When belated icebergs hang offshore a watch must be kept on the nets, lest they be torn away or ground to pulp by the ice.
“The wind’s haulin’ round a bit, b’y,” said Donald’s father, one day in spring, when the lad was twelve years old. “I think ’twill freshen and blow inshore afore night.”
“They’s a scattered pan of ice out there, father,” said Donald, “and three small bergs.”
“Iss, b’y, I knows,” said North. “’Tis that I’m afeared of. If the wind changes a bit more, ’twill jam the ice agin the rocks. Does you think the net is safe?”
It was quite evident that the net was in danger, but since Donald had first shown signs of fearing the sea, Job North had not compelled him to go out upon perilous undertakings. He had fallen into the habit of leaving the boy to choose his own course, believing that in time he would master himself.
“I think, zur,” said Donald, steadily, “the net should come in.”
“’Twould be wise,” said North. “Come, b’y, we’ll go fetch it.”
So they put forth in the punt. There was a fair, fresh wind, and with this filling the little brown sail, they were soon driven out from the quiet water of the harbor to the heaving sea itself. Great swells rolled in from the open and broke furiously against the coast rocks.
The punt ran alongshore for two miles keeping well away from the breakers. When at last she came to that point where Job North’s net was set, Donald furled the sail and his father took up the oars.
“’Twill be a bit hard to land,” he said.