At half past eight that night Camp Spurling was dark and quiet.
Everybody was asleep but Percy Whittington. He lay in his bunk, wide
awake and thinking hard, and his thoughts were far from pleasant.
His face was still sore as a result of his battle with Jabe. His jaw
ached dully from its encounter with Jim Spurling's fist. But worse than
any physical pain was the smart of his wounded pride.
Life in that cramped, tarry, fishy cabin was hard enough for a fellow
who had lived at the best hotels and had the cream of everything. This
painful wrenching of dollars out of the sea told sorely on his tender
skin and undeveloped muscles. Yet beneath the surface he had enough of
his father's stubbornness to make him stick doggedly to his lot,
disagreeable though it was, if only he could have felt that he was
receiving the consideration due to the son of John P. Whittington.
Spurling's blow was the straw that had broken the camel's back. Percy
had endured it just as long as he could. He had reached his limit.
"I hate the whole bunch," he thought, bitterly. "Everybody's down on me,
even to the dog. I won't stand it any longer. I'm going to get out
to-night."
His mind once made up, he promptly began planning. He decided to take
one of the boats and row up to Isle au Haut. It was a good ten miles to
Head Harbor, but he felt confident he could reach it long before
daybreak. Leaving the boat there, he would tramp six miles up the island
and catch the early steamer for Stonington. Beyond that his plans did
not go.
A flicker of light from the dying fire in the stove fell on the face of
the alarm-clock ticking tinnily on the shelf. It was quarter to nine.
Percy woke to the need of acting at once. At midnight Filippo would get
up to make coffee and warm the baked beans and corn-bread for Spurling
and Stevens, who were to start for the hake-grounds not far from one. By
that time he must be miles away--too far, at any rate, to be overtaken.
Overtaken? He smiled sardonically. Not one of them, he knew, would lift
a finger to prevent him from going. He could just as well set out in the
daytime. But his pride shrank from the relieved faces and grudging
farewells that would signalize his departure. No; it would be far better
to slip away by night, without saying anything to anybody. But his going
must be unobserved. It would be humiliating to be detected.
Cautiously he crept out of his bunk and pulled on his clothes, stopping
apprehensively to listen for the regular breathing of his sleeping
mates. But no one woke. The dying embers snapped in the stove. Nemo,
slumbering on his canvas, stirred uneasily. Yet, so stealthy were
Percy's movements, not even the dog's keen ears telegraphed them to his
alert brain.
A few minutes sufficed for the deserter to dress and crowd his more
valuable belongings into a suit-case. Noiselessly he lifted the latch
and stepped outside.
It was a lovely summer night. A southwest breeze barely rippled the
sheet of sapphire under the radiant stars. Tiny wavelets broke crisply
on the pebbled beach. From the boulders that fringed the point came the
drowsy murmur of the surf. A sheep bleated plaintively high above in the
pasture; while far over the ocean to the south floated the faint, weird
cry of a gull.
The tide was more than half down, and dory and pea-pod lay high and dry
on the shingle. The sloop rode at her mooring in the cove. Percy
hesitated. Her engine would take him to Head Harbor in less than two
hours, and save him a long, hard row. But no. Her absence would
interfere seriously with pulling the trawls and lose Spurling & Company
a good many dollars. Bitter though his feelings were, he did not wish to
cause financial loss. He decided on the pea-pod.
Ten feet of gravel lay between her stern and the water. Grasping her
gunwale, Percy dragged her inch by inch gratingly down over the shingle,
every sound magnified to his ears by his dread of discovery. He worked
with the caution of an escaping convict. Now and then he glanced
nervously toward the cabin, but from its gloomy interior came no sign
that he was seen or heard. Apparently Spurling and his mates were
sleeping the sleep of the dead. At the end of five minutes the pea-pod
was afloat.
Percy tossed in his suit-case and clambered hastily aboard. There was no
time to waste. He wished to put as much salt water as possible between
himself and Tarpaulin Island before midnight.
Shipping his oars, he began to row, using infinite care lest creaking
rowlock or splashing blade betray him. Gradually he drew out of the
cove, and there was less need of caution. As he rounded Brimstone Point
he cast one last, long look at the cabin, square and black and silent.
The remembrance of his discomforts and indignities of the last three
weeks surged over him. He shook his fist at his vanishing prison.
"Good riddance!" he muttered. "Hope I'll never set eyes again on you or
the bunch inside you!"
He bent to his oars with redoubled vigor, and presently a high boulder
shut out the camp. In five minutes more he had rounded the point and was
pulling north on the heaving Atlantic swell.
The tide was running out strongly. It came swirling round Brimstone in
rips and eddies. Percy had never before realized that its force was so
great. He made a hasty calculation, and was very unpleasantly surprised
to discover that he would have to pull against it for fully ninety
minutes ere it turned to run the other way. He began to feel less sure
of reaching Head Harbor before daybreak.
"Guess I've bitten off an all-night job," thought he, disconsolately.
But there was no help for it--unless he desired to slink back to the
camp he had just abandoned with such thief-like stealth. Percy set his
teeth.
"Not while I've got arms to pull with!"
Before buckling to his task he glanced about. On his left rose the
familiar shores of Tarpaulin. Miles to his right and almost due west the
twin lights on Matinicus Rock twinkled faintly across the sea; while
behind him, a little to the west of north, shone the single star of
Saddleback, a good four leagues away. The dark-blue summer sky, unmarred
by the slightest cloud-fleck, was brilliant with constellations.
It was a night of nights for an astronomer or a poet, but Percy was
neither. He had no eyes for the splendor that overhung him. Ten long,
watery miles must be traversed before he could beach his pea-pod in the
little haven behind Eastern Head. Would his arms stand the strain?
His muscles were harder and stronger than they had been in the middle of
June. Likewise, his grit had strengthened with his physique.
"I'll make Head Harbor before light, if it kills me!"
Turning, he scanned the starry sky, and by means of his scanty knowledge
of astronomy identified the Great Dipper. Its pointers located the North
Star. Under it he knew lay Isle au Haut, now a low, black ridge on the
horizon, east of Saddleback Light.
Percy settled himself on the thwart, steeled his muscles, and gripped
the oars harder. Short as his inaction had been, he could see that the
tide had swept him back a trifle. It was going to be no picnic, that
pull in to Eastern Head!
He threw all his strength into his arms, and again the boat made headway
against the tide. By degrees Tarpaulin Island fell back. Before long it
lay behind him--as he planned, forever. His anger still burned hot
against Spurling and his associates.
"Treated me like a dog, the beggars! Well, who cares for 'em? Let 'em
sweat out their dollars catching fish and lobsters! I'll get my cash
some easier way."
The thought of money brought back the memory of his father, and with it
a faint uneasiness. Up to this time, engrossed in making his escape,
Percy had not troubled to look beyond the immediate future. Isle au Haut
had bounded his mental as well as his optical horizon. But after that
what?
Stonington ... Rockland ... Boston ... New York ... two months of living
on his acquaintances ... and then--John P. Whittington!
Percy could picture the expression on the millionaire's features when he
learned that his son had broken his promise and sneaked away from
Tarpaulin Island, like a thief in the night. That grim face with its
bulldog jaw was one any erring son well might dread, and particularly
such a son as he had thus far been. John Whittington had told Percy
plainly that the island was his last chance, and, whatever faults the
millionaire might have, he was not the man to break his word.
For the young deserter it was liable to be out of the frying-pan and
into the fire with a vengeance.
Percy had been in the frying-pan three weeks; life there, though not
pleasant, had been endurable.
At any rate, he had seen the worst of it; but for his wounded pride, he
could have schooled himself to withstand its hardships, for they would
have been only temporary.
What the fire might have in store for him he did not know; but one thing
he did know, and that was John P. Whittington!
Not unimaginably, there might be far worse places than Tarpaulin Island.
The lad's elation at his easily earned freedom vanished. The snap and
vim went out of his strokes, and his speed slackened perceptibly. Though
he still dragged doggedly at the oars, there was no longer any heart in
his pulling.
Westward, almost in line with the beacon on Matinicus Rock, grew a fairy
pyramid of twinkling lights--the Portland boat, bound for St. John.
Larger, higher, brighter, nearer, until they burned, a sparkling
triangle of white and red and green. Soon the steamer crossed his bow
not far to the north. He could hear the rush of foam and the throbbing
of her screw. Gradually she passed eastward and blended again with the
horizon.
Slower and weaker fell Percy's blades, until the pea-pod was barely
moving. The ebb, still running against the boat with undiminished
strength, almost sufficed to hold her stationary. But, though the lad's
muscles were relaxed and listless, a fierce battle was being fought out
in his troubled brain.
Should he keep on or should he go back?
Go back? Return to two months more of the uncongenial drudgery from
which he had been so glad to escape? Besides, he could hardly hope to
drag the pea-pod up on the beach and regain his bunk without attracting
the notice of somebody in the cabin. He could imagine the talk of the
others when he was out of hearing.
"Started to run away, but got cold feet and sneaked back again. Hadn't
the sand to carry it through! We'd better sack him when the four weeks
are up."
His futile midnight sally would only result in added humiliation.
But what if he kept on? Already more than an hour had passed. It would
not be many minutes now before the tide would turn. The ebb would cease
running out, and the flood would set just as strongly the other way,
bearing him in toward Isle au Haut. To row with it would be an easy
matter.
Head Harbor before daybreak. Boston or New York the morning after. Two
months or more of easy living in the same old way. After that the
deluge, _alias_ John P. Whittington.
Isle au Haut or Tarpaulin Island, which should it be? Beads of sweat
started on Percy's face as he wrestled out his problem.
Far more was involved than the mere question of going north or south. He
had come to the parting of the ways. His whole life hung in the balance.
Floating in that frail skiff on the uneasy swell, he realized that
everything depended on the direction in which he swung the prow. His
future lay in his oar-blades.
Under the horizon north and west stretched the coast. He closed his eyes
and saw a vision of the feverish city life he knew and loved so
well--lighted streets thronged with gay crowds, human banks between
which flowed rivers of velvet-shod automobiles and clanging cars; hotel
lobbies and theaters and restaurants alive with men and women who had
never stooped to toil; all the luxury and glare and glitter that wait
upon modern wealth. This was what he was fitting himself for. What did
it all amount to?
He opened his eyes and came back to the little boat, rocking gently on
the undulating swells; to the lonely glory of the peaceful ocean, arched
by the starry sky. A light breeze was beginning to blow from the
southwest, dispersing the thin silver mist that overhung the water.
Percy glanced at his watch; it was quarter past ten, almost time for the
ebb to cease and the flood to begin.
Should he keep on or go back? He must decide quickly. Already his arms
were tired, and he was more than two miles north of the island. The
longer he delayed his decision the harder would be his pull against the
flood if he turned.
Minutes passed as he pondered, barely dipping his oars. It was slack
tide now and the pea-pod just held her own. Down on the breeze floated a
distant, melancholy note, the voice of the whistling buoy south of
Roaring Bull Ledge, two miles from Isle au Haut. Was it an invitation or
a warning?
Slowly at first, then faster, the stern of the boat swung round. The
tide had turned. The flood would carry him north with but little effort
on his part. Should he let himself go with it?
Percy's indecision vanished. The tide of his own life had turned, like
that of the ocean; slow and doubtful though the change had been, the
current was at last setting the other way. Grasping the oar-handles
tightly, he whirled the head of the pea-pod southward and started again
for Tarpaulin Island.