“Do you know the fishing-grounds, Jack?” inquired Henry Burns.
“Only in a general way,” replied Harvey. “But we’ll follow the others, and get in somewhere near them.”
They stood out of the harbour and headed down the coast of the island, which extended seaward thus for some four miles. Harvey, at the wheel, was studying carefully a chart of the waters; Henry Burns and Tom and Bob, arrayed in oilskins, were busily engaged in “shucking” clams into some wooden buckets.
Presently an unexpected hail came across the water to them from a sailboat they had overhauled.
“Why, hello,” called Harvey, and added to his companions, “Here’s luck. It’s Will Hackett, Jeff’s brother. You know Jeff, who carries the mails in his packet.”
“What are you chaps doing way down here? Aren’t you lost?” asked the other, a stalwart, red-faced youth, who, with a crew composed of one small boy, was navigating a rough-looking sloop that looked as though it had seen a score of hard summers.
Harvey explained.
“Well, you won’t get rich,” said Will Hackett, bringing his craft in to head along with them. “But I’ll show you where to fish. The depth of water makes all the difference around here. They call me lucky, but there’s something in knowing where to drop a line. I’m down only for the day, but you follow me around and you’ll know where to go next time.”
When they had told him of the adventure of the night before, Will Hackett slapped a heavy fist down upon his knee.
“Good for you!” he cried. “So you’ve run foul of old Jim Martel, have you? Why, I offered to thrash him and his two boys only three weeks ago, for hanging around after dark where I had a trawl set. They come from over eastward, and quarrel with everybody; and I wouldn’t trust one of them with a rotten rope. You’d better keep away from them, though. He’s got a hot temper, has Jim Martel.”