“We’ll be off San Clemente at dawn, Ed,” said Clem that evening. He and Ed Davis were eating fried barracuda while Tom conned the helm. “It’ll be watch and watch all night, and we’ll have to keep him awake and working till he drops.”
“Haze him, eh?”
“Haze him until he’s darned near dead!” And Clem compressed his lips. “Ed, it’s an awful thing to do—but by golly it’s a whole lot more awful to think o’ him breakin’ poor old Ma Saunders’ heart!”
“We’ll break him!” said Ed, nodding as he spoke. “We’ll kill or cure, Clem—and I ain’t right sure which it’ll be.”
Neither was Clem, unfortunately.
V.
Dawn came upon the sea—and fog.
The Sadie was somewhere off San Clemente, that desolate, rocky, almost unknown island. The dense fog hid everything from view.
Clem, who would be on duty until eight o’clock, was seated beside the pilot house, cutting off yellowtail heads to use as bait for jewfish. The Sadie lay motionless on the oily waters, swinging listlessly to the swell of the channel. Up in the bows was a huddled, miserable figure—Tom Saunders, asleep at last.