A RAINY NIGHT
The summer days went by pleasantly now, with naught to interrupt the
enjoyment of the yachtsmen. The three yachts, the _Viking_, the
_Surprise_, and the _Spray_, went on a friendly cruise around Grand
Island, putting in at little harbours overnight, and the crews waking the
stillness of many a small hamlet with their songs and skylarking at
twilight. They had races from port to port, the largest boat giving the
other two time-allowance. They fished and swam and grew strong.
Toward the middle of August, the crew gave up lobster catching and stored
the lath-pots away for another year. The _Surprise_ took to going on
voyages down the bay, fishing on its own account. In fact, Harvey’s four
charges had developed a surprising and most commendable ability to look
out for themselves, without assistance from him and Henry Burns.
The _Viking_, too, went on a ten days’ fishing voyage to the outer
islands, cleaned up a good catch of cod and hake, and came back, with all
the gear neatly packed away, ready to store for the winter.
There had been only one thing lacking for the season’s complete financial
success. The mackerel had not appeared around the coast. It was getting
near the first of September, and the local fishermen had lost hope of
their coming.
“Guess it’s going to be an off year,” remarked Captain Sam. “They’re
uncertain fish. One year you can almost bail ’em out with a pail, and
another year they just keep away. They’re getting a few down around Cape
Cod, I hear, but I reckon the seiners have cleaned ’em out so there won’t
be any ’round these parts.”
Nevertheless, the young fishermen were alive to the possibility of their
coming. They scanned the water eagerly for signs of a school whenever
they were cruising, and, at early morning, watched the harbour entrances
in the hope they might see the fish breaking.
“If we could only get the first run of them,” said Little Tim, “we’d just
make a fortune. The big hotels down the bay haven’t had any this season,
except those they’ve sent to Boston and Portland for. They’d take the
whole boat-load.”
Little Tim was, in fact, the greatest optimist to be found around Grand
Island. Perhaps it was because he knew less about signs and indications
of fish, and trusted only to his own hopes. The old salts shook their
heads and agreed it was surely an off year. But, wherever the _Surprise_
cruised, if there was not a sea on, and the yacht was sailing slowly
enough to admit of it, Little Tim had a line overboard, trolling far
astern. The jig was baited with a white strip of fish, to catch the eye
of any hungry mackerel that might have ventured into the bay, despite the
predictions of the islanders.
Then, early one afternoon, Little Tim’s faith was rewarded. They were
sailing lazily along, with a light west wind, in the lee of the small
islands back of Hawk Island, some six or seven miles below Southport.
Little Tim, seated on the after-rail, had his usual line astern, and the
crew had had their usual jokes at his expense—especially when, now and
then, a tug at the line, which had set Tim’s heart jumping, had proved to
be only a floating bunch of seaweed, greatly to the chagrin of Tim, and
to the amusement of the others.
There came a smart tug at the line, and Little Tim was up like a rabbit
out of its hole. He seized the line and began hauling in rapidly.
“Tim’s got some more seaweed,” said Allan Harding. “Too bad there isn’t
money in that. He’s pulled enough up alongside the boat to make us all
rich.”
“No, it isn’t!” cried Tim, excitedly. “Look, there’s a fish coming
in—hooray! It’s a mackerel, too. See him shine.”
Little Tim yanked the fish out of water, with a jerk that sent fish and
mackerel-jig higher than his head. But there was no mistake about it.
There was a mackerel, flopping and jumping in the bottom of the boat,
glistening and gleaming, with its mingled shades of green and black and
white.
“Isn’t he a beauty?” exclaimed Tim, dancing about in wild excitement. “It
isn’t a No. 1 size—only a ‘tinker;’ but it’s a mackerel sure enough, and
they don’t come alone, these fellows. There are more. Get out the lines.”
But his companions, no longer scoffing, were as excited as he. Joe Hinman
had the boat up into the wind, in a twinkling. The other two boys had the
sail down on the run, and furled, with a couple of stops about it, and
they were drifting slowly, the next moment, with lines out on every hand.
However, Little Tim proved to be more of a discoverer than prophet. The
fish, if there were more of them about, were not running in large
numbers. They caught a few more scattering ones, but they could see no
school in sight. They stuck to it, however, till the middle of the
afternoon.
“They’re coming in, though,” said Joe Hinman; “and we are the only ones
that know it. We haven’t the bait for much fishing, anyway; so let’s run
up to harbour while the wind lasts, tell Jack and Henry Burns, and we’ll
all come down here again early in the morning, before the other boats get
out.”
Little Tim, winding up his line reluctantly, drew one more fish in before
they set sail, well-nigh going overboard in his excitement.
They reached Southport Harbour about five o’clock, and ran close
alongside the _Viking_, which lay at its mooring.
“We’ve got something good for supper, Henry,” said Little Tim to Henry
Burns, who was busily engaged cleaning up the decks of the yacht, with a
broom which he dipped overboard now and then.
“Better send up and invite young Joe down,” said Henry Burns, paying
little attention to the new arrivals. “Jack and I are going into the
tent, to eat supper with Tom and Bob.”
“All right,” said young Tim. “It may be your only chance, though, to eat
one of these this summer.” Henry Burns glanced up from his work at the
string of six mackerel which Tim proudly displayed. Then he flung down
his broom and ran to the companionway.
“Jack, come out here,” he cried. “They’ve got some mackerel. They’ve come
at last.”
Harvey emerged hurriedly from the cabin, and gave a whoop of exultation
when he saw the fish.
“We want to go down first thing in the morning,” said Joe Hinman, “before
any of the other boats get out. There’ll be money in the first catch, if
we have any luck.”
“We won’t wait till morning,” said Henry Burns, decidedly. “We’ll start
to-night, and be on the grounds first thing. I’ll get Tom and Bob out.
You fellows get your lines ready and we’ll go and catch some bait right
off.”
Henry Burns, while not of excitable temperament, had a way of doing
things sharply and promptly when occasion demanded. He went below and
presently gave a signal of three short toots on the fish-horn, in the
direction of the camp. Bob was alongside next moment, in the canoe.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Get ready for a trip down the bay,” replied Henry Burns. “We’re off
to-night, just as soon as we get the bait. The mackerel are in. Tim’s
found them at last.”
Tim showed the crew’s catch.
“Fine!” exclaimed Bob. “I’ll tell you what,” he added, “I’ve got supper
under way. Let me take those fish, and I’ll cook them, too, and get
supper ready for all of us, while the rest of you catch the bait. Tom
will come out and help you.”
Tim tossed the fish into the canoe, and Bob hastened ashore.
They were all out in the cove shortly, with lines down close to the muddy
bottom, for flounders and sculpins. The tide, at half-flood, served them
fortunately, and soon the fish began to come aboard. Then, when they had
their catch, they rowed around to the wharf, dropping Henry Burns ashore
near the Warren cottage.
The _Spray_ was gone from harbour; but Henry Burns left word for the
Warren boys to follow, in the morning, impressing the importance of
secrecy on Mrs. Warren, with a solemnity as great as if they were going
after hidden gold.
At the wharf, near the beach, a huge sort of coffee-mill was set up,
which the mackerel fishermen used for grinding bait—but which had had no
service thus far this year. Chopping the fish into pieces, they threw
these into the mill, whence they dropped into a big wooden bucket, ground
into a mess that might, as Little Tim remarked, look appetizing to a
mackerel, but didn’t to him.
“There, we’ve got ‘chum’ enough,” said Harvey, when the bucket was
two-thirds filled. “We’ll need the rest of the fish to bait the hooks.
Come on, before any of the fishermen see what we are doing.”
They rowed around quickly to the camp, whence the odours of supper
emerged, appetizingly. Bob had been as good as his word, and everything
was ready. They sat about the opening of the tent, and did full justice
to Bob’s cooking.
“Lucky it’s going to be a good night,” said Henry Burns, glancing off at
the sea and sky. “Looks like a little breeze, doesn’t it, Jack?”
“I hope so,” replied Harvey. “We’ll start, anyway. It’s clear, and it
won’t be like drifting about down off Loon Island, if we get becalmed.”
“Can’t stop to clean up dishes to-night,” said Bob, as he piled the stuff
into the tent, as soon as they were finished. “We usually leave things
more shipshape, don’t we, Tom?”
They tied the flap of the tent carefully, saw that the tent-pegs were
firm, and the guy-ropes all right, and departed. By half-past seven
o’clock they were out aboard, and the two yachts were under way.
“Too bad the _Spray_ isn’t coming along,” said Henry Burns; “but I’ve
left word for them to follow in the morning.”
There was a light westerly breeze blowing, which was favourable for a
straight run to the islands, with sheets started a little, and everything
drawing. They set the forestaysail and both jibs and the club-topsail on
the _Viking_; and, there being no sea, with the wind offshore, they made
fast time.
The _Surprise_, with everything spread, followed in the wake of the
larger yacht.
“We’ll tell the mackerel you are coming,” called Henry Burns to the crew.
“They know it already. We told them we were coming back. We saw ’em
first,” responded Tim.
They were among the islands by ten o’clock, though the wind had fallen.
They anchored in the lee of one, and prepared to turn in.
“We ought to be out early,” said Harvey; “but how are we going to wake
up? I’m sure to sleep till long after sunrise, unless somebody wakes me.
We ought to have some alarm to set, to wake us.”
“Don’t need it,” replied Henry Burns. “I’ll set myself. I don’t know how
I do it, but if I go to bed thinking I want to wake up at a certain hour,
I almost always do wake at about that time. How will four o’clock do?”
“Early enough,” said Harvey; “but don’t over-sleep.”
Sure enough, Henry Burns was awake next morning by a few minutes after
four o’clock; but he was not ahead of Little Tim, this time, who was so
excited that he had slept all night with one eye half-open, and who had
been up once or twice in the dead of night, thinking it must be near
morning. He was over the rail of the _Viking_, at the first appearance of
Henry Burns, and, between them, there was no more sleep for anybody.
It was dead calm over all the bay; and, one thing was certain, there was
as yet no news of the mackerel having come in, for there were no boats
out.
“We’ve stolen a march on the fishermen for once,” exclaimed Tom, as they
ate a hurried breakfast and got the lines ready. “I wonder if the
mackerel are looking for breakfast, too.”
They put out, shortly, in the two dories, rowing down a half-mile to
where the crew had seen the fish the night before. There was no sign of
the water breaking, anywhere, to denote the presence of a school.
“Never mind, we’ll throw out, anyway,” said Harvey. “Sometimes they’re
around when they don’t break. They may be feeding deeper.”
Taking a long-handled tin dipper, he filled the bucket of bait nearly to
the brim with sea-water, and stirred it vigorously for a moment. Then he
took a dipper of the stuff and threw it as far from the boat as he could,
scattering it broadly over the surface of the water.
They waited, watching eagerly, but the bits of ground fish sank slowly,
undisturbed.
“Don’t seem to be at home,” muttered Harvey. “Row out a little farther,
and we’ll try them again.”
They repeated the manœuvre several times, but each time the bait was
untaken. It sank slowly, each tiny particle clearly defined in the still
water, settling in odd little patches of discoloration.
Then, of a sudden, there was a sharp severance of one of these patches,
as though an arrow had been shot through it. The next moment, there was a
darting here and there and everywhere. The pieces of fish disappeared in
tiny flurries. At the same time, the surface of the water broke into
myriads of tiny ripples, as though whipped up by a breeze.
“They’re here,” whispered Harvey. “Get out the lines.” He filled the
dipper once more and threw it broadcast, but this time nearer the boats.
They threw out the lines, baited with the shining pieces of flounder.
It seemed as though every bait was seized at once; for, in a moment,
every boy was pulling in, and a half-dozen mackerel came over the
gunwales together.
They baited up anew, then, knowing that no bait serves so well for
mackerel as a piece cut from the under side of the fish, itself. This,
white and shiny, and pierced twice through the tough skin with the barb
of the hook, would indeed often answer several times in succession,
without rebaiting.
They rigged two lines for each fisherman, tying an end of each line to
the gunwale, so that, when a bite was felt, one of the lines could be
dropped while the fish on the other was hauled aboard. The mackerel,
indeed, bit so ravenously that it was hardly necessary to stop to see if
a fish was hooked, but only to catch up one line, as quick as a fish had
been removed from the other and that line thrown out, and haul in again.
Nine times out of ten there would be a mackerel on the hook. Standing up
in the dories, to work to better advantage, they were soon half knee-deep
in the fish.
“We’ll fill the boats, if they keep this up,” said Harvey. “Tom, you’re
nearest the oars; just row back toward the yacht, easily, and we’ll toll
them up that way.”
He threw out more bait, as Tom worked the dory back, and the whole school
followed, hungrily. In a few minutes the boys had climbed aboard the
yachts and were fishing from them, to better advantage.
A half-hour went by, and the fish had not ceased biting. The boys were
drenched to the skin from their hips to their feet, with the drippings
from the wet lines; for, in their haste, they had not stopped to don
their oilskin breeches.
“We ought to have known better, with all the experience we have had this
summer,” said Henry Burns; “but never mind, we’ll make enough out of this
catch to buy new clothes, if the wind only serves us, later.”
By the end of an hour, the sun was up and gleaming across the water.
“They’re likely to leave us soon, now,” remarked Harvey; but, oddly
enough, the fish still remained about the boats in such numbers that the
water seemed fairly alive with them. However, with the warmth of the
sun’s rays, the voracity of the mackerel abated somewhat, and they began
pulling them in more slowly.
“I’m just as glad,” exclaimed Tom, whose arms, bronzed and muscular, were
nevertheless beginning to feel the novel exercise. “My arms and wrists
ache, and I know I’ll never be able to stand up straight again. My back
is bent, and frozen that way, with leaning over this rail.”
Suddenly, after a quarter of an hour more, the fish began making little
leaps half out of water, breaking the surface with little splashings and
whirls.
“They’ll be gone now,” said Harvey. “Some bigger fish are chasing them.
That’s what makes them act that way.”
This seemed to be true, for presently the water that, a moment before,
had been alive with the darting fish, became still and deserted. They
took one or two more, by letting their baits sink deep in the water, but
the big catch was ended.
“It’s pretty near a record for hand-line fishing in a single morning
around here, I guess,” said Harvey. “How many do you think we’ve caught,
Henry?”
“Nearly five hundred, I should say,” answered Henry Burns.
“More than that, I’ll bet,” exclaimed his enthusiastic comrade. And for
once, at least, Harvey was nearer correct than Henry Burns; for, when
they had counted them, some hours later, there were five hundred, and
eighteen more, in the _Viking’s_ catch; and as for the crew of the
_Surprise_, they were only fifty below this figure.
“Oh, but I’m hungry!” exclaimed Bob, dropping on to the seat. “And, say,
it’s somebody’s else turn to cook breakfast.”
“I’ll do it,” said Tom.
“Well, you go ahead,” said Henry Burns, “and the rest of us will stow
these fish down below, out of the sun.”
They went to work with a will, the crew of the _Surprise_ doing likewise.
“Too bad to stow fish in this nice, clean cabin,” said Joe Hinman; “but
never mind, we’ll have to turn to, by and by, and scrub it, that’s all.”
They had the luck with them, again; for hardly had they begun to prepare
breakfast, than the water rippled with a second day’s westerly breeze.
They got the two yachts under sail, without a moment’s loss of time.
“See here, Joe,” called Harvey, as the yachts began to fill away, “we’ll
play fair with you. We can outsail you some, and we shall get to
Stoneland before you do. We’ll take the big hotel in the harbour, and
then the market. The market will buy all that either of us have left.
We’ll leave you the other hotel, a half-mile up the shore. There are
’most as many guests there, and they’re all summer boarders, so they’ll
take as many fish. If we break a stay on the trip over and get delayed,
you give us the same chance, eh?”
“Ay, ay,” responded Joe. “Good luck!”
The wind not only came sharp and strong, an hour later, but there were
thunder-clouds in the sky, down near the horizon-line, and the breeze was
full of quick flaws and was treacherous. Before they were half-way over
to Stoneland, they were sailing under two reefs and making the water fly.
“It’s great!” cried Harvey, hugging the wheel, in his delight. “Let her
blow good and hard as long as it doesn’t storm. We’ll do the fifteen
miles in an hour and a half, at this rate.”
The two yachts were lying well over in the water, crushing it white under
the lee-rail, and making fast time.
“We’ll get a storm, too, by nightfall,” said Henry Burns, looking
weather-wise at the sky. “But we shall have sold our fish first, and
we’ll be snug behind the breakwater. So let it come.”
The yachtsmen were in great spirits. Even Henry Burns betrayed symptoms
of excitement as they ran into the harbour, early in the forenoon, and
brought the _Viking_ up neatly at the hotel wharf.
A few minutes later, Henry Burns and Jack Harvey approached a somewhat
important-appearing person on the hotel veranda, who had been pointed out
to them as the proprietor.
“Fish? No, I don’t buy fish,” he answered, shortly, in reply to Henry
Burns’s question. “See the steward. He attends to that.”
Harvey reddened, but Henry Burns smiled and said:
“That’s all right, Jack. We’re only fishermen, you know. Come on, we’ll
see the steward. We’ll make him pay more for the fish, just because the
proprietor was haughty.”
Henry Burns was fortunate enough to catch the steward in the hotel
office, where he stated his errand, coolly, before some of the guests.
“Good!” exclaimed one of them. “You’d better get ’em, Mr. Blake. You
haven’t given us any fresh mackerel this season.”
“He’ll have to buy some, now, whether he wants to or not,” said Henry
Burns to Harvey, as they followed the steward into his private office.
“Now see here,” said the steward, “I’ve got some six hundred guests in
this house, and I need about three hundred fish. I want a fairly easy
price for that many.”
“Twenty cents apiece, right through,” answered Henry Burns, promptly.
“Ho! That’s too much,” said the steward. “Can’t do it. Try again.”
“That’s the figure,” insisted Henry Burns. “You’ll have to pay more, if
we sell them to the market, you know. Then there’s the hotel up the
shore. What would your boarders say if we took them up there and sold
them?”
Steward Blake looked at Henry Burns sternly for a moment; then a grim
smile played about the corners of his mouth.
“You’re kind of sharp, aren’t you?” he asked. “Well, I guess you’ve got
me there, as these are the first of the season. Throw in an extra dozen
for good measure, and it’s a bargain.”
“All right,” said Henry Burns.
A few moments later, with three twenty-dollar bills tucked away in a
wallet in his inner waistcoat pocket, Henry Burns, with Harvey, was going
briskly down to the wharf, where he and his comrades were soon engaged in
loading the fish into the hotel wagon.
“We can be haughty now, ourselves,” he said, as they got under way once
more and stood down for the market.
Ten cents apiece was the marketman’s figure, and they let the remainder
go for that. Then, with eighty dollars for the entire morning’s catch,
they went aboard the _Viking_ and punched and pummelled one another like
a lot of young bears, from sheer excess of joy.
“I wonder how the crew will come out,” said Harvey. “I’m afraid they
won’t do as well at a bargain as you did, Henry.”
“Perhaps so,” said Henry Burns. “They’ve got Little Tim aboard, and he’s
pretty shrewd, sometimes.”
And indeed, it was at Little Tim’s suggestion that the _Surprise_ went on
up the coast, after the crew had done business with the hotel left for
them according to the agreement, and they sold the remainder of their
catch at the hotel at Hampton, three miles farther on. And they, too,
found themselves rich at the end of their bargaining, with sixty dollars
to divide among the four of them.
Then, as the day wore on threatening, with the thunder-clouds slowly
mounting higher, and the wind coming in fiercer gusts, the yachts, each
in a safe harbour, laid up for the day. The respective crews wandered
about the towns as if they were each, individually, the mayor, or at
least were a party of the selectmen.
The Warren boys, having returned on the previous evening, and being
apprised by Mrs. Warren of the news confided to her care, were
disappointed not to have joined the party; but they made ready, the next
morning, to follow. Then the early morning steamer from Bellport brought
them a letter, saying that Mr. Warren, senior, would arrive on the
night-boat from Benton, and had arranged for a week’s cruise with them,
among the islands. So they changed their plans to a short run down toward
the foot of Grand Island, to be back at nightfall.
There, again, the fortune of sailing was against them. By mid-afternoon,
when they would have put back, the storm threatened.
“No use,” said George Warren, reluctantly. “We’ll have to wait for it to
blow over. We’ll be glad enough of this good harbour in a half-hour
more.”
The storm broke soon after, heavily. By five o’clock it was pouring in
torrents, with sharp flashes of lightning illumining the darkened waters
of the bay. By six o’clock it eased up a little.
“Well, one of us is in for it,” said George Warren. “Somebody’s got to
tramp up the island, home. Father will be down, and he won’t like it, to
find us gone. The other two can sail the yacht up in the morning. We’ll
draw lots to see who goes.”
To the immense relief of his brothers, the lot fell to him. They consoled
him, but with satisfaction not all unconcealed. He took it in good part,
however.
“Don’t feel too bad about it, Joe,” he said, as he bade them good night.
“I know you wanted to go home, but I’ll tell the folks you’re
comfortable.”
He started off in the drizzle. They had run down about seven miles, and
there was that length of muddy road ahead of him. It was not his fortune
to accomplish much of his journey, however. Three miles up the island,
the storm resumed its fury, blowing the rain fiercely in his face, while
the whole island seemed to shake with the crashing of the thunder. It was
useless to contend against it, and, at length, he turned in at a
farmhouse by the roadside, and sought shelter.
“Yes, indeed,” said the housewife, to his request. “There’s the spare
room at the end of the hall up-stairs for you, and welcome. There’s wood
in the wood-box, too, and you can build up a fire in the fireplace and
dry your clothes. You’re as wet as a drowned cat. When you’re dried out,
come down-stairs and I’ll have a cup of tea for you. We’ve had a boarder
for two days in that room, but he went away yesterday; and I’m glad he’s
gone, for your sake.”
George Warren scrambled up the stairs, at the risk of the lamp which the
woman had handed to him, lighted. Inside the room, he took a handful of
kindling from the wood-box, and soon had it ablaze, with the aid of a few
scraps of old newspaper. Then he laid some larger pieces of driftwood
across, and quickly had a cheerful fire roaring up the chimney.
He threw off his wet clothing, wrapped a blanket about him, and crouched
by the fire to enjoy its warmth—for he had been chilled through.
The huge, old-fashioned fireplace would seem not to have been used for a
long time; for, in the corners of it were odds and ends and scraps of
paper, that had evidently been swept up from the floor and thrown in
there, as the most convenient place for their disposal. George Warren
poked some of this stuff into the fire and watched it blaze. He picked up
a few scraps of paper and threw them in.
Then, as he repeated this action, there was the half of an envelope that
the light of the fire illuminated, as he held it in his hand. Part of the
address remained, and, even as he consigned it to the flames, he read it
clearly:
“Carleton,
“Bellport,
“Me.”
“Hello! that’s funny,” he remarked. “That’s Mr. Carleton’s name—and he
was over at Bellport, too. I thought he had gone away to Boston. I’ll
have to ask about him in the morning.”
But, in his hurry next morning, George Warren forgot about the letter
until he was a half-mile up the road.
“I’ll have to tell Henry Burns and Harvey about that, anyway,” he said,
as he walked along. “Henry Burns likes mysteries. He’ll have some queer
notion about why Mr. Carleton was down there, I’ll bet.”
But George Warren failed to inform either Henry Burns or any one else
about his discovery; for he went on a week’s cruise, next day, and when
he returned it had passed out of his mind. At least, he didn’t think of
it till about two weeks later.