Conversation lagged on the _Barracouta_ as she jogged smoothly over the
starlit sea toward Tarpaulin Island. By the dim light of two lanterns,
Jim, Throppy, Budge, and Filippo were busy baiting the trawls with
herring and coiling them into the tubs in the standing-room. Percy had
withdrawn from his companions and lay across the heel of the bowsprit on
the decked-over bow.
He had stanched the flow of blood from his nose, but it still pained
him, and he was otherwise bruised and badly shaken by the buffets from
Jabe's knobby fists. Judged by Percy's feelings, Jabe must have been all
knuckles. Percy had to acknowledge that only Spurling's opportune
appearance had saved him from being pounded unmercifully. But his pride
had been injured far more than his physical body. It seemed improbable
that he would ever see Jabe again, but he determined that some time,
somewhere, and somehow the freckled lad should pay dearly for the slight
he had put upon the house of Whittington.
It was a few minutes past eleven when the sloop's engine stopped and she
glided up to her mooring in Sprowl's Cove. Five sleepy boys tumbled into
the dory and paddled ashore. The Fourth was over and the routine of
workaday life would begin again for them early the next morning.
Nemo dashed back and forth on the beach, barking a furious welcome and
springing upon his masters indiscriminately. Unwittingly he leaped at
Percy and in playful mood closed his teeth over the lad's right thumb,
sprained and aching from the fight.
"Get out, you cur!" exclaimed Whittington.
He launched an aimless, vindictive kick in the general direction of the
gamboling beast. As often happens with random blows, it went too true.
Nemo ki-yied up the beach on three legs.
"What are you about, Whittington?" burst out Lane, angrily. Among the
entire five he was the fondest of the dog.
Percy was ashamed and sorry that he had hurt the animal, but Lane's
eruption of temper smothered his repentant feelings.
"He bit my thumb," he muttered, sullenly.
"You know well enough he was just in sport. Don't you kick him again!
You hear me!"
Percy mumbled an indistinct reply. As soon as the cabin was unlocked he
turned into his bunk, without a word to anybody. For him the Fourth had
been anything but a holiday.
Before going to sleep, Spurling outlined their work for the morrow.
"Throppy, you and I'll try our luck on Martingale Bank. It's only a
half-mile northwest of the island, and sometimes you can get a big catch
there. I've been saving it for a time like this. Budge, you and Percy
ought to get at least a couple of hundred pounds out of those
lobster-traps. They'll have been down two days and should yield some
good-sized ones. Set the clock at four, Filippo! We'll be lazy for
once."
Percy's sleep was broken. He dreamed of being chased along the main
street of Vinalhaven by a crowd of small boys shooting at him with Roman
candles. He dodged into an open doorway, only to be driven out by a
giant with Jabe's face and a half-dozen pairs of arms the fists of which
were studded with a double allowance of knuckles. He was fast being
pounded to a pulp when the alarm-clock went off. He woke in a cold
sweat.
Lying with closed eyes, he pretended to be asleep while Jim and Throppy
finished a hasty breakfast. Soon the exhaust of the _Barracouta_
proclaimed that they were on their way to Martingale Bank. Percy dozed,
but remained conscious of Filippo's culinary operations.
At five Lane turned out, according to schedule. He shook Percy
vigorously.
"Wake up, Whittington! Breakfast!"
"Don't care for mine yet."
"Aren't you going out with me to haul those traps?"
"No!" retorted Percy, sourly.
"Suit yourself!" was Lane's brief response.
Percy knew that Budge would rather go without him. He heard him give a
whistle as he examined Nemo's leg; the animal cringed and whimpered.
"Poor fellow! Too bad!" sympathized Lane.
The remark was evidently intended for Percy's ears. At least the lad
took it so. He felt sorry if Nemo was really hurt. Lane went out, and
Percy turned over for another nap. When he next woke it was almost seven
and the cabin was empty. He got up and dressed leisurely.
Looking out of the window, he saw Filippo digging clams on the flats
across the cove. That meant chowder for dinner, a dish he particularly
detested. He made a wry mouth and turned to the larder, but could
discover nothing but some cold fish and fried potatoes. The fire had
gone out, and he determined to await Filippo's return before
breakfasting.
Deliberately scratching a match, he lighted a cigarette, thereby
breaking the rule against smoking in the cabin. Then he stretched
himself out on his bunk and began reading _The Three Musketeers_.
Filippo returned before he had finished his chapter. The Italian's eyes
grew round at the tobacco smoke.
"You know Misser Jim say no smoking!"
"Mister Jim isn't here now. You mind your own business and I'll mind
mine. Get me some breakfast, will you?"
"Fire gone out while you sleep and everything grow cold. You bring some
wood and I build another."
To Percy's still overstrained nerves Filippo's way of putting the matter
suggested a condition on which the meal depended rather than a request.
"Bring it yourself!" he growled. "I'm no servant! I don't shag kindling
for any Dago!"
At this insult Filippo's olive cheeks became quite pale. Into his eyes
flashed a look Whittington had never seen there before. For an instant
he almost feared that the young foreigner was about to seize a knife
and spring upon him. Then the look passed and Filippo's color came back.
"All right!" he laughed. "No wood, no breakfast!"
Stepping out to the fish-house, he began shelling the clams he had just
dug. Percy vacillated between pride and hunger. Hunger won.
[Illustration]
"I didn't mean that, Filippo," he repented. "I beg your pardon. I'll get
the wood."
He did, and Filippo heated up the fish and potatoes. Percy tried to
engage him in conversation, but was able to extract only monosyllables
in return. Evidently his hasty words still rankled in the Italian's
breast.
Breakfast over, Percy took his book and started for the beacon. It was a
beautiful July morning. The sea rippled blue and sparkling to the
horizon. Budge was hauling his traps on the ledges around the base of
Brimstone. A half-mile farther out Jim and Throppy were busy at their
trawls. Conditions for fishing could not have been more ideal.
For a time Percy tried to read; but somehow Dumas's heroes failed to
keep his interest. The sense of contrast between his own idleness and
his mates' industry took all the pleasure out of his book. He tossed it
aside and stood up. A motor-boat was rounding the eastern point. Percy
recognized her as the _Calista_. Ordinarily he would have been glad to
exchange chaff with Captain Higgins and Brad while they dipped the
lobsters out of the car. This morning, however, he felt too much
disgruntled to joke with anybody.
A hawk with a flapping fish clutched in its talons scaled in from the
south and disappeared among the evergreens. Percy suspected that there
was a nest somewhere in the scrub growth. The search for it promised
just enough of novelty to keep him interested. Making a detour around
the north shore, so as to keep out of sight of Captain Higgins, he began
hunting for the nest in the tops of the low trees.
Two hours went by fruitlessly. It was hot and breathless in the close
woods. Despite his dislike for clam chowder, Percy found himself
growing hungry. At last he gave up the search in disgust, and started
back for camp by the shortest route.
As he emerged into the cool breeze on the summit of the high southern
shore he saw that the _Calista_ still lay at anchor in the cove. Lane
was alongside her in the pea-pod, while Jim and Throppy were rounding
Brimstone Point in the _Barracouta_, with the dory in tow. The keenness
of Percy's appetite made him careless of whether he was seen or not. He
took the trail leading along the edge of the pasture. Directly below him
the bank broke off in an abrupt dirt slope seventy-five feet high,
overhung by a brow of sagging turf.
Behind and above the cabin the slope was unusually steep. As Percy
reached this point his eye was caught by a smoke-feather on the southern
horizon. Steamers always interested him. Stopping, and shading his eyes
with his hand, he gazed intently at the distant vessel. The _Barracouta_
was now just entering the cove; the thudding of her exhaust echoed
loudly against the barrier of earth beneath his feet.
The rapid detonations, beating upon Percy's ear-drums, drowned until too
late the quick pad-pad of hoofs from the opposite direction. Engrossed
in watching the steamer, he had forgotten everything else. A nasal,
threatening bleat, rising suddenly behind, roused him to a sense of
danger. He whirled about.
Charging straight at him, head down, only a few feet distant, old Aries,
the ram, spurned the turf with drumming hoofs.
Behind lay the treeless pasture; in front the bank fell away steeply.
Instant flight along the trail was Percy's only resort. He turned to
run.
As he jammed his heel down hard to gain momentum for his start, the
overhanging sod broke suddenly. His foot slumped, and before he could
recover himself his foe was upon him.
Biff!
Struck from behind with the force of a battering-ram, Percy shot over
the brink. As he fell he described a partial somersault, landing on
hands and knees half-way down the slope. His momentum carried him heels
over head, and he rolled and tumbled the rest of the way, bringing up in
a heap at the bottom.
[Illustration]
He scrambled to his feet, wild with rage. Peals of mirth from the cove
reached his ears. His mates and Captain Higgins, as soon as they saw
that he was not seriously hurt, had doubled up with laughter. Their
outburst of merriment increased Percy's fury.
A triumphant bleat resounded above. Outlined clearly against a
background of blue sky, legs well apart and hoofs braced stoutly, Aries
stood on the brink, gazing proudly down upon his overthrown enemy.
White with wrath, Percy groped for a stone and launched it viciously. It
just grazed the ram's head. The laughter from the cove redoubled.
A new idea struck Percy. Darting into the cabin, he ran out with Uncle
Tom's shot-gun.
"None of that, Whittington!" bellowed Spurling.
Heedless of the shouted command, Percy clapped the gun to his shoulder
and pulled first one trigger and then the other. Click! Click! Both
barrels were empty. He might have remembered that so careful a fellow as
Jim would never leave a loaded gun standing about. But there were a
half-dozen shells in a box on the shelf. Laying the gun down, he rushed
back into the cabin.
Spurling realized what Percy was after. Springing into the dory, he
sculled rapidly to the beach. He had almost reached the shore when
Whittington dashed out of the door with the shells in his hands. He
crammed two into the breech, while the ram gazed haughtily down upon
him.
"Put that gun down!" shouted Jim as the dory grounded and he leaped out
on the beach.
Up went the weapon to Percy's shoulder. His finger sought the trigger,
but no report followed. The ram had vanished and the sky-line was
unbroken.
Before the exasperated lad could decide on his next step Jim was at his
side, clutching at stock and barrel with strong hands.
"Give it to me!"
There was a short scuffle, and the gun was wrenched from Percy's grasp.
"Let me alone, Spurling! I'll kill that brute before he's ten minutes
older!"
"Oh no, you won't!" replied Jim, coolly.
Breaking open the weapon, he extracted the shells and dropped them into
his pocket.
"How many of these did you bring out?"
"Never you mind!"
"Oh, well, I know how many I had. I can count 'em. They're too dangerous
to be lying around loose where a hothead like you can get hold of 'em."
He took the gun into the cabin. In half a minute he was out again.
"Two missing! Hand 'em over, Whittington!"
"I won't!"
Three steps, marvelously quick for so deliberate a fellow, brought
Spurling to the other's side. An iron grip compressed Percy's shoulder.
"Will you give 'em to me or shall I have to take 'em? Say quick!"
The strong, unwavering grasp brought Whittington to his senses.
Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he brought out the shells. "Here
they are!"
Jim bestowed them carefully inside his coat. His manner changed
instantly.
"Now, Percy," said he, "pull yourself together! I don't wonder you were
sore at the ram. What you got was enough to rile anybody; it would have
set me hunting rocks myself. But you'll have to draw the line a long way
this side of a gun. You can't blame the brute; it's his nature. And you
can't blame us for laughing--we couldn't help it; you'd do the same in
our place. The thing's over now. Forget it! Let's eat a good dinner,
and all take hold on the fish this afternoon. We've made a whopping big
catch, not much under three thousand pounds, I should say--enough, at
any rate, to keep us all busy till dark. Let's bury the hatchet, handle
and all, so deep that it'll never be dug up again! Shake on it!"
Whittington ignored Jim's outstretched hand. Trembling with humiliation
and anger, he had all he could do to keep the tears from his eyes.
Turning away without replying, he walked eastward along the beach to the
ledges. He clambered over these until he gained a spot out of sight of
the cove, then threw himself down to think. His hunger had disappeared;
food would have choked him.
There he lay till the middle of the afternoon, smoking moodily. When he
returned to camp at three he had decided on his course of action.
All the others were aboard the _Barracouta_, at work on the fish.