Half past twelve found the _Barracouta_ again at her mooring in Sprowl's
Cove. Throppy and Filippo were landed, with instructions to haul the
lobster-traps the next morning if the fog would allow them to do it
safely. Without waiting for dinner, Jim, Budge, and Percy started in the
sloop for Rockland to dispose of their catch. They had no ice, so it was
necessary to get the two swordfish to market as soon as possible.
"Thicker 'n a dungeon, isn't it?" said Jim as they rounded Brimstone
Point and headed northwest into the fog. "Lucky we've got a good
compass! Without it we wouldn't stand the ghost of a show of getting to
Rockland. We'd pile up on some ledge before we'd gone half-way."
Shaping their course carefully by the chart, and keeping on the alert to
avoid passing vessels and steamers, they drove the _Barracouta_ at top
speed. Ten miles from Tarpaulin the increased height of the ocean swells
told that they were crossing the shoal rocky ground of Snippershan. Five
miles farther on they left behind the clanging bell on Bay Ledge and
soon passed the red whistler south of Hurricane. A straight course from
this brought them at five o'clock to the bell east of Monroe's Island,
and before six they were alongside the steamboat wharf at Rockland.
"Look out for her, boys!" directed Jim. "I want to get up-town before
the markets close."
He landed, and started on the run for Main Street. In twenty-five
minutes he was back.
"Sold 'em!" he announced. "Sixty dollars!"
A little later an express-wagon with two men drove down on the wharf.
The swordfish were hoisted from the _Barracouta_, the agreed price paid,
and the team hurried away.
"Not a bad day's work," said Budge.
"Fair! Now let's go somewhere and get a good supper!"
They found a restaurant on Main Street, unpretentious but clean, and sat
down at one of its small tables. Two months ago Percy would have turned
up his nose at the idea of eating in such a place; now he looked forward
to a meal there with eager anticipation. Jim winked at him, then scanned
the bill of fare, and turned to Budge.
"What'll you have, Roger?" he asked. "I see they've some nice fish
here."
"Fish!" almost screamed Lane. "Not on your life! I've eaten so much fish
the last two months that I'm ashamed to look a hake or haddock in the
face. None for mine! Beefsteak and onions are good enough for me."
Jim glanced at Percy. Percy nodded.
"Three of the same," said Jim to the waiter.
They starved until the viands came on, then turned to. Fifteen minutes
later the three orders were duplicated and despatched without undue
delay.
"Try it again, Budge?"
"I'd like to," returned Lane, truthfully, "but I can't."
Jim broke a five-dollar bill at the cashier's desk, and they filed out.
"Sorry Throppy and Filippo aren't with us," said Percy.
"So am I; but we'll even it up with 'em somehow, later."
After an evening with Sherlock Holmes at the movies the three went down
to the _Barracouta_ and turned in. The next morning the fog was not so
thick. They started at sunrise, and reached the island before eleven
o'clock. At noon Stevens and the Italian came in with a good catch of
lobsters.
And now came some of the most enjoyable weeks of the summer. The five
boys were thoroughly acquainted and on the best of terms. Their work had
been reduced to a frictionless routine that left them more leisure than
at first. Lane was treasurer and bookkeeper for the concern, and his
reports, made every Saturday night, showed that returns, both from the
fish and from the lobsters, were running ahead of their estimates at the
beginning of the season.
Percy, in particular, was learning to enjoy the free, out-of-door life,
so different from anything to which he had been accustomed. At the close
of pleasant afternoons, when a land breeze had driven the fog to sea and
the work of the day was finished, he liked to take his Caesar or Virgil
up to the beacon on Brimstone, and lie at ease on the cushion of wiry
grass, while he followed the great general through his Gallic campaigns
or traced the wanderings of pious AEneas over a sea that could have been
no bluer or more sparkling than that which surrounded the island.
Sometimes it pleased him to explore the sheep-paths through the scrubby
evergreens with gray wool-tags clinging to the branch ends, and to
emerge at last from the tangle of dwarfed, twisted trunks on the
northeast point. There he would throw himself at full length on the
summit of the bluff, with the surf in his ears and the cool, salt breeze
on his face, and watch the sun flashing from the brown glass toggles
near the white lobster-buoys; or, lifting his gaze to the horizon beyond
the purple deep, he would trace the low, rolling humps of the mainland
hills, the cleft range of Isle au Haut, or the heights of Mount Desert.
But no studies or scenery caused him to forget his daily trip with
sweater and rockweed.
The glades on the southern edge of the woods were overgrown with
raspberry-bushes. When Filippo's daily stint about the camp was
finished, he visited these spots with his pail; and while the season
lasted, heaping bowls of red, dead-ripe fruit or saucers of sweet
preserve varied their customary fare. There were blueberries, too, in
abundance, and these also made a welcome addition to their table.
"Boys," said Lane, one morning, "I'm meat hungry. I can still taste that
beefsteak we got the other night at Rockland. Think of the ton or so of
mutton chops running loose on top of this island, while we poor Crusoes
are starving to death on the beach!"
"No need of waiting until you're in the last stages, Budge," observed
Jim. "Uncle Tom told me we could have a lamb whenever we wanted one. All
we've got to do is to kill it."
A silence settled over the camp. The boys looked at one another. Nobody
hankered for the job.
"Budge spoke first," suggested Throppy.
"I'm no butcher," returned Lane. "Come to think of it, I don't care much
for lamb, after all."
"Now see here!" said Jim. "What's the use of beating round the bush?
We're all crazy for fresh meat. The only thing to do is to draw lots to
see who'll sacrifice his feelings and do the shooting. We'll settle that
now."
He cut four toothpicks into uneven lengths.
"Filippo's not in this."
He had noticed that the Italian's olive face had grown pale.
"Now come up and draw like men!"
The lot fell to Lane.
"You're it, Budge! Don't be a quitter! There's the gun and here's our
last shell. Don't miss!"
Lane's lips tightened. But he took the gun, put in the shell, and
started up over the bank.
"Don't follow me," he flung back. "I'll do this alone."