With the completion of the aerial cableway and the clearing of the
surface of the rock the Hood Island construction camp became a very
busy place. A score or more of men were to be seen on the big rock
whenever the waves were not piling up on top of it (as always happened
when a storm came in) and the donkey engine that operated the cableway
was puffing and snorting from daylight until darkness settled down.
Jack and Ray found that their duties increased with the rush of work
also, for besides their tasks in Mr. Warner’s office there were
numerous other small jobs about the camp that they could accomplish.
But for all that they had plenty of time on their hands to roam about
the rocky shores of the island, or take short trips in the dory that
belonged to Captain Eli and was moored down off the sandy beach near
the whaleboats. The boys made frequent trips to Cobra Head, also
traveling by way of the aerial cable of course. Indeed, Jack and Big
O’Brien were the first to ride down to the rock, on a section of stone
that was conveyed to the lighthouse site. This was more or less of a
perilous trip and Big O’Brien insisted on accompanying the lad when he
heard that he was going.
But with all these possibilities for a good time Ray seemed to become
less interested in the construction work as the days went on. In truth,
he developed a certain melancholy air which, after a time, became very
noticeable. This, of course, puzzled Jack, as it did the engineer and
the others of the camp who had become friendly with him. More than once
Jack sought to gain his confidence and have him tell his troubles, but
the boy always appeared to cheer up for the time and assure the youth
from Vermont that he had not a single trouble in the world. Jack knew
well that this was not true, however, and to add to the mystery of it
all, Ray frequently strayed away from the camp in the evening or when
he had no work to do and went wandering down along the rocky shore of
the island until he came to a secluded spot where he would sit and
brood over his troubles for hours at a time.
It was after one of these mysterious disappearances one afternoon
that Jack went in search of his companion, quite determined to get at
the bottom of all that was upsetting his peace of mind. The lad from
Drueryville had seen Ray steal away and go down the path that led to
the little beach near where the whaleboats were moored. He watched him
as long as he could, but when he saw Ray walk the entire length of the
sandy strip and start climbing along the rock-strewn shore beyond, he
decided to follow.
But Jack soon discovered that his chum had not gone far. Just on the
other side of the beach he saw the lonesome figure perched upon a
smooth chunk of granite, his back resting against a large boulder just
behind him. Ray’s hat was off and the wind was playing with his hair.
He was staring off into space in a most preoccupied manner, and the
expression on his face was that of a lad who was greatly disappointed
over something.
So absorbed was he with his troubles that Jack managed to come up
very close to him before the young swordfisherman was aware of his
presence. When he did notice the Vermonter, he seemed very much
chagrined at being discovered and a sheepish smile wrinkled the corners
of his mouth.
“Hello, Ray,” said Jack, sitting down upon the rock beside him. “I hope
you’ll excuse me for following you, but--well, hang it all, you looked
so glum that I just naturally worry over you. Something is on your
mind, old chap, and I do wish that you would spit it out. Tell me all
about it. Maybe I can help you or at least give you some advice.”
“Pshaw, Jack, don’t mind me. My troubles don’t amount to a row o’ pins
to any one except myself. Shucks, let’s forget about it.”
“No, siree, now, Ray, I want to know. Look here; we’ve been pretty
good friends since you came to the island in that whirlwind fashion,
a couple of weeks ago, and I think that I should know all about your
difficulties.”
“Aw, I haven’t any real troubles. I’m just disappointed, that’s all.
You see--aw--er--let’s forget about it, will you?”
“No, no, Ray, come on, shout it out,” insisted Jack.
“I tell you it’s just disappointment, that’s all. You see I had laid so
much store by it that I--”
“By what?” demanded Jack.
“Why, by my model--my non-sinkable lifeboat, you know. The one that
Uncle Vance threw overboard.”
“Oh, I see, now I understand. I’d forgotten all about it. Well, why
don’t you build a new model, old chap?”
“Why--er--well you see, Jack, I’ve been trying to, but, hang it all,
I haven’t the material, for one thing, and--and--well, I’ve--you see
there are a lot of figures about it that I’ve forgotten. I don’t know
just how I did build the first one. It was made of sheet metal all
soldered together and I can’t get a bit of tin or sheet iron here.
I tried to make one of wood but that don’t go either. Gee, I am up
against it. And I wanted to see if I couldn’t earn enough money with
it--aw, shucks, let’s quit talkin’ about it. There’s no use in worrying
you about it too, Jack.”
“Well, I’m mighty interested, Ray,” said Jack encouragingly. “What was
the principle of the thing?”
“Why, just this, Jack. You remember when the _Titanic_ was wrecked
about a year ago? Sure you do. Well, when that happened there was a
lot of talk about not enough lifeboats, and about the general unsafe
condition of the boats that were being used on board the various
steamers. That set me a-thinking and I decided to try and build a boat
that wouldn’t sink and could not turn over, no matter how hard a wave
hit it. Then after months of pottering around I worked out my model
which looked like a big pumpkin seed roofed over. It was all fitted
up, airtight compartments in the bow and stern, and the keel was so
balanced, and the roof so well made, that even if the boat should be
launched upside down, it would right itself and not ship a drop of
water. There was a little place for a motor which, of course, could
not be put in the model, but could be put in a big boat of regulation
lifeboat size. It could also be propelled by oars and it had a number
of advantages over the old-fashioned open lifeboat.”
“My, but that’s interesting,” said Jack; “I sure would like to see it.”
“Well, I guess it’ll be a long time before I can build another and, by
George, I’m getting older all the time. I’m nearly seventeen now.”
“What of that?” said Jack.
“What of it? Why, I want to go to high school some time, and college
too. I sort of hoped that I might make money enough out of my invention
to pay my way through school. I can’t wait until I am a full-grown
man to go to ‘prep’ school, can I? And now that I’ve quit Uncle Vance
I haven’t a single person in the world to help me. Not that I could
ever expect any real help from him. But then a fellow needs a grown-up
friend or two, no matter how cussed mean they are to him at times. But
Uncle Vance was dead set against my ever going to school again--said it
would make me even lazier than I am. I’m not lazy, am I, Jack?”
“Indeed, you’re not,” said Jack, and then he fell to thinking, for
Ray’s remarks about school brought Jack’s mind back to Drueryville
Academy, and, of course, the first thing that he thought of in
connection with the school was the football situation for the next Fall.
“Jiminy, I certainly wish that you had made money out of your
invention,” he said after a moment.
“Why?” queried Ray in surprise.
“Well, we need a full-back out at Drueryville Academy and if you were
going to go to ‘prep’ school I surely would see that you found your way
over to Vermont. You’d make a corking full-back, Ray. Got the right
build and all, and you’re strong as a bull, too. Ever play football?”
“Ever play? No, but I’d like to. Hang it, Jack, I haven’t ever been
able to play at anything. Never had the chance that other boys get. All
my life has been work and darned hard work, too. And when I haven’t
been working, I’ve been quarreling with Uncle Vance or trying to keep
out of his way, either one,” said Ray bitterly.
“Never mind,” said Jack solicitously, for he saw how unhappy Ray really
was. “Your time will come, just you wait and see. I’m going to speak to
Mr. Warner about your schooling, anyway. Perhaps he can help you out
with some good advice at least. Pshaw, come on, let’s forget about your
troubles. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go for a row in Captain
Eli’s dory. We’ve never been down near the lower end of the island.
I’d like to explore. Are you game for a row, Ray? Mr. Warner says that
he will not have anything for us to do until some time to-morrow. How
about it?”
“Sure enough,” said the unhappy youngster and presently the two boys
were climbing over the rocks back toward the little strip of beach
where the boats waited, gently tugging at their mooring lines.
It was a wonderful July afternoon, with scarcely a cloud in the warm
blue sky. Out beyond the reef the broad Atlantic rolled on lazily
under the Summer sun, while inside even the currents that usually
raced between the ledge of rocks and the island seemed to have become
sluggish.
“Let me take the oars,” said Ray, after the two lads had waded out and
climbed aboard the dory, “I have the blues and there’s nothing like
some good husky exercise to work them out of a fellow’s system.”
Jack consented and shortly the little craft was slipping along through
the water under the young swordfisherman’s steady stroke. In half
an hour they had passed the southern end of the reef and gone beyond
the reach of the currents into the open sea. Ray kept the boat about
half a mile off the shore of the island and rowed steadily southward,
apparently taking a great deal of pleasure in working the stiffness out
of his muscular arms and back. As for Jack, he lay off in the stern of
the boat thinking of nothing in particular.
Presently, however, Ray stopped rowing and appeared to listen. Then
turning, he looked ahead and announced.
“Jack, there’s a school of mackerel ahead of us. Look in the locker
there under the stern thwart, and see if Captain Eli has any fishing
tackle. Perhaps we can find a couple of jigs in there.”
“Eh, how’s that? How do you know there’s a school of mackerel ahead? I
see some gulls out there feeding on something but--”
“That’s just it. I heard ’em squealing like a whole flock of cats. If
you’d been around salt water as long as I have you’d know they are
feeding on little menhaden and wherever there’s a school of them you’ll
be sure to find mackerel--or pollock. If it’s a school of pollock then
we _can_ have some fun, providing, of course, we can find some fish
lines. Pollock are the gamiest fish in the sea.”
Jack became enthusiastic immediately and quickly began a search under
the stern seat. In a moment he resurrected a dilapidated market basket
half full of coils of line, fish hooks, jigs, and a double handful of
clams.
“Fine!” exclaimed Ray, surveying the outfit. “We’ll have fresh fish for
supper all right. Here, Jack, break open one of those clams and cut out
a chunk of the tough part. There, that’s it. Now hook it onto that jig;
just double it over the hook so, it doesn’t make any difference whether
you have the point covered or not. Now throw it over the stern, and let
out about sixty feet of line while I row. You’ll feel ’em take hold in
a minute; they’re coming this way.”
Ray bent to the oars again and started the boat toward the flock of
gulls that were flying close to the surface and diving in and out of
the water, squeaking and calling at a furious rate. Jack had hardly got
the jig overboard before the dory was among the fish. They were big
fellows, according to Jack’s way of thinking, but Ray said that they
were only young pollock. But Jack had no time to argue the matter, for
the next second something struck his jig savagely and the heavy line
shot through his fingers and scorched a blister on the flesh before the
fish let go.
“Oh--wow,” howled Jack, shaking his hand.
“Ho, ho, that was funny,” laughed Ray. “Loop the line around your hand
next time Jack, and snub him good. Then keep hauling in as hard as you
can, or you’ll lose him.”
Jack hooked another piece of clam onto the jig and tossed it astern,
and the moment he had the line looped about his hand came another
savage jerk-- Zipp-pp hissed the line through the water, but Jack
snubbed back and started to haul away hand over hand, the fish
thrashing from side to side and even jumping clear of the water in his
mad effort to tear free.
“Wow, what a corker,” cried Jack, as he swung the struggling thing into
the dory.
“Oh, he isn’t so big,” said Ray. “Pollock grow sixty and seventy pounds
and I’ve seen ’em even bigger than that. That’s only a young one you
caught. Weighs about five pounds, I guess. This is a school of little
ones, I tell you. Try again.”
Jack hove the jig again and for the next fifteen minutes he was busy
as could be hauling in the big silvery fish. They bit ravenously and
before he knew it he had caught at least a score. Finally his fingers
became so blistered and chafed that he simply had to quit.
“Here,” he said, “you take the line, Ray. I’m through.”
“All right,” said Ray. “Keep rowing around in a big figure eight. Keep
right in the school. Follow the birds. I’ll see if I can’t yank out
a couple of big ones just for luck. I wish I had a pair of nippers,
though--those are woolen gloves with the fingers cut. They protect your
hands. All fishermen use ’em up here on the Maine coast.”
But before Ray had caught more than a couple of fish, the surface of
the water became suddenly quiet again and the troop of gulls, after a
few farewell squeaks, dispersed and flew off in different directions.
“Hang it, just when I started to get interested the bloomin’ things
disappear. That’s my luck. Too bad. They’ll come to the surface again
somewhere else, but there’s no use of our trying to follow them. They
may come up a mile or so out to sea. Guess we’re through fishing for
to-day. I don’t care though, do you?”
“No, only for your sake,” said Jack. “I was selfish to keep the line so
long.”
“Oh, pshaw, don’t mind me. I’ve had more fishing than a little. When a
fellow has to do it for a living it ceases to be fun,” said Ray with a
smile, as he sat down in the stern and surveyed the catch.
“Jiminy,” he added, “we’ve enough fish to feed the camp.”
“I guess we have, but say, I’ll bet that net over there is filled with
’em,” answered Jack.
“Net? What net? Where?” asked Ray.
“Why, that net over there. See those buoys in toward the island? They
are fastened to a net, aren’t they?”
Ray looked in the direction in which Jack was pointing and saw a line
of half a dozen black and white buoys dancing on the surface.
“No, Jack, those aren’t net buoys. Those are lobster pots. Some one
has a line of traps set along here. Looks like he’d picked out a good
place too. All rock bottom.”
“Are those lobster traps?” asked Jack, becoming interested immediately.
“Sure they are. Net buoys are entirely different looking affairs.”
“I never saw a lobster pot. What do they look like?” queried the
Vermonter.
“Pshaw, don’t you know what they are like. Let’s row over and we’ll
haul one. I don’t believe it would make any difference so long as we
don’t take any of the lobsters. I know it’s considered a terrible thing
among lobstermen for one man to haul another man’s trap, but we won’t
steal anything.”
“Oh, I have an idea what they look like. Never mind about pulling it
up,” said Jack.
“No, no, come on, we’ll row over. I’ll haul it. ’Twon’t make a particle
of difference. And besides there’s no one around to see us. I wonder
who owns it?”
“Why, perhaps that old fellow Captain Eli says lives on this end of
the island. He’s a lobsterman,” said Jack as he headed the boat in the
direction of the buoys.
“That’s right, perhaps they are his,” said Ray.
It was only a matter of a hundred yards or more to the buoy and soon
Jack pulled the dory around close to the bobbing thing. Then Ray stood
up and reaching the line attached to it began to pull it in hand
over hand. Presently he reached a section of the line to which two
tightly corked bottles were attached. He held them up for Jack to see,
explaining in the meantime that they were fastened to the warping,
which is the fisherman’s term for the line, to keep it off the bottom
so that it would not foul with the rocks. The bottles, he said, acted
as floats which kept the warping midway between the rocky bottom and
the surface.
Ray pulled some more and soon the big lobster pot came dripping from
the water. It was a peculiar crate-like affair, shaped like half of
a cylinder, and at either end was a pocket-like net with a hole in
the very bottom through which the lobsters crawled to get at the bait
suspended in a bag in the middle of the trap. There were four big green
lobsters in the trap and innumerable brown rock crabs which clicked
their horny claws maliciously as Jack and Ray took hold of the trap.
“Say, but they look ugly, don’t they?” exclaimed Ray as he looked
between the slats.
“Ugly? You bet they are. If that big green fellow should get hold of
your finger you’d lose it (I mean your finger) mighty quick.”
“What do they use for bait?” asked Jack.
“Dead fish--flounders mostly, although--”
“’I there, throw that air trap hoverboard! Quick now! Look lively
there, you bloomin’ lobster piruts. Hoverboard wi’ hit an’ put hup
yer ’ands er hi’ll blow yer bloody ’eds hoff,” shouted some one.
And turning, the two lads found themselves facing a bewhiskered old
fisherman with a wooden leg, who stood in the stern of a trim little
sloop, the tiller in one hand and a tremendously big but old-fashioned
revolver in the other.
“By George, it’s the owner of the lobster traps,” said Ray, shoving the
contrivance overboard and putting his hands above his head. Jack looked
at the blunderbuss, then having made up his mind that perhaps it would
go off if urged, he too held up his hands.
“I got ’e now, I ’ave. I been a layin’ fer t’ two o’ ye fer a week
past. Says I t’ myself says I, Mitch, Hole Topper, they’ll show hup
agin an’ you can slip hout hin yer hole _Betsy Hanne_ an’ poak yer hole
barker hunder their noses and there you ’ave ’em. An’ hup you showed,
an’ ’ere I are wi’ me _Betsy Hanne_ and me hole barker, an’ ’ere you
are jest es neat en’ snug wi’ yer ’ands above yer ’ed and lookin’ t’
bloomin’ crookedest crooks as ever was. An’ now me an’ me _Betsy Hanne_
is goin’ t’ take both o’ ye t’ th’ warden at Haustin’s Pool an’ ’e’ll
jug ye as tight as ever was. Honely which one o’ you is th’ lad as has
t’ ’nitials J. S.?”
The little sloop had come up in the wind in the meantime and the
fisherman, still keeping the lads covered with the old revolver, had by
means of a short boathook pulled the dory alongside.
“Come,” he said impatiently, “which o’ ye is hit ’as ’is ’nitials J.
S.?”
“Why--er--ah--why those are my initials,” stuttered the amazed Jack
Straw, “but--but--how did you come to know them?”
“O-ho-ho-ho, Mister Innercent, ’ow did I come t’ know? Why I got yer
watch as you so kindly left hin my traps, I did.”
“My watch?--in your traps?” exclaimed Jack.
“I says a ’ow I found hit in my traps, ye pirut. Yes.”
“Why--why--but how did it get there? It wasn’t my watch you found. I’m
sure of it.”
“O-ho-ho-ho, hit wasn’t ’is watch. O-ho-ho, blow me ef ’e ain’t tryin’
t’ joke me. Looke ’er, young feller, you jest says a ’ow yer ’nitials
is J. S. an’ bein’s I found ’e a-’aulin’ o’ my lobster traps hit ain’t
no doubt as you’r t’ guilty party, ’specially as ’ow I found t’ watch
hin my trap. Oh, I figgered hit hall hout. You ’ad t’ trap hup on t’
side o’ t’ dory an’ arter you ’ad got finished a-pinchin’ t’ lobsters
as belongs t’ me overboard you shoves t’ trap wi’ t’ chain o’ yer watch
caught hin t’ net. Hout slips yer watch an’ you bein’ hexcited an’ hin
a ’urry never misses hit till you gets ’ome. Then you sez, ‘Where about
’ave I left my watch?’ an’ you don’t know, see?”
“Why, that’s all wrong,” said Jack. “I never stole any of your lobsters
and besides my watch hasn’t disappeared.”
“Looke ’ere, you young pirut, hif this ain’t your watch then show me
your watch.” The old lobsterman held up a big silver timepiece attached
to a silver chain.
“Pshaw, no; mine’s gold,” said Jack, feeling in his watch pocket. Then
suddenly the expression on the lad’s face changed. “Why--why--it’s
gone; where on earth--what has happened to my watch?”
“O-ho-ho. E-he-he, what’s ’appened to ’is watch. T’ blomin’ pirut. Why
’ere hit his, lad; ’ere hit his.”
“No, no. I know where it is. I loaned it to Captain Eli and--”
“O-ho-ho, a likely story, but just t’ same I’m goin’ t’ tike ’e both t’
th’ warden at Haustin’s Pool. ’E’ll tike care o’ ye. Come, ’op haboard
t’ _Betsy Hanne_. Lively now ’er I’ll blow yer bloomin’ ’eads hoff,
blime me hif I don’t.”