THE MAN IN THE CABIN
The storm that had so suddenly overtaken the _Viking_ had raged over all
of Samoset Bay. The yacht _Surprise_, running up before the afternoon
southerly, had been becalmed when near the foot of Grand Island, a mile
or so out, and had felt the first force of the succeeding nor’easter. But
the squall that so nearly inflicted disaster upon the _Viking_ had passed
over them.
They only knew that the wind changed with startling abruptness, and most
capriciously, and that the sea began to roll up from the northeast in an
unusually brief time.
They were in no danger, apparently, there being good anchorage in a
harbour formed by the foot of Grand Island and a small island adjacent,
where they could lie snug till the threatening weather had cleared.
Still, their apparent safety did not prevent their receiving a momentary
shock of alarm, when they were within less than a half-mile of shelter.
The yacht _Surprise_ was beating ably up to the lee of the islands,
thrashing about some and throwing the spray, as the waves came spitefully
chopping and tossing under the spur of the wind, when suddenly she
struck, bow on. There was a mild shock from one end to the other, and an
ominous grating sound along the bottom. At the same time, the centreboard
rod, hit by some object, was forced part way upward through its box.
Joe Hinman, in great alarm, threw the yacht up into the wind, and glanced
anxiously about for breakers. But none was in sight.
“We can’t be in on the rocks,” he gasped. “Why, we’ve been down here with
Jack fifty times, if we have once. There aren’t any reefs out here.”
“I’ll get that chart and take a look,” said Mr. Carleton.
“Better wait and see if we’ve stove a hole in the bottom,” said Joe.
But the next moment the mystery was explained. There was a continued
grating sound along bottom, and presently a bundle of floating laths
drifted out, clearing the rudder. Coincident with this, the yacht struck
again very slightly at the bows. Then, as they scanned the water all
about, the boys saw that they had run into a mass of drifting,
half-submerged laths, tied into bundles. It was clear that, in some blow,
or storm, the deck-load of a coaster had been carried overboard.
By their water-soaked appearance, the laths had been afloat for many
days. The coasters that ran from Benton to the smaller towns down the bay
often carried these for a superficial cargo; and evidently some one of
them, hit by a squall, had run its deck well under and the stuff had
floated off.
Joe Hinman sprang forward, seized the boat-hook, and caught one of the
bundles by the rope that bound it at one end. He drew it alongside and
hauled it aboard with some difficulty, as it was heavy with water. Then
he took out his pocket-knife and proceeded to cut a sliver from one of
the laths. Though darkened a little by its exposure, and with trails of
slimy, green seaweed clinging to the bundle, the laths were sound, and
the wood bright as ever beneath the surface.
“Hooray!” he cried. “They’re worth several dollars a bundle. We’re in
luck. We’ll gather them all in.”
They picked up seven or eight of the bundles, stowing them in on either
side of the cockpit.
“Makes us look like a cargo-carrier,” said Allan Harding.
“Yes, and a good cargo, too,” replied Joe Hinman. “They are worth several
dollars each, to sell. But we won’t sell ’em. I’ve got an idea. We’ll
earn as much money as Jack and Henry Burns.”
“How’s that?” asked Mr. Carleton, curiously eying the enthusiastic
speaker.
Joe looked at him, beaming, and in reply exclaimed briefly, but
triumphantly, “Lobster-pots!”
“That’s so,” laughed Mr. Carleton. “I guess if you can make those queer,
bird-cage sort of things, you can catch all the lobsters you want around
here.”
“Oh, yes, there’s money in it,” responded Joe, “though the lobsters
aren’t so plenty as they used to be, the fishermen say. But we couldn’t
afford to buy any pots to fish with, because it costs so much to make
them nowadays.”
Joyfully, they put the _Surprise_ on its course again and gained the
shelter of the little harbour.
Three days later, the crew might have been seen, at a point about three
miles down the island from their camp, busily at work out on shore, with
axe and saw and hammer and nails.
“Going to build some lath-pots, eh?” Captain Sam had queried, when they
consulted him. “Yes, you can do it all right. Just go out and fetch one
of mine in shore, and go by that.” Then he added, with a twinkle in his
eye, and a shrewd Yankee smile, “You don’t need all them ’ere laths
anyway. You give me one of them bundles, and I’ll go to work and make
three of the slickest lath-pots you ever saw, for myself; and you can see
just how I do it.”
“It’s a bargain,” replied Joe, “if you will let us take your tools after
you get the pots made.”
“Reckon I will,” said Captain Sam, smiling.
It was a good bargain for the boys, at that; for Captain Sam was a clever
workman at whatever he set his hand to do.
“One of these ’ere lath-pots,” said the captain next day, as he set to
work, “is just as long as the length of a lath—four feet. Now we want
three strips of board, two feet long, to lay down crosswise for the
bottom pieces, at equal distances apart.”
He illustrated his remarks by splitting off the requisite pieces from a
chunk of board. Next he took an auger and bored a hole in each end of the
three pieces.
“Now,” he said, “we want three pieces of spruce that will bend up like
you was going to make a bow to shoot arrows with. Here they be, too, and
I’ve had ’em soaking in water all the morning, so they’ll bend better.”
Whereupon, Captain Sam, having whittled the ends of the pieces of spruce
down so they would fit snugly into the holes he had made, bent them and
inserted the ends in the holes of the three strips of board. The three
bows stood up like the tiny beams for a miniature house, with a rounded
roof, instead of a peaked one.
“Now, we’ll nail on our laths, top and bottom,” said Captain Sam, “and
then we’ve got the frame-work for a lobster-pot.”
He nailed them on to the three strips of board at the bottom and to the
three hoops of spruce at the top, making a cage with a flat bottom and a
rounded roof. Then, in the same way, he made a lath door, three laths in
width, running the entire length of the pot. This was fitted with leather
hinges and a wooden button to fasten on the inside, so that, when closed,
the door formed part of the roof of the pot.
“That’s the front door where Mr. Lobster always comes out,” remarked
Captain Sam. “It’s more work, though, making the end doors for him to
walk in at.”
These end doors, that the captain referred to, he now proceeded to fit
into place. Each consisted of a funnel-shaped mesh made of knotted cord,
the larger end fastened snugly all around to the end frame of the pot,
and leading into a small opening, six inches in diameter, made of a
wooden hoop. This hoop was held in place by Captain Sam’s tying it fast
with strings to the centre of the frame.
So that the entrance, for a hungry lobster seeking the bait inside, would
be the entire end of the frame, or what Captain Sam called the “street
entrance,” and narrowing to an opening only six inches in diameter, where
the lobster would enter the cage.
“Why don’t they walk out again?” inquired young Tim, whose experience in
fishing had been limited mostly to catching flounders and cunners.
“Well, they would, I reckon, if they swam like fish,” replied Captain
Sam. “But when they have followed down the slope of the mesh, and once
squeezed in through that small opening, they don’t know how to get back
again, because their claws spread out so. The slope of the mesh helps
them to get in, and there isn’t any on the inside to help them get out.
But they will crawl out again sometimes, too, if you leave the pots too
long and they get all out of food.”
He next proceeded to set up, in the bottom of the pot, a small, upright
post for a bait-holder. This was spear-shaped, with a barb whittled in
it, after the style of a fish-hook, so that a fish once impaled thereon
could not work off with the action of the water.
“There!” exclaimed Captain Sam, when he had driven the last nail and tied
the last cord. “Reckon it’s done. You boys can be chopping yourselves out
some buoys, to mark your pots with, while I make the other two. You come
up to the house to-night, and I’ll show you how to knot that twine to
make the meshes. So it won’t cost you much to make your pots, only for a
little twine and some nails.”
The crew, having thus gained their experience and the use of Captain
Sam’s tools, carried their stuff some three miles down the shore the next
day, and proceeded to construct their own lath-pots. The intermediate
waters had been fished so much by the townsfolk that they reckoned on
better success farther away. Then, too, much of the water lying between
was taken up with the pots of other fishermen, as was shown by their
buoys floating here and there. They constructed four of the pots the
first day.
“Let’s quit for the afternoon now, and get these set,” suggested Little
Tim, along about half-past four in the afternoon.
“All right, if you will trot up to town and get some rope,” said Joe.
“That’s the only thing we forgot. We’ll need the boat, though, to catch
some bait with. You’ll have to foot it.”
“I’ll go,” replied Tim; “but, say, who’s got any money?”
“Not any of us,” said Joe. “You’ll have to get Rob Dakin to trust us for
it. Tell him Jack will pay, if we can’t. But we can pay all right, if we
have any luck. Let’s see, we want a lot of rope. This water is ten feet
deep at low tide off those ledges, and the tide rises eight or nine feet.
We’ll need about twenty-five or thirty feet of line for each pot. That
will allow for its snagging, too. Come on, fellows, we’ll catch some
bait.”
There was a cove just below, with mud-flats making out into it, but
covered now with water. They rowed around to this, in a small boat
borrowed from Captain Sam. Baiting their hooks with clams, they dropped
their lines overboard; but the fish bit slowly.
“Guess they aren’t hungry,” said Joe. “Hand me up the spear, George, and
the oil. I’ll make a ‘slick,’ and we’ll see what we can do.”
The spear was a long, light pole of spruce, with a trident at one
end—three sharp prongs, the middle blade with a clean point, the outer
blades barbed.
They rowed into shallow water, but the bottom could not be seen, because
of a slight ruffling of the surface by the wind. Taking the bottle of
fish-oil that George Baker handed to him, Joe Hinman poured some of it
out on to a rag tied to the end of a stick. With this, he scattered the
oil for some distance about the boat. The oil spread out over the surface
of the water, smoothing its tiny chopping, so that through it the bottom
could be plainly seen.
Joe Hinman lay flat at the bow of the boat, holding the spear down in the
water. Presently he gave a jab with it, into the mud, and brought to the
surface a huge sculpin, wriggling, but fast on the prongs.
“They aren’t exactly handsome,” he remarked, as he dropped the sculpin
into the bottom of the boat, “but lobsters aren’t particular about
looks.”
The next jab brought up a big flounder that had wriggled its head into
the mud, and fancied itself safe. The bottom of the boat was soon covered
with them.
By the time young Tim was back with the rope, they had enough fish to
bait the four pots, and more, and a mess of flounders for supper.
They cut the line into proper lengths, tied one end of each length to the
end frame of a pot, and fastened a wooden buoy, previously boiled in
coal-tar to prevent its becoming water-logged, to the other end. Then
they took the pots, one by one, and rowed out with them to the off-lying
ledges.
They baited each pot, by impaling the fish on the wooden spear-head
sticking up from the bottom, closed the door, turned the wooden button
that fastened it, and dumped it overboard. The pots, weighted with
stones, sank slowly to the bottom.
“Great!” exclaimed Joe, as the last of the four went overboard.
“Everything complete, except we might have painted a sign, ‘Walk in,’ on
each one. What do you think about that, Tim?”
“No, they don’t need it,” said Tim, emphatically. “You might want me to
go to the store again for the paint.”
They were down bright and early the next morning to haul the pots. In
three of them, their efforts had been rewarded. In the fourth, the bait
had been untouched. But one of the pots had begun as a money-maker in
earnest. There were three good-sized lobsters in it. The other two had
one each.
They had saved some fish from the catch of the night before, so they
baited up the pots again, put them overboard, and resumed their
occupation ashore of constructing more pots, delegating young Tim to sell
their catch among the cottagers, who had nearly all arrived for the
summer.
Young Tim was gone not a great while, either. He came back, whooping
hilariously, and opened a small and rather begrimed fist, to disclose to
their admiring gaze the sum of a dollar and twenty-five cents in silver
money.
“Hooray!” cried Joe Hinman, throwing up his cap. “At this rate, we’ll
have the rope paid for, and the nails, and something more besides, when
Jack and Henry Burns get back. We’ll come pretty near taking care of
ourselves for the rest of the summer.”
Already the crew, with visions of being self-supporting, began to have an
increased respect for themselves. It was an agreeable sensation.
They soon found, however, that they were handicapped by the need of a car
to store their catch in; for, on some days when they had lobsters to
sell, the cottagers didn’t happen to want any; and again it happened that
they hadn’t any on hand when they were wanted. They began the
construction of a car, therefore, out of some old packing-boxes, after
they had finished a few more pots, and were hard at work on it when the
yacht _Viking_ hove in sight on an afternoon.
The _Viking_, following its frightful experience in the storm, had had a
prosperous trip. The boys had made some heavy catches, and were returning
with twenty-two hard-earned dollars.
There was a joyful celebration down on the shore that evening, in honour
of the _Viking’s_ return, and to commemorate their luck as fishermen.
“You’ve been buying the stuff for us all along,” Joe Hinman had said to
Jack Harvey. “Just come down to the camp to-night, and bring Tom and Bob
and the Warren boys. We’ll get the food this time.”
And they did, in generous style. There were seven of the biggest and
fiercest-looking lobsters that they had caught in the last two days,
broiling over a bed of red coals, when the visitors arrived. There were
two tins of biscuit, baked in the sheet-iron oven. There were provisions
that the crew had been able to buy with their own earnings. There were
potatoes baked in the ashes, and coffee, steaming hot.
“Yes, and what’s more, Jack,” said Joe Hinman, as they sat about the fire
on the shore, “there’s enough stuff left to make about seven more pots.
You fellows can go ahead and make the rest, if you want to; and we’ll
take turns tending them and getting the bait.”
“All right,” replied Harvey; “and if we get a bigger stock in the car
than we can dispose of around here, we’ll load up the _Viking_, when we
get a strong westerly some day, and run down to the big hotel at
Stoneland. They’ll pay bigger prices than we can get at the market.”
“My! but this lobster is good,” said young Joe Warren. “Henry, pass over
that melted butter and vinegar.”
“Isn’t it a great feast, though?” exclaimed young Tim. “Beats city grub
all hollow.”
And, indeed, it probably did surpass the sort of living Tim got at home.
“How’s our friend, Mr. Carleton?” asked Bob. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t
been around to welcome us back.”
“Perhaps he is offended with me for not taking him aboard on our fishing
trip,” said Henry Burns.
“Why, he hasn’t been to see us for two days,” replied Joe. “By the way,
though, last time I met him he asked me if I had seen anything of a ruby
scarf-pin aboard the _Surprise_. Said he’d lost one.”
“He asked me that, too,” said Arthur Warren. “He was up near the cottage
yesterday. Said he thought he might have dropped it out aboard the
_Viking_.”
“I think not,” said Harvey. “If he had we should have found it, for we
air that bedding out every clear day.”
“I don’t recall seeing him wear one,” said Henry Burns.
It is quite possible that Mr. Carleton might have been on hand to greet
the fishermen on their return, had he not been away down the island for
the day, in a rig he had hired of Captain Sam. The horse, though well
recommended by Captain Sam, was modelled somewhat on the same generous
lines as the captain’s boat, the _Nancy Jane_; that is, broad and beamy,
solid and substantial, but not especially speedy; more inclined to thrash
up and down, with considerable clatter, than to skim along and make time.
The result on this occasion was, that it was about half-past nine o’clock
when Mr. Carleton drove into Captain Sam’s dooryard, rather weary, and
not in the best of temper.
However, good-hearted Mrs. Curtis had supper waiting for him, and he lost
no time in stretching his legs under the table, where, at his ease over a
hot cup of tea, he was inclined to improve in spirits and rally the
captain on the slowness of his horse.
“Well,” said Captain Sam, with imperturbable good humour, “I’m sorry the
old nag didn’t fetch you up a little quicker. She’s a safe, steady
driver, though. Reckon the youngsters would have liked to see you over to
their shore supper. They’re all over there. Guess you must have seen
their fire down on the shore as you drove up. You know the _Viking_ got
in this afternoon. Had real good luck, too, so Henry Burns was saying.”
Mr. Carleton, leaning back in his chair and leisurely passing his cup for
another serving of tea, straightened up suddenly at this remark. But he
only said, indifferently, “That so? I’ll have to look them up in the
morning. I’m afraid I’m too tired to walk down there to-night.”
“Oh, they will be coming up before long now,” said Captain Sam.
“Why, don’t seem as if you was eating much,” he added, as Mr. Carleton
rose from the table.
Mr. Carleton had swallowed his last cup of tea in two gulps.
“First rate, first rate,” he said. “Had a good supper. I’ll take a little
stroll with a cigar, before turning in.”
Mr. Carleton walked leisurely out of the yard; but, when he had passed
down the road a few steps, he quickened his pace and reached the shore
almost running. Taking the first boat that came to hand, at random, he
pushed off and rowed out to the _Viking_ with a few quick, powerful
strokes. Then, pausing for a moment alongside, he listened for the sounds
of any one approaching. It was still. Mr. Carleton sprang aboard.
He rushed to the companionway. But the hatch was drawn, the cabin doors
shut, and the lock set. Mr. Carleton uttered an exclamation of anger.
Stooping over, he felt along under the seats on either side of the
cockpit. His search was rewarded, for his hand rested presently on the
blade of a small hatchet, which was used by the yachtsmen for all sorts
of work, from chopping bait to splitting kindling.
Mr. Carleton sprang to his feet, gave one quick glance about, then rushed
to the companionway and smashed the lock with two smart blows. The next
moment, he shoved back the hatch, opened the doors, and vanished below.
But, though unseen, Mr. Carleton had not been unheard.
Only a few moments before this, Tom and Bob and Henry Burns and Harvey
had gone down to the shore, after bidding the crew good night.
“How did you happen to bring the canoe, Jack?” inquired Allan Harding. “I
thought you wasn’t going to use that any more.”
“Well, I did say so last year,” replied Harvey. “I thought I had come too
near drowning ever to enjoy it again. But Tom and Bob were coming down in
theirs, so Henry and I got mine down from the Warren’s shed.”
“We’ll race you up,” said Tom.
“All right,” said Harvey. “I think you can beat us, though.”
For a short distance, however, Henry Burns and Harvey held their own.
Then the skill of the other two, and their long practice of paddling
together, began to tell, and their canoe forged ahead.
“It’s no use, Henry,” said Harvey, good-naturedly. “I can’t handle a
paddle with Tom Harris. They have kept a straight line, but I can’t keep
this craft up to her course.”
They slowed down, accordingly, and the other canoe left them considerably
astern. Then Tom, turning and discovering that the others had fallen
back, spoke to Bob, and they waited for the second canoe to come up.
It was at this very moment that Mr. Carleton, hatchet in hand, had
smashed the lock.
“Hark! what was that?” exclaimed Bob White. “Did you hear it? That was
out aboard the _Viking_.”
“It sounded like it, sure enough,” said Tom. “Say, fellows,” he cried as
the other canoe came near, “did you leave anybody aboard the yacht? We
just heard somebody out there.”
“No, we didn’t,” replied Harvey. “Come on, let’s get up to her quick.”
If Tom and Bob had beaten them before, they could not do it now. Harvey’s
paddle went into the water with a strength that was well-nigh doubled
with excitement. Moreover, if there had been any possible doubt in their
minds as to whether there was really anybody aboard the _Viking_, that
doubt was dispelled by a faint gleam of light showing from out the cabin
door.
“How can that be?” exclaimed Harvey. “I sprung that lock, myself.”
They were alongside, next moment, and aboard, with the light lines that
held the canoes quickly made fast.
Rushing to the companionway, Harvey cried, angrily:
“Here! Who’s that down there? What are you doing?”
The man, springing up, and holding the lantern in one hand, disclosed the
features of their friend, Mr. Carleton.
“Hello!” he said. “Say, this is too bad.”
“You bet it’s too bad!” cried Harvey, interrupting him. “What do you mean
by breaking in here?”
Mr. Carleton, setting down the lantern, emerged from the cabin.
“I really must apologize,” he said, coolly. “I simply couldn’t wait—”
“Yes, but you could wait!” Harvey broke in, hotly, and advancing toward
Mr. Carleton. “It’s no way to do, to sneak out here in the night and
smash our things.”
“See here, young man,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, himself warming a little,
though his voice was calm and modulated, “I wouldn’t try to threaten me,
if I was you, don’t you know. I might get angry, too. I—”
“Do it!” cried Harvey, excitedly. “Get angry. I’d just like to have you.
Just give us a chance and see what happens.”
“And what might that be?” demanded Mr. Carleton, sharply.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Harvey. “We’ll throw you overboard. Say,
fellows, won’t we?”
“We certainly will,” answered Henry Burns, calmly.
“Say the word, Jack,” said Bob.
The four boys approached Mr. Carleton. He eyed them for a moment
threateningly. They were certainly sturdy opponents. And that his
intended threat had been without avail, and that they were thoroughly
fearless and ready to act, there could be no doubt. Mr. Carleton’s
demeanour altered.
“Good! I like your pluck,” he laughed. “Really, I think I’d do the same
thing if I were in your place. I don’t blame you, and I was sorry I was
so hasty, the moment I had done it. You see, I’ve lost a very valuable
ruby scarf-pin somewhere—a keepsake, too, don’t you know. I’ve worried
myself just about frantic over it. Now I thought it must have fallen out
when I was aboard here. So, when I found your cabin locked up, I simply
couldn’t stand it any longer.
“But I’ll make any amends in my power,” he added. “I’ll come out
to-morrow, and I’ll bring the best lock that money will buy over in
Bellport. I’ll send over for it first thing.”
“Hadn’t you better go ashore now?” suggested Henry Burns.
“Why, yes,—good night,—I will,” replied Mr. Carleton. “Good night—I’m
sorry it happened—I’ll fix it all right, though.”
And, stepping into his boat alongside, he put out his oars and rowed
away.
“Never mind about that lock,” Henry Burns called out.
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, pausing for a moment.
“I say, never mind the lock,” repeated Henry Burns. “We’ll attend to
that, ourselves. We’d just as lieves you would keep away from the
_Viking_ after this.”
Mr. Carleton made no reply as he rowed away.
“I wonder if we were too rough on him,” said Jack Harvey to his
companion, a little later, as they were undressing, preparatory to
turning in for the night.
“I don’t see why,” answered Henry Burns. “That’s a pretty high-handed
proceeding, to come aboard here and smash into our cabin.”
“Well, perhaps he _was_ worried about that pin,” said Harvey. “Some
persons do lose their heads just that way.”
“Yes, but he isn’t one of the kind that lose their heads,” said Henry
Burns. “And for my part, I can’t recall for the life of me ever seeing
him wear any such kind of a pin.”