Jack awoke with a start. He knew instinctively that some one had been
gazing at him while he slept and his feeling was that of impending
trouble. He sat up quickly and turned to find Ray’s eyes fastened upon
him. The erstwhile swordfisherman was sitting up in bed, his back
resting against the head board and his arms clasped about his knees.
“Hi you, Ray! Why, you startled the life out of me. What are you
sitting there like a stone idol for, cheating an honest fellow out of
his sleep, by staring at him with trouble in your eyes. How long have
you been awake?”
“Who? Me?” asked Ray absently.
“Yes, you. Who did you think I meant? The bed post? Say, you’re
worried, aren’t you? What’s sticking in your crop now? I’ll bet you’ve
been sitting there half of the night. Hang it, Ray, what _is_ the
matter, anyway?” demanded Jack.
“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking, that’s all.”
“Thinking? About what? I’ll bet it was that blamed old model lifeboat
of yours, wasn’t it?”
“Well, something like that,” said Ray with a sheepish grin.
“Now, I know you’re lying to me,” said Jack. “You weren’t thinking
about the model at all or you wouldn’t have confessed so quickly. You
were worrying about something else.”
“No, no, Jack, the model was in my mind--a little, anyway. Come on,
let’s get up. I’ve been awake a long time, waiting for you to turn
out. Mr. Williams has been up nearly an hour. I heard his wife call
him for breakfast. Come on, get a wiggle on, for I think I smell some
good old fried clams. Um-m-m, ah--just think how they’ll taste,” said
Ray, smacking his lips as he hopped out of bed and began to pull on his
trousers.
Jack tried to be equally agile, but when he bounded to the floor he let
out a whoop of distress, for it seemed as if every muscle in his body
had been stretched out of shape. He was sore from his violent exercise
of the night before, and there were bumps and bruises all over him,
not to mention a puffed-up lip which felt about thrice its natural size.
“Jiminy, but I’m stiff,” he grunted as he sat down on the edge of the
bed and began to pull on his stockings.
“I’m a little stiff myself,” confessed Ray, stretching his strong arms
above his head. “I had a fracas last night with one of those Frenchmen
too, only I didn’t have to use a piano stool. I just lammed him good
with my right hand. Say, but you did lay old Salmon Jack out for fair.
Did you notice how wobbly he was when they took him into the lockup
last night? And did you see that long lanky fellow? Some one treated
him mighty rough. He had two dandy shiners. I suppose they’ll all be
brought before the Justice of the Peace to-day. If it wasn’t that Mr.
Warner and the rest might be worrying over us, I’d like to stay.”
“I wonder what they’ll do with ’em?” said Jack, crossing the room to
the little old-fashioned mirror on the wall and smoothing his rumpled
hair with a white comb he had found on the highboy in the corner.
“Why, Mr. Williams said that they would probably be taken to the County
Seat and kept there until the County Court meets next month. Then they
will likely be sent to jail for three or four years or even longer. I
guess they’re a bad lot and the warden’s glad to get ’em under lock and
key.”
“Well, come on. Let’s get downstairs. I’m nearly famished, and besides
Old Mitchell will be waiting for us. I suppose he’s wondering now
whether we’re going to sleep all day or not. The mist seems to have
thinned out a little, but the sky looks mighty lowery, doesn’t it?”
said Jack.
“Yes, I guess we’re in for a spell o’ weather,” answered his companion.
Ray’s sense of smell had not deceived him. There were clams for
breakfast, great stacks of them, and hot biscuits and a pitcher of
honey and still another of cream. And there were doughnuts, too, and
coffee, and best of all the smiling face of Mrs. Williams and the
genial countenance of the warden himself. He was already seated at the
table, a big napkin tucked under his double chin, and Mrs. Williams,
who was as tiny as her husband was ponderous, was heaping his plate
with freshly fried clams.
“Good morning, boys,” she said with a smile, but before they could
reply, the warden’s deep voice boomed out:
“Well, well, what do you fellers think this place is, one o’ those city
houses that don’t wake up until nine o’clock? Jingonetties, why didn’t
you sleep all day?”
“There, there, Will, don’t scold them. Poor lads, they’re tired. Here
sit down in this comfortable chair. I’ll bring you some hot clams
right away,” said Mrs. Williams, who was fond of pretending that her
husband’s assumed gruffness frightened her when it really did not at
all.
Those clams were truly wonderful. They fairly melted in Jack’s mouth
and the honey and cream was the best he had ever tasted. Indeed, Jack
could scarcely remember ever having enjoyed a breakfast quite so
thoroughly as he did the one arranged by Mrs. Williams. And as for Ray,
well, he said absolutely nothing at all, but the way he devoured the
savory brown morsels that the good lady set before him was quite the
best compliment he could have offered her. The boys had the appetites
of young sharks, and since Mr. Williams was as busy as they at the same
occupation, there was very little conversation. But the unfortunate
part of a good meal is that one finally reaches the point where he can
eat no more. Jack and Ray reached this period disappointingly soon.
They were forced to suspend activities for sheer lack of room.
“Oh, what a good breakfast,” said Ray, with a sigh as he wiped his
mouth on his napkin. “Shucks, I’m sorry I can’t stow away any more.”
“So am I,” assured Jack as he let his belt out another hole.
“Well, now that you’ve got a full cargo, how about goin’ over to the
lock-up and havin’ a look at our friends of last night?” asked Mr.
Williams, finding his hat and coat.
“Well, no, I’m afraid we can’t, though we’d like to very much. You see,
we’ve been away from Hood Island a day and a night and goodness knows
what Mr. Warner thinks has happened to us. Then, besides, Old Mitchell
is probably waiting for us. I think we’d better go right down to the
wharf,” said Jack.
“I’d rather get aboard the _Betsy Anne_. I think I’d feel better,”
said Ray, and his words seemed to have a peculiar meaning.
“Well, all right, boys, go long. I’ll be over to Hood Island to see
you before the Summer’s over,” said the warden as he shook hands and
hurried out.
Jack and Ray lingered long enough to say good-by to Mrs. Williams and
thank the little woman for her kindness. Then they fared forth into
the old-fashioned street in which Mr. Williams lived. The residential
section of the Pool was up a gentle slope from the bay and some
distance from the business section where the fish markets and stalls
were located.
This quarter of the community was quaintly aristocratic in appearance.
The streets were lined with elms guarded by squared tree boxes and
the houses were all surrounded by little lawns and flower gardens. In
truth, the whole section had an atmosphere of the early Sixties, a fact
which Jack remarked as the boys walked toward the waterfront.
But soon they passed on into the busy part of the town where merchants
and fishermen were dickering and bargaining over the morning’s catch
and where women with baskets on their arms were marketing and shippers
were trading for their daily consignments for Boston or New York.
The little community seemed to Jack to be very lively and wide awake
for a place of its size and he watched with eager interest the crowds
of men who tramped up and down the narrow streets, their big sea boots
making a tremendous thumping noise on the board sidewalks.
And presently as he was watching, there moved into his line of vision
on the opposite side of the thoroughfare a ponderous man who was clad
in a pea jacket, blue cap and heavy boots. His face was dark and
weather-beaten and he wore a black beard which helped to give him a
very stern appearance. Jack knew that he had seen him before and he
groped about in his mind for a name to fit his countenance.
“Who is he?” he mused. “Where did I see him before? Where--”
“Say, Ray,” he said aloud, “who is that big man with a beard over
there? See he’s looking this way now--why--why-- What’s the matter,
Ray?”
Ray had looked, at Jack’s request, and the moment he set eyes upon the
big man his face paled and he became thoroughly frightened.
“Jack, that’s Uncle Vance,” he said in a husky whisper. “I wonder if he
saw us. I was almost certain that was his yawl that nearly ran us down
last night. That’s what I was worrying about this morning. Come on,
let’s-- Oh, Jack, he’s recognized me! Here he comes! Run! Run! Please
run!”
Jack gave one glance across the street again and saw the bearded giant
headed for them at top speed and the look on his face was enough to
make the boys run, whether they wanted to or not. Like a flash Jack
turned, but Ray had already bolted and was twenty feet away and running
like the wind. Up the center of the crowded street went the chase, Ray
in the lead and Jack right at his heels, with the big man in full cry
not thirty feet behind.
Ray dodged into the first cross street he came to and this being
comparatively free of pedestrians he let out a burst of speed that
astonished the young Vermonter, who was no slow runner himself. The lad
from Drueryville had hard work to keep up with his chum, and as he
raced along at Ray’s heels he could not help but picture how Ray would
look in moleskins with a football tucked under one arm, going across a
gridiron at such a pace.
But he had no time to conjure up such pictures, for presently Ray
dodged around another corner into a street that ran parallel to the
main street and led toward the wharves. Jack risked a glance backward
at this point and saw that while they had not shaken the uncle off
their tracks they were outdistancing him fast.
“Hit it up faster and dodge once more, Ray, and we’ll shake him,” he
panted to the young swordfisherman. And hit it up Ray did until Jack’s
legs fairly ached with the pace. Down to the docks ran the boys,
upsetting a clam digger with a basket on his head, and leaving chaos
and a crowd of angry looking natives in their wake.
But in a moment the lads reached the long dock at the end of which the
_Betsy Anne_ was moored. At a distance they could see Old Mitchell
standing on the very end of the wharf, looking in their direction. And
when he saw the boys racing down the pier at full speed his eyes grew
round with wonder.
Ray could not stop to explain, however:
“Quick, Mitchell, quick! Get us aboard the _Betsy Anne_ and get her out
among the fishing boats so he can’t find us. Oh, please, please hurry.”
“’Urry, is hit? ’Urry, wit blow me, hif I thought you lads wuz hin a
’urry, seeings ’ow I been a-waitin’ fer a ’our.”
“Yes, yes, but we _are_ in a hurry,” insisted Jack as he followed Ray
down the ladder and into the cockpit of the _Betsy Anne_.
“So are I,” said Mitchell, and after casting off the mooring he
scrambled down on one foot. “So are I, fer I likes t’ go hout on t’
tide, I does.”
Just where or when Ray’s uncle had given up the chase the boys could
not tell, but in spite of the wide trail of angry men and women, and
overturned carts the boys had left along the water front, Vance Carroll
had evidently lost them. Leastwise, he did not put in his appearance
upon the long dock while the _Betsy Anne_ was getting under way, for
which Ray and Jack were truly thankful.
In ten minutes the little sloop, with Captain Eli’s green dory still
trailing on behind, was scudding out toward the open sea, dodging
through the fleet of fishing boats and walking away from every craft
that tried to keep pace with her. And when the boys had finally
regained their breath and were a little more at ease, they related to
the old lobsterman their triumph in shaking the man whom Ray feared so
much.
But this triumph was short-lived, for even while they were telling
their story Ray paused and shaded his eyes with his hands; for
back there, far across the harbor, he had caught sight of the
swordfisherman’s yawl.
“Mr. Mitchell, have you got a glass? There’s his boat over yonder and I
do believe they’re making sail on her. Say, do you suppose he’s found
out that we are on the _Betsy Anne_ and is getting ready to chase us?
If he is, we’re lost, for the _Fish Hawk_ can overhaul anything that
carries sail, seems to me.”
“Huh, don’t be s’ sure o’ that, me ’arty,” said Old Mitchell
indignantly. “T’ _Betsy Hanne_ kin shake a leg ’erself. Which be t’
yawl ye want t’ know about. That one ower there; way, way ower ’bout a
mile?”
“Yes, that’s it, over there in a line with that church steeple on
shore. She’s--”
“Blow me hif she ain’t makin’ sail,” exclaimed Mitchell.
“Good night, Jack!” said Ray with a startled look. “Then it’s all up
with me.”
“Hup, say ye, hall hup. Huh, blime ’e hif t’ hole _Betsy Hanne_ can’t
make ’Ood Hisland afore that air wessel, seein’ as ’ow we got a mile
start wi’ them, blime ’e I’ll sink ’er, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Can you beat her, Mr. Mitchell? Can you?” asked Ray almost tearfully,
putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“I’ll go fer t’ show ’e hif ye want me to,” said the lobsterman as he
spat over the side.
“Well, goodness help me if you don’t,” said Ray, “for if Uncle Vance
ever gets his hands on me again he’ll certainly make me pay for running
away.”
“Why now, ’ow’s this? ’Tis yer uncle ye’re a-runnin’ awi’ from?”
queried Mitchell, as he shifted the tiller and took in about a foot of
the sheet, to make the mainsail draw better.
“Yes, that’s who he is,” said Ray bitterly. “He’s my uncle and a fine
uncle he’s been to me. Thrashed the life out of me as long as I’ve
known him and made things generally miserable for me. Aw--hang it, I
get so unhappy thinking about the way he treated me that I could almost
be a baby over it, I guess,” said Ray, swallowing hard.
“Tut, tut, don’t take hit s’ard, me lad; ye don’t need t’ talk habout
hit hif ’e don’t want t’,” said the kind-hearted old lobsterman as he
cast a watchful eye aloft to see that there were no wrinkles in the
peak.
“I’m mighty glad I ran away from him,” said Ray, “though sometimes I
worry over whether I did right or not. You see, he’s my only relative
and I’ve cut loose from him entirely. Folks says that when a lad shifts
around without any grown folks to lean upon he’s liable to become a
‘good-for-nothing,’ as my uncle says. Yet, for all, I’ve been a heap
more comfortable since I ran away from him,” he concluded doggedly.
“’Ow came ’e fer t’ git on ’Ood Hisland?” queried Mitchell.
“Why, I jumped overboard and swam ashore,” said Ray.
“And it was some swim,” supplemented Jack enthusiastically.
“Han’ ye crossed ’e’s bow t’ day over in Haustin’s Pool?” queried
Mitchell, looking astern.
“Yes, and we had to run like the dickens to shake him. Is his boat
anywhere in sight-- Gee, he’s following us all right? That’s his sail,
way back there. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, please get us to the island first. I
can’t go back with him. I can’t.”
“Tut, tut, lad, we’ve a flyin’ start hon ’im, an’ hif we don’t out-run
’im, big as ’e is, wi--wi--well, we’ll do hit. An’ as fer you bein’
aferd o’ turnin’ hout a ‘good-for-nothin’ es you say, wi’ I think as
’ow ’e might o’ become one o’ them air things hif ye’d stayed wi ’im.
Floggins an’ rope hend ain’t good hif a feller gits ’em too hoften.
Why, lads, look o’ me. I ain’t a ‘good-fer-nothin’ no more are I a
lofer er a lobster pirut er a bloomin’ sea lawyer, an’ I ain’t ’ad no
re-elatives t’ lean hupon since I was passin’ ten.”
“Tell us about yourself,” said Jack, who had always been curious to
know the old seaman’s past.
“Why, now they ain’t much t’ tell,” said the lobsterman, after his
usual preliminary of spitting over the rail. “They ain’t much t’ tell,
seein’ as ’ow when I was but knee ’igh t’ a water butt me daddy was lost
wi’ a hull trawlin’ crew hin t’ North Sea. Then I became an horphant
an’ wi’hout one relative, seein’ as ’ow me mother ’ad died when I was a
toddler.
“The folks as I was livin’ wi’ didn’t hexpect no more board money fer
me as was paid by me daddy when ’e was alivin’ an’ they jest turned me
hout t’ a free farm which ain’t no com’f’table place fer a yonker.
“Seein’ as ’ow things was as they was I hups an’ runs awi, sterin’ a
course fer Lonnon. But on me wi I finds an’ hole salt, naime o’ Jem
Banks, an’ ’e bein’ a ’arty hole salt as is hin t’ sarvice, ’e takes
a likin’ o’ me an’ says, says ’e, ‘’Ere, lad, they’re a needin’ of a
cabin-boy aboard t’ _Bull’ark_. Why don’t ’e come along o’ me an’ sign
pipers?’
“‘Aye, aye,’ says I, bein’ by natcher a sailor. This ’ere tickles Jem
Banks an’ ’e tikes me along of ’im an’ next thing ’ere I are cabin boy
aboard the H.M.S. _Bull’ark_.”
“How long did you stay in the navy?” asked Ray.
“Till I gits t’ be a real A.B. When I’m a lad habout twenty I tikes hit
hin me ’ead t’ try an adwenture ’er two, so seein’ as ’ow I’d served
me time I hups an’ leaves an’ ships aboard t’ _Jenney Lee_, what is a
ship as is runnin’ hof t’ bloccade hin Caroliney durin’ t’ Civil War.
But we ain’t run ’em more’n twict when sinked we are be t’ U.S.S. _New
’Ampshire_ an’ hin t’ fracus me laig’s shot hoff.
“Well, now, they ain’t much more to tell, exceptin’ as ’ow I was taken
pris’ner o’ war an’ such like an’ nigh got ’ung fer me bein’ a bloccade
runner, hafter I comes hout of the ’orspital wi’ me timber laig. Hafter
t’ war I gets hup north ’ere ’mongst t’ fishermen, an’ drifted from one
thing to t’other till ’ere I are ’igh an’ dry hon ’Ood Hisland, makin’
of a fair livin’ wi’ me lobster pots, where I been t’ last twenty
years.”
“You certainly have had an interesting time of it,” said Jack
enthusiastically.
“I guess he has,” added Ray. “I wonder how I’ll come out without my
uncle or any one to--By George, I plum forgot we were running away from
him. Look, look, he’s picked up a lot. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, can we make
the island ahead of him?”
In truth, all three had forgotten the chase for the time and in the
meanwhile the yawl had been gaining at every mile.
“Blow me, hif I didn’t fergit habout hit, too. My heye, but ’e’s got
a sailboat fer ’e an’ a sailor at ’er wheel too. Come, shake a leg,
_Betsy Hanne_. There’s t’ hisland ower there. Bout four miles t’ go.
Ye gotta ’op along, me _Betsy_. An’ hit’s startin’ t’ rain an’ blow a
little, hin t’ bargain.”
From then on the boys were too much worried about the swiftly flying
yawl to think of conversation. Ray’s uncle had every inch of canvas
set and the swift swordfisherman was plowing through the water at top
speed. But the _Betsy Anne_ was making time, too. With the wind off
her port quarter and all sails set, she was heeling low and making the
water boil under her sharp little bow. On and on she raced, dashing
spray over her crew as she cut her way through the big seas that were
being kicked up by the ever freshening wind.
But in spite of the little boat’s good time, Old Mitchell was plainly
worried over the outcome of the race.
“Look ’ere, lads, even hif we do beat ’im to t’ hisland, ’ow are I
t’ prewent yer uncle from comin’ ’longside an’ shanghain’ o’ ye hoff
aboard e’s own wessel what is such a nifty sailin’ one?”
“Why--why--that’s right,” said Ray helplessly.
“Do the same as you did before, Ray,” said Jack. “I mean, let Mr.
Mitchell run the _Betsy Anne_ along the outside of the reef to the
opening and then slip through. He won’t dare follow you then.”
“That’s right. Can you put the _Betsy Anne_ through that opening
in Cobra Reef? You know the place I mean. About half way up to the
lighthouse.”
“I put ’er through every time I pays a call hon Cap’n Eli, which I
admits ain’t been often o’ late,” said the lobsterman.
“Good, then beat him to it and put her through this time. He’ll never
follow us ’cause he don’t know the channel and he’ll never land on that
end of the island again, not after the lamming he got from Big O’Brien,
will he, Jack?”
“No, siree,” said Jack.
“Aye, aye, sir, through t’ reef she goes,” said Mitchell.
All attention was settled on the chase after that. The yawl had cut the
distance between the two vessels down to half a mile and Hood Island
was still two miles off. On sped the boats, the yawl breasting the
waves in fine fashion and heeling over to what seemed a perilous angle.
“He keeps canvas on the _Fish Hawk_,” said Ray. “Wind’s fresh enough to
stand a reef. Don’t you think so, Mr. Mitchell?”
“’E kin take a reef hif ’e want, but not fer t’ _Betsy Hanne_,” said
the old mariner. “My boat kin stand weather, she can.”
Indeed, the _Betsy Anne_ proved that she could, for her big mainsail
was as tight as a drum and her jib as full. She was cutting the water
like a knife and eating up the distance toward the island.
Now they were abreast of the lower end and a mile off shore. The
yawl was sliding down on the same tack but still a half mile off the
_Betsy’s_ starboard quarter.
“Neck and neck,” cried the skipper of the little craft. “Neck an’ neck
wi’ a mile t’ run before we strikes t’ reef. Hit’s a close race, me
’arties, for ’e’s comin’ fast.”
[Illustration: “Hit’s a close race, me ’arties, for ’e’s comin’ fast.”]
“Oh, make it please! We must! We must!” said Ray nervously as he looked
toward his uncle’s boat.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the lobsterman and the next moment the _Betsy
Anne_ came about and started on the last reach toward the reef.
The _Fish Hawk_ came about a moment later and much to the chagrin of
the boys she seemed but half the distance behind.
“Jiminy, look at that boat come,” cried Jack, now thoroughly excited.
“I should say she is coming,” said Ray, “and by gracious if she can
beat us out on this stretch she can cut across our bow and head us off
from the opening in the reef for she’ll be on our port side. Oh, make
it, Mr. Mitchell, make it, for goodness’ sakes.”
But Mitchell was all attention on the race just then and did not
even look at the lads. With cool calculating eye he measured the
distance between his boat and the yawl and the distance to the reef.
For fully five minutes he was as silent as a stone image, then he said
triumphantly:
“Hif we keep hit up, boys, we’ll crowd ’im hin s’close to t’ reef that
’e’ll be huncom’f’table. Then ’e’ll ’ave t’ come about and run astern
o’ us, which will lose ’im a ’undred yards; either that er ’e’ll ’ave
t’ run hus down, which ’e won’t do fer fear o’ stovin’ hup ’es own
boat. We got ’im, lads, cause ’e won’t run werry close hin fer t’
water’s bilin’ hup on t’ rocks. Watch now. We’re edgin’ closer. See
’im, ’es narvous! See ’im! See ’im now! Ain’t ’e figity! ’E gettin’ hin
clost! ’As ’e got ’es nerve wi’ ’im? Nope--’o--’o--I knew hit--’ere ’e
comes about an’ on we goes a ’undred yards further. Hoorah!”
True to the old man’s calculations, the little boat crowded the big
boat out of the inside course. Ray’s uncle was afraid to venture as
close to the ugly water as Mitchell sailed his boat and he was forced
to come about and head across the wake of the _Betsy Anne_. But the
lobsterman’s craft kept dead on for five minutes longer and the yawl
sheered off to keep from running her down.
“Out-sailed, by George, out-sailed! I’ll bet Uncle Vance is so mad he
would sink us if he had to do it over again,” screamed Ray in delight.
The two boats had crossed so close to each other that he could see the
bearded figure of his uncle at the wheel. Indeed, the old tyrant shook
his fist at the lad and Ray grinned in return.
The run up along the reef was made with the _Betsy Anne_ on the inside
and the _Fish Hawk_ two hundred yards off the starboard quarter. But
the swordfisherman could see that the race was lost and he was only
keeping abreast while he thought of a new plan of action. But even
while he was thinking it over the sloop came even with the break
between the rocks and although the water raced through the opening at
express speed and lashed the boulders on either side, Old Mitchell
jammed down the helm, hauled in on his sheet and with a swish of canvas
and the creaking of blocks, the _Betsy Anne_ came about and slipped
through and into the comparatively smooth water inside.
“Talk about a sailor!” cried Ray, as Mitchell headed the _Betsy Anne_
north again toward the little beach. “Talk about a sailor! Why, there
isn’t a man along the Maine coast who could have done it prettier, Mr.
Mitchell.”
“Tut, tut, hit hall comes o’ my known t’ wies o’ me _Betsy Hanne_,
me boy,” said the lobsterman, but he was plainly pleased with the
compliment.
A few minutes later the little sloop came to anchor and the crew of
three rowed to the beach in Captain Eli’s dory. And as the trio stepped
ashore, Ray turned and gazed at the disappearing _Fish Hawk_.
“Well, we beat you, Uncle Vance, and I hope I’ll never see your old
boat again,” he said.
But he little knew under what circumstances he would see his uncle’s
vessel once more.