work on what Dick called their “frugal meal,” adding:
“That phrase used to fool me. I found it in Sunday School books, where
some Scotch cotter and his interesting family sat down to eat scones or
porridge, and I thought it suggestive of something particularly good to
eat. Having the chronically unsatisfied appetite of a growing boy, the
thing made me hungry.”
“This bologna isn’t a bit bad after you’ve chewed enough of the dry out
of it to get the taste,” said Larry, cutting off several slices of the
smoke-hardened sausage.
“No,” said Dick, “it isn’t bad; but I judge from results that the
Dutchman who made it had rather an exalted opinion of garlic as a
flavoring.”
“Yes,” Cal answered, speaking slowly after his habit, “the thing
is thoroughly impregnated with the flavor and odor of the _allium
sativum_, and I was just revolving—”
“What’s that, Cal?” asked Larry, interrupting.
“What’s what?”
“Why, _allium_ something or other—the thing you mentioned.”
“Oh, you mean _allium sativum_? Why, that is the botanical name of the
cultivated garlic plant, you ignoramus.”
“Well, how did you come to know that? You never studied botany.”
“No, of course not. I’ll put myself to the trouble of explaining a
matter which would be obvious enough to you if you gave it proper
thought. I found the term in the dictionary a month or so ago when you
and I had some discussion as to the relationship between the garlic
and the onion. I may have been positive in such assertions as I found
it necessary to make in maintaining my side of the argument; doubtless
I was so; but I was not sufficiently confident of the soundness of
my views to make an open appeal to the dictionary. I consulted it
secretly, surreptitiously, meaning to fling it at your head if I found
that it sustained my contentions. As I found that it was strongly
prejudiced on your side, I refrained from dragging it into the
discussion. But I learned from it that garlic is _allium sativum_, and
I made up my mind to floor you with that morsel of erudition at the
first opportunity. This is it.”
“This is what?”
“Why, the first opportunity, to be sure. I’m glad it came now instead
of at some other time.”
“Why, Cal?”
“Why because we have about eleven hours of tedious waiting time
before us and must get rid of it in the best way we can. I’ve managed
to wear away several minutes of it by talking cheerful nonsense and
spreading it out over as many words as I could. I’ve noticed that
chatter helps mightily to pass away a tedious waiting time, and I’m
profoundly convinced that the very worst thing one can do in a case
like ours is to stretch the time out by grumbling and fretting. If ever
I’m sentenced to be hanged, I shall pass my last night pouring forth
drivelling idiocy, just by way of getting through what I suppose must
be rather a trying time to a condemned man.”
“By the way, Cal, you were just beginning to say something else when
Larry interrupted you to ask about the Latin name of garlic. You
said you were ‘just revolving.’ As you paused without any downward
inflection, and as you certainly were not turning around, I suppose you
meant you were just revolving something or other in your mind.”
“Your sagacity was not at fault, Tom, but my memory is. I was revolving
something in my mind, some nonsense I suppose, but what it was, I am
wholly unable to remember. Never mind; I’ll think of a hundred other
equally foolish things to say between now and midnight, and by that
time we’ll all be asleep, I suppose.”
It was entirely dark now, and Dick Wentworth lighted a lantern and
hoisted it as an anchor light.
“What’s the use, Dick, away out here?” asked one of the others.
“There may be no use in it,” replied Dick, “but a good seaman never
asks himself that question. He just does what the rules of navigation
require, and carries a clear conscience. If a ship has to stop in mid
ocean to repair her machinery even on the calmest and brightest of days
when the whole horizon is clear, the captain orders the three discs set
that mean ‘ship not under control.’ So we’ll let our anchor light do
its duty whether there is need of it or not.”
“That’s right in principle,” said Larry, “and after all it makes no
difference as that lantern hasn’t more than a spoonful of oil in it.
But most accidents, as they are called—”
Larry was not permitted to say what happened to “most accidents,” for
as he spoke Tom called out:
“Hello! it’s raining!”
“Yes—sprinkling,” answered Larry, holding out his hand to feel the
drops, “but it’ll be pouring in five minutes. We must hurry into our
oilskins. There! the anchor light has burned out and we must fumble in
the dark.”
With that he opened a receptacle and hurriedly dragged the yellow,
oil-stiffened garments out, saying as he did so:
“It’s too dark to see which is whose, but we’re all about of a size and
they don’t cut slickers to a very nice fit. So help yourselves and put
’em on as quickly as you can, for it’s beginning to pour down.”
The boys felt about in the dark until presently Cal called out:
“I say, fellows, I want to do some trading. I’ve got hold of three
pairs of trousers and two squams, but no coat. Who wants to swap a coat
for two pairs of trousers and a sou’wester?”
The exchanges were soon made and the waterproof garments donned, but
not before everybody had got pretty wet, for the rain was coming
down in torrents now, such as are never seen except in tropical or
subtropical regions.
The hurried performance served to divert the boys’ minds and cheer
their spirits for a while, but when the “slickers” were on and closely
fastened up, there was nothing to do but sit down again in the dismal
night and wait for the time to wear away.
“Now this is just what we needed,” said Cal, as soon as the others
began to grow silent and moody.
“What, the rain?”
“Yes. It helps to occupy the mind. It gives us something to think
about. It is a thing of interest. By adding to our wretchedness, it
teaches us the lesson that—”
“Oh, we don’t want any lessons, Cal; school’s out,” said Dick. “What I
want to know is whether you ever saw so heavy a rain before. I never
did. Why, there are no longer any drops—nothing but steady streams.
Did you ever see anything like it?”
“Often, and worse,” Larry answered. “This is only an ordinary summer
rain for this coast.”
“Well now, I understand—”
“Permit me to interrupt,” broke in Cal, “long enough to suggest that
the water in this boat is now half way between my ankles and my knees,
and I doubt the propriety of suffering it to rise any higher. Suppose
you pass the pump, Dick.”
Dick handed the pump to his companion, who was not long in clearing the
boat of the water. Then Tom took it and fitfully renewed the pumping
from time to time, by way of keeping her clear. After, perhaps, an
hour, the rain slackened to a drizzle far more depressing to the
spirits than the heavy downpour had been. The worst of the matter was
that the night was an intensely warm one, and the oilskin clothing
in which the boys were closely encased, was oppressive almost beyond
endurance. Presently Dick began unbuttoning his.
“What are you doing, Dick? “Tom asked as he heard the rustle.
“Opening the cerements that encase my person,” Dick answered.
“But what for?”
“Why, to keep from getting too wet. In these things the sweat that
flows through my skin is distinctly more dampening than the drizzling
rain.”
“I’d smile at that,” said Cal, “if it were worth while, as it isn’t.
We’re in the situation Charles Lamb pityingly imagined all mankind to
have been during the ages before candles were invented. If we crack a
joke after nightfall we must feel of our neighbor’s cheek to see if he
is smiling.”
The desire for sleep was strong upon all the company, and one by one
they settled themselves in the least uncomfortable positions possible
under the circumstances, and became silent in the hope of catching at
least a cat nap now and then. There was very little to be done in that
way, for the moment one part of the body was adjusted so that nothing
hurt it, a thwart or a rib, or the edge of the rail, or something else
would begin “digging holes,” as Larry said, in some other part.
Cal was the first to give up the attempt to sleep. After suffering as
much torture as he thought he was called upon to endure he undoubled
himself and sat upright. The rest soon followed his example, and Cal
thought it best to set conversation going again.
“After all,” he said meditatively, “this is precisely what we came to
seek.”
“What? The wretchedness of this night? I confess I am unable to take
that view of it,” answered Larry almost irritatedly.
“That is simply because your sunny temper is enshrouded in the murky
gloom of the night, and your customary ardor dampened by the drizzle.
You are not philosophical. You shouldn’t suffer external things to
disturb your spiritual calm. It does you much harm and no manner of
good. Besides, it is obvious that you judged and condemned my thought
without analyzing it.”
“How is that, Cal? Tell us about it,” said Dick. “Your prosing may put
us to sleep in spite of the angularity and intrusive impertinence of
everything we try to rest ourselves upon. Do your own analyzing and let
us have the benefit of it.”
“Oh, it’s simple enough. I indulged in the reflection that this sort
of thing is precisely what we set out on this expedition to find,
and it is so, if you’ll only think of it. We came in search of two
things—adventure and game. Surely this mud-bank experience is an
adventure, and I’m doing my best to persuade you fellows to be ‘game’
in its endurance.”
“That finishes us,” said Dick. “A pun is discouraging at all times; a
poor, weak-kneed, anæmic pun like that is simply disheartening, and
coming at a time of despondency like this, it reduces every fibre of
character to a pulp. I feel that under its influence my back bone has
been converted into guava jelly.”
“Your speech betrayeth you, Dick. I never heard you sling English more
vigorously than now. And you have regained your cheerfulness too, and
your capacity to take interest. Upon my word, I’ll think up another pun
and hurl it at you if it is to have any such effect as that.”
“While you’re doing it,” said Larry, “I’m going to get myself out of
the sweatbox I’ve been in all night. You may or may not have observed
it, but the rain has ceased, and the tide has turned and if I may be
permitted to quote Shakespeare, ‘The glow-worm shows the matin to be
near.’ In modern phrase, day is breaking, and within about two hours
the _Hunkydory_ will be afloat again.”
With the relief of doffing the oppressive oilskins, and the rapidly
coming daylight, the spirits of the little company revived, and it was
almost a jolly mood in which they made their second meal on hard ship
biscuit and still harder smoked bolognas.
VI
A LITTLE SPORT BY THE WAY
THE day had just asserted itself when Larry, looking out upon the broad
waters of a sound that lay between the dory and the point at which the
dory would have been if she had not gone aground, rather gleefully said:
“We’ll be out of our trouble sooner than we hoped. The _Hunkydory_ will
float well before the full flood.”
“Why do you think so, Larry?” asked Tom, who had not yet recovered
from his depression and was still blaming himself for the mishap and
doubting the possibility of an escape that morning.
“I don’t think it; I know,” answered Larry, beginning to shift ballast
in a way that would make backing off the mud bank easier.
“But how do you know?”
“Because there’s a high wind outside and it’s blowing on shore. Look at
the white caps out there where the water is open to the sea. We’re in
a sort of pocket here, and feel nothing more than a stiff breeze, but
it’s blowing great guns outside, and when that happens on an incoming
tide the water rises a good deal higher than usual. We’ll float before
the tide is at the full.”
“In my judgment we’re afloat now,” said Dick, who had been scrutinizing
the water just around them. “We’re resting on the marsh grass, that’s
all.”
“So we are,” said Cal, after scanning things a bit. “Let’s get to the
oars!”
“Better wait for five or ten minutes,” objected Dick. “We might foul
the rudder in backing off. Then we’d be in worse trouble than we were
before.”
“That’s so, Dick,” answered Cal, restraining his impatience and falling
at once into his peculiarly deliberate utterance. “That is certainly
so, and I have been pleased to observe, Dick, that many things you say
are so.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Cal, and for what it implies to the
contrary.”
“Pray don’t mention it. Take a look over the bow instead and see how
she lies now.”
In spite of their banter, that last ten minutes of waiting seemed
tediously long, especially to Tom, who wanted to feel the boat gliding
through the water again before forgiving himself for having run her
aground. At last the bow caught the force of the incoming flood, and
without help from anybody the dory lifted herself out of the grass and
drifted clear of the mud bank.
The centre board was quickly lowered, the sails hoisted, the burgee
run up to the masthead, and, as the _Hunkydory_ heeled over and began
plowing through the water with a swish, her crew set up a shout of glee
that told of young hearts glad again.
A kindly, gentle thought occurred to Dick Wentworth at that moment. It
was that by way of reassuring Tom and showing him that their confidence
in him was in no way shaken, they should call him to the helm at once.
Dick signalled his suggestion to Larry, by nodding and pointing to Tom,
whose eyes were turned away. Larry was quick to understand.
“I say, Tom,” he called out, “come to the tiller and finish your job.
It’s still your turn to navigate the craft.”
Tom hesitated for a second, but only for a second. Perhaps he
understood the kindly, generous meaning of the summons. However that
might be, he promptly responded, and taking the helm from Larry’s hand,
said, “Thank you, Larry—and all of you.”
That was all he said; indeed, it was all that he could say just then.
Suspecting something of the sort and dreading every manifestation of
emotion, as boys so often do, Larry quickly diverted all minds by
calling out:
“See there! Look! There’s a school of skipjacks breaking water dead
ahead. Let’s have some fun trolling for them. We haven’t any appointed
hours and we’re in no hurry, and trolling for skipjacks is prime sport.”
“What are they, anyhow?” asked Dick, who had become a good deal
interested in the strange varieties of fish he had seen for the first
time on the southern coast.
“Why, fish, of course. Did you think they were humming birds?”
“Well, I don’t know that I should have been greatly astonished if I had
found them to be something of that kind. Since you introduced me to
flying fish the other day, I’m prepared for anything. But what I wanted
to know was what sort of fish the skipjacks are.”
“Oh, that was it? Well, they’re what you call bluefish up north, I
believe. They are variously named along the coast—bluefish, jack
mackerel, horse mackerel, skipfish, skipjacks, and by some other names,
I believe, and they’re about as good fish to eat as any that swims in
salt water, by whatever name you call them.”
“Yes, I’ve eaten them as bluefish,” answered Dick. “They’re considered
a great dainty in Boston and up north generally.”
“They’re all that,” answered Larry, “and catching them is great sport
besides, as you’ll agree after you’ve had an hour or so of it. We must
have some bait first. Tom, run her in toward the mouth of the slough
you see on her starboard bow about a mile away. See it? There, where
the palmetto trees stand. That’s it. She’s heading straight at the
point I mean. Run her in there and bring her head into the wind. Then
we’ll find a good place and beach her, and I’ll go ashore with the cast
net and get a supply of shrimps.”
“Is it a wallflower or a widow you’re talking about, Larry?” languidly
asked Cal, while his brother was getting the cast net out and arranging
it for use.
“What do you mean, Cal? Some pestilent nonsense, I’ll be bound.”
“Not at all,” drawled Cal. “I was chivalrously concerned for the
unattached and unattended female of whom you’ve been speaking. You’ve
mentioned her six times, and always without an escort.”
“Oh, I see,” answered Larry, who was always quick to catch Cal’s rather
obscure jests. “Well, by the pronouns ‘she’ and ‘her,’ I meant the good
ship _Hunkydory_. She is now nearing the shore and if you don’t busy
yourself arranging trolling lines and have them ready by the time I
get back on board of her with a supply of shrimps, I’ll see to it that
you’re in no fit condition to get off another feeble-minded joke like
that for hours to come. There, Tom, give her just a capful of wind and
run her gently up that little scrap of sandy beach. No, no, don’t haul
your sheet so far—ease it off a bit, or she’ll run too far up the
shore. There! That’s better. The moment her nose touches let the sheet
run free. Good! Dick himself couldn’t have done that better.”
With that he sprang ashore, and with the heavily leaded cast net over
his arm and a galvanized iron bait pail in his hand, hurried along
the bank to the mouth of the slough, where he knew there would be
multitudes of shrimps gathered for purposes of feeding. After three
or four casts of the net he spread it, folded, over the top of his
bait bucket to keep the shrimps he had caught from jumping out. Within
fifteen minutes after leaping ashore he was back on board again with a
bucket full of the bait he wanted.
“Now, then,” he said to Dick and Tom, “Cal will show you how to do the
thing. I’ll sail the boat back and forth through the schools, spilling
wind so as to keep speed down. Oh, it’s great sport.”
“Well, you shall have your share of it then,” said Dick, carefully
coiling his line. “After I’ve tried it a little, and seen what sort of
sailing it needs, I’ll relieve you at the tiller and you shall take my
line.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Cal with a slower drawl than
usual by way of giving emphasis to his words. “Not if I see you first.
After Larry has run us through the school two or three times, missing
it more than half the time, I’ll take the tiller myself and give you a
real chance to hook a fish or two.”
Dick knew Cal well enough to understand that he was in earnest and that
there would be no use in protesting or arguing the matter. Besides
that, he hooked a big fish just at that moment, and was jerked nearly
off his feet. The strength of the pull astonished him for a moment. He
had never encountered a fish of any kind that could tug like that, and
for the moment he forgot that the dory was doing most of the pulling.
In the meanwhile he had lost his fish by holding his line too firmly
and dragging the hook out of its mouth.
“That’s your first lesson,” said Cal, as deliberately as if there had
been no exciting sport on hand, and with like deliberation letting his
own line slip slowly through his tightened fingers. “You must do it as
I am doing it now,” he continued. “You see, I have a fish at the other
end of my line and I want to bring him aboard. So instead of holding
as hard as a check post, I yield a little to the exigencies of the
situation, letting the line slip with difficulty through my fingers at
first and long enough to transmit the momentum of the boat to the fish.
Then, having got his finny excellency well started in the way he should
go, I encourage persistency in well doing on his part by drawing in
line. Never mind your own line now. We’ve run through the school and
Larry is heaving-to to let Tom and me land our fish. You observe that
Tom has so far profited by his close study of my performance that—yes,
he has landed the first fish, and here comes mine into the boat. You
can set her going again, Larry; I won’t drag a line this time, but
devote all my abilities to the instruction of Dick.”
On the next dash and the next no fish were hooked. Then, as the boat
sailed through the school again, Dick landed two beauties, and Tom one.
“That ends it for to-day,” said Larry, laying the boat’s course toward
the heavily wooded mainland at the point where Cal had suggested a stay
of several days for shooting.
“But why not make one more try?” eagerly asked Tom, whose enthusiasm in
the sport was thoroughly aroused; “haven’t we time enough?”
“Yes,” said Larry, “but we have fish enough also. The catch will last
us as long as we can keep the fish fresh, which isn’t very long in this
climate, and we never catch more fish or kill more game than we can
dispose of. It is unsportsmanlike to do that, and it is wanton cruelty
besides.”
“That’s sound, and sensible, and sportsmanlike,” said Dick,
approvingly. “And besides, we really haven’t any time to spare if we’re
going to stop on the island yonder for dinner, as we agreed, and—”
“And as at least one appetite aboard the _Hunkydory_ insists that we
shall,” interrupted Cal. “It’s after three o’clock now.”
“So say we all of us,” sang Tom to the familiar after-dinner tune, and
Larry shifted the course so as to head for an island nearly a mile
away.
There a hasty dinner was cooked and eaten, but hasty as it was, it
occupied more time in preparation than had been reckoned upon, so that
it was fully five o’clock when the dory was again cast off.
In the meanwhile the wind had sunk to a mere zephyr, scarcely
sufficient to give the heavy boat steerage way, and, late in the day,
as it was, the sun shone with a sweltering fervor that caused the boys
to look forward with dread to the prospect of having to resort to the
oars.
That time came quickly, and the sails, now useless in the hot, still
air, were reluctantly lowered.
A stretch of water, more than half a dozen miles in width, lay before
them, and the tide was strong against them. But they pluckily plied the
oars and the heavy boat slowly but surely overcame the distance.
They had found no fresh water on the island, and there was very little
in the water kegs when they left it for their far-away destination. The
hard work of rowing against the tide in a hot atmosphere, made them all
thirsty, so that long before they reached their chosen landing place,
the last drop of the water was gone, with at least two more hours of
rowing in prospect.
“There’s a spring where I propose to land,” said Cal, by way of
reassuring his companions. “As I remember it, the water’s a bit
brackish, but it is drinkable at any rate.”
“Are you sure you can find the spot in the dark, Cal?” asked Larry,
with some anxiety in his voice. “For it’ll be pitch dark before we get
there.”
“Oh, yes, I can find it,” his brother answered.
“There’s a deep indentation in the coast there—an inlet, in fact,
which runs several miles up through the woods. We’ll run in toward the
shore presently and skirt along till we come to the mouth of the creek.
I’ll find it easily enough.”
But in spite of his assurances, the boys, now severely suffering with
thirst, had doubts, and to make sure, they approached the shore and
insisted that Cal should place himself on the bow, where he could see
the land as the boat skirted it.
This left three of them to handle four oars. One of them used a pair,
in the stern rowlocks, where the width of the boat was not too great
for sculls, while the other two plied each an oar amidships.
In their impatience, and tortured by thirst as they were, the three
oarsmen put their backs into the rowing and maintained a stroke that
sent the boat along at a greater speed than she had ever before made
with the oars alone. Still it seemed to them that their progress was
insufferably slow.
Presently Cal called to them: “Port—more to port—steady! there! we’re
in the creek and have only to round one bend of it. Starboard! Steady!
Way enough.”
A moment later the dory slid easily up a little sloping beach and
rested there.
“Where’s your spring, Cal?” the whole company cried in chorus, leaping
ashore.
“This way—here it is.”
The spring was a small pool, badly choked, but the boys threw
themselves down and drank of it greedily. It was not until their thirst
was considerably quenched that they began to observe how brackish the
water was. When the matter was mentioned at last, Cal dismissed it with
one of his profound discourses.
“I’ve drunk better water than that, I’ll admit; but I never drank any
water that I enjoyed more.” Then he added: