By noon they had over twenty, with a few barracuda and skipjacks. Then Clem hauled about for San Clemente, looped the wheel, and settled down with the others to lunch.
“When you get the dishes washed up, Tom,” said Ed Davis, “you’d better clean one of them barracuda for supper. Then give that cabin a good cleaning and then——”
“Say, you fellers are almighty fresh!” said Tom Saunders, feeling his black-and-blue eyes tenderly. “How long is this thing goin’ to last?”
“Until we get ready to quit,” said Davis, grinning pleasantly. “Your proud spirit needs a whole lot o’ chastening, friend Tom.”
“Well, what’s the idea? What have I ever done to you guys?”
“Nothing,” broke in Clem coldly. “But you’re becoming a pretty worthless sort of citizen, Tom. If I had a father and mother like yours, I’d try and make something of myself, instead of hanging around——”
“Yes, you’re a beaut!” sneered Tom. “’Cause you’re a city guy, now, you’re all stuck up, hey?”
“I don’t think you quite understand.” Clem smiled slightly. “You’re out of proportion with the real facts of life, Tom. Your outlook is warped. Instead of seeing things as they are, you see them from the viewpoint of your pool-room and saloon friends. Well, when we get back to Pedro you’ll have forgotten all your dreams of being a tough fighter and gambler and drinker. You’re really such a splendid chap at bottom, Tom——”
With a snarl of fury, Tom Saunders leaped to his feet. Unobserved, he had worked himself into position by the rack holding the fish gaffs. With the rapidity of lightning, he seized one of the ten-foot poles and made a vicious lunge for Clem.
Clem ducked. The curved, sharp, unbarbed steel missed his shoulder by a hair’s breadth and tore through his flannel shirt. It would have gone through his flesh quite as easily.