with all the gear neatly packed away, ready to store for the winter.

There had been only one thing lacking for the season’s complete financial success. The mackerel had not appeared around the coast. It was getting near the first of September, and the local fishermen had lost hope of their coming.

“Guess it’s going to be an off year,” remarked Captain Sam. “They’re uncertain fish. One year you can almost bail ’em out with a pail, and another year they just keep away. They’re getting a few down around Cape Cod, I hear, but I reckon the seiners have cleaned ’em out so there won’t be any ’round these parts.”

Nevertheless, the young fishermen were alive to the possibility of their coming. They scanned the water eagerly for signs of a school whenever they were cruising, and, at early morning, watched the harbour entrances in the hope they might see the fish breaking.

“If we could only get the first run of them,” said Little Tim, “we’d just make a fortune. The big hotels down the bay haven’t had any this season, except those they’ve sent to Boston and Portland for. They’d take the whole boat-load.”

Little Tim was, in fact, the greatest optimist to be found around Grand Island. Perhaps it was because he knew less about signs and indications of fish, and trusted only to his own hopes. The old salts shook their heads and agreed it was surely an off year. But, wherever the Surprise cruised, if there was not a sea on, and the yacht was sailing slowly enough to admit of it, Little Tim had a line overboard, trolling far astern. The jig was baited with a white strip of fish, to catch the eye of any hungry mackerel that might have ventured into the bay, despite the predictions of the islanders.

Then, early one afternoon, Little Tim’s faith was rewarded. They were sailing lazily along, with a light west wind, in the lee of the small islands back of Hawk Island, some six or seven miles below Southport. Little Tim, seated on the after-rail, had his usual line astern, and the crew had had their usual jokes at his expense—especially when, now and then, a tug at the line, which had set Tim’s heart jumping, had proved to be only a floating bunch of seaweed, greatly to the chagrin of Tim, and to the amusement of the others.

There came a smart tug at the line, and Little Tim was up like a rabbit out of its hole. He seized the line and began hauling in rapidly.