And Randall proudly and emphatically added, "That's what."
Peter's boat was by no means so despicable a craft as might have been supposed from the comments of the neighbors. She had been the dinghy of a large sailing ship, and was stoutly built for work in lumpy water. The ship had been wrecked on the coast, and the dinghy had been given to Peter in payment for his services in helping to save her cargo. The first thing that the boy did was to put a centre-board in the craft, and to rig her with a stout mast and a mainsail, cat-boat fashion. Then he announced that in his opinion he had a boat that would stay out when some more pretentious vessels would have to go home. Of course she was not very speedy, but for that Peter did not care a great deal. In light weather most of the fishermen could put him in their wake, but when they had to reef he could carry all sail, and drop them to leeward as if they were so many corks. Peter and Randall now went to work to "brace up" the Petrel, as she was called. They put some extra ribs in her, and built a small deck before the mast. Then they put an extra row of reef points in the mainsail, and set up a pair of extra heavy shrouds. Peter also put a socket in the taffrail for a rowlock, so that in case of having to run before a heavy sea an oar could be shipped to steer with.
"You know she'll work a good deal better with an oar in running off than with the rudder," he said.
And Randall sagely answered, "That's what."
By the time the September gales were due the Petrel was ready for business, and whenever the weather looked threatening she was seen pounding her way through the choppy seas near the mouth of the bay. No wrecks occurred, however. Indeed, no vessels of any kind approached the harbor, and the two young men were hard put to it to endure the ridicule that greeted them on their return from each profitless cruise. But Peter pluckily declared that their time would come, and Randall repeated his unshaken opinion that that was what.
Men are still talking about the storm that visited that coast in October of that year. It was the worst that had occurred within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Even old Tommy Ryddam, who had been around the Horn three times, had weathered the Cape of Good Hope, and had been as far north as Upernavik, said, "I 'ain't never seed it blow no harder." And that was the first time that Tommy had ever made such an admission. It began on a Wednesday night. The day had been oppressively warm for that time of year, and as a result a light fog had set in early in the morning. But before sundown the wind began to come in cold sharp puffs out of the southeast, and the fog was soon cut into swirling shreds and sent skimming and twisting away over the yellow land. Its disappearance revealed a hard brassy-looking sky, and a gray sea running from the horizon in great oily folds that broke upon the rocks outside of Porgy Point and Mullet Head with a noise like the booming of distant guns, and a smother of snowy spray.
"I reckon this'll be the gale that'll bring us a job," said Peter, as he hoisted the mainsail on his boat.
"I shouldn't wonder," said Randall; "but it's going to be a corker."
His slangy prediction proved to be true. He and Peter cruised around inside the mouth of the bay for an hour after sunset; but the great breadth and weight of the swell that came brimming in between the two headlands and the fast-increasing power of the wind sent them to shelter for the night. In the morning they beat down under the lee of the easterly shore, and landed on Mullet Head. Hauling up the boat, they walked to the highest point of observation. So fierce was the wind that they were forced to lie down. The sea was an appalling sight. It was running in great serried ridges of gray and white that hurled themselves against the land in mountainous breakers.
"We couldn't get out there if a dozen wrecks came," said Peter.