DAVY JONES
Tully’s game worked successfully for the next few weeks, for he had
distributed his activities among various club houses dotting the shore.
It had become an enterprise apparently without threat of untoward
incident—so much so that Skippy, with his uncanny knack of presaging
ill, came to feel that they must not go on with the distasteful
business.
He had hated the treachery of it from the very beginning, partly because
of his innate honesty and also because in fairness to himself, he knew
he had no real grudge against his rich fellow men. And in his vague,
ignorant way Skippy knew that Skinner and Crosley represented something
which hate could never successfully combat.
He felt it particularly one early morning when Tully, swaggering out of
the shanty of the _Minnie M. Baxter_, rubbed his large hands in gleeful
anticipation of the next victim.
“’Tis up to the Riverview Yacht Club we’ll be goin’ this mornin’, kid,”
he said confidently. “We’ve worked aroun’ to it agin. Me pal, the boat
tender what tipped me off on Crosley’s _Minnehaha_, ain’t there no more,
but the new guy was aisy pickin’. He fell for a little split, without
battin’ an eye, so he did, and sent word down last night that a little
fishin’ party headed for Snug Island would push off at dawn.”
“Snug Island, huh?” Skippy asked fearfully. “That means Watson’s Channel
for us again?”
“Sure,” laughed Tully, “’tis a spot I like. Nobody goes through Watson’s
Channel ’cept they’re headed for Snug Island. And nobody goes to Snug
Island fishin’ but a coupla rich guys what own the whole place. It’s
aisy pickin’ so ’tis.”
“For you it’s easy, Big Joe,” said Skippy, “but not for me. Sometimes I
think I never had anythin’ so hard to do in my life as just gettin’ up
nerve to go on these trips. Gee, I ain’t never had the heart to tell Pop
about them—I lied, an’ said we was makin’ a pretty good livin’ towin’
an’ fishin’.”
Big Joe roared with laughter.
“Sure and we’re towin’ and fishin’,” he said with a malicious wink. “Ye
didn’t tell Toby no lie. We fish the money out o’ ’em and thin tow thim
back—that’s no story.”
“I wish you wouldn’t laugh about it, Big Joe,” Skippy said with a frown.
“It makes it seem as if it was a joke—as if you liked it almost.”
“And you’d be likin’ it too, kid, if ye wanted to get back at these rich
guys much as I do. But I won’t be laughin’ about it no more, if it makes
ye feel that way. Sufferin’ swordfish but ye don’t have to be actin’
like we’re goin’ to a funeral.”
“I feel funny about goin’ to the Riverview Yacht Club this morning. Big
Joe, would you stay away from there if I asked you to?”
“Any mornin’ but this one, Skippy me boy,” said Tully with all his old
affection. “I can’t be side-steppin’ it on account o’ this new boat
tender. He’s expectin’ a little handout so I can’t be disappointin’ him.
But I’ll tell ye what, kid, if it’s makin’ ye feel so awful bad I’ll
chuck this game ’fore ye can say any more. I’ll be thinkin’ up somethin’
else. Anythin’ but seem’ ye’ feelin’ sad, kid.”
They got into the kicker and chugged out of the inlet once more.
Skippy’s eyes glistened happily and he told himself that he could forget
the ominous whisperings inside of him for just this once. Indeed, he
could forget everything distasteful in the past few weeks now that Tully
had promised to give up the hated business.
“We ain’t heard from Crosley or Skinner since that mornin’ we towed ’em
back, huh Big Joe?” he asked irrelevantly. “I wonder if they found out
what was really wrong with the engine?”
“We’d o’ heard ’bout it soon enough if they did, so we would,” said
Tully thoughtfully. “Anyways, I heard that Crosley sold the _Minnehaha_
right that next day. He said he didn’t want no boat that almost put him
down in Watson’s Channel. Ha, ha! Sure and I’m glad he did. He should be
worryin’ with his money.”
Once more they pulled up beside the slip of the Riverview Yacht Club and
once more Big Joe stole silently up the lawn in the gray morning
shadows. Skippy waited patiently, albeit anxiously, and held the boat
secure while his weary eyes blinked sleepily in the sultry air.
After a time, Big Joe came hurrying out of the shadows.
“Simple as sayin’ meow, kid,” he said exultantly. “The boat tender tells
me this guy’s goin’ alone to Snug Island this mornin’. He couldn’t be
rememberin’ the guy’s name what owns her, but he says the boat ain’t a
week old. She’s a peach—a trim, twenty-six footer, kid! And of all names
she’s got! Sufferin’ swordfish!”
“What?”
“The _Davy Jones_—so ’tis. Can ye be beatin’ that?”
“_Big Joe!_” Skippy said in a small, frightened voice. “That’s a name
that scares me terrible.”
“_Ye’re crazy, kid, ye’re crazy!_ Sure and what’s in a name. Just ’cause
Davy Jones happens to mean....”
“Just the same I’m scared terrible,” Skippy maintained stoutly. “An’
there’s lots in names whether you believe it or not. Now take the
_Minnie M. Baxter_—nothin’ bad could come of her in the end, I bet, and
if it did I bet it would be for the best, because it was my mother’s
name. Even if there’s been trouble about the barge from the beginnin’
there’s good come on it too. When Pop was taken away, then you came to
be good to me so that shows there’s somethin’ good about the barge,
don’t it? But Davy Jones only means one thing, Big Joe, an’ you can say,
what’s in a name!”
What, indeed!