Only Jim's coolness prevented the catastrophe. The instant he saw the Cassie J. turn toward his boat he flung his helm to port. The sloop, under good headway, responded more quickly than the schooner. For a moment the bowsprit of the latter seesawed threateningly along the jibstay of the smaller craft. Then the two drew apart.

Jim was white with anger. It was only by the greatest good fortune that the Barracouta had escaped.

"What do you mean, you lubber?" he cried. "Can't you steer?"

"Jingo! but that was a close shave!" responded the man at the wheel. "I must have lost my head for a minute."

The mock concern in his face and voice would have been evident to Spurling without the lurking grin that accompanied his reply. An angry answer was on the tip of Jim's tongue. He choked it down. Soon the two craft were some distance apart.

On the Cassie J. a man's head rose stealthily above the slide of the companionway. He fastened a steady gaze on the sloop. The distance was now too great for the boys to distinguish his features, but a sudden idea struck Jim. He slapped his thigh.

"Percy!" he exclaimed. "Do you remember the two fellows we caught stealing sheep the first night we were on Tarpaulin? I feel sure as ever I was of anything in my life that they're both on board that schooner. That's Captain Bart Brittler, sticking his head out of the companionway; and Dolph's somewhere below."

"But what are they doing on the Cassie J.? Their vessel was named the Silicon."

"They're one and the same craft! I'm certain of it. I recognize her rig now, even if it was night when I saw her the first time. As for the name, it's only paint-deep, anyway; you can see that those letters look fresh. Of course it's an offense against the law to make a change, but such a little thing as breaking a law wouldn't trouble a man like Brittler."

"Do you think they tried to run us down?"

"Not a doubt of it! Brittler and Dolph stayed below, afraid we might recognize 'em. They didn't see our faces that night, so they don't know how we look; but they tried to make me talk enough so that they might recognize my voice. Guess that lookout's not so deaf as he pretended to be! Once Brittler felt sure who it was, he gave orders to the wheelman to run over us. He'd have done it, too, if I hadn't seen the schooner's bow start swinging the wrong way."

The Cassie J. slowly outdistanced the sloop. By the time the stranger was a quarter-mile off six or seven men had appeared on her deck.

"Feel it's safe for 'em to come up now," commented Spurling. "Wonder what they're cruising along the coast for, anyway! Something easier and more crooked than fishing, I guess! Here's hoping they steer clear of Tarpaulin!"

At dinner that noon the boys related their narrow escape to the others, and all agreed it would be well to keep a sharp lookout for Brittler and his gang.

"They've got a grudge against us, fast enough," said Lane. "They intend to even matters up if they can find the chance."

That afternoon Percy again wielded the splitting-knife.

"You'll soon get the knack of it," approved Jim. "Don't pitch in too hard at first. Later on, after you grow used to it, you can work twice as fast, and it won't tire you half so much."

In dressing a fifteen-pound hake Percy came upon a mass of feathers in the stomach. He was about to throw them aside, when a silvery glint caught his eye.

"What's that?" he exclaimed.

Rinsing the mass in a pail of water, he picked from it the foot of a bird; round its slender ankle was a little band of German silver or aluminum, bearing the inscription, "U43719." He held it up for the others to inspect.

"That's the foot of a carrier-pigeon!" said Throppy. "I know a fellow at home who makes a specialty of raising 'em. The bird that owned this foot was taking a message to somebody. Perhaps he was shot; or he may have become tired, lost his way, and fallen into the water, and the hake got him."

They looked at the little foot with the white-metal band.

"My uncle Tom was fishing once in eighty fathoms off Monhegan," Spurling remarked, "and pulled up an odd-patterned, blue cup of old English ware. The hook caught in a 'blister,' a brown, soft, toadstool thing, that had grown over the cup. He's got it on his parlor mantel now."

"I'll keep this foot as a souvenir," said Percy.

They finished the hake shortly after four. Percy shed his oil-clothes, went into the camp, and reappeared with his sweater. Going down to the ledges, he pulled off a big armful of rockweed. This he stuffed into the sweater, and tied it together, making a close bundle. The others watched him curiously.

"What are you going to do with that?" inquired Lane.

Percy smiled, but there was a glitter of determination in his eyes.

"I'll tell you some time," was all the reply he vouchsafed.

Taking the bundle, now somewhat larger than a football, he climbed the steep path at the end of the bank, and started for the woods.

"I'll be home before supper," he flung back as he disappeared beyond the crest of the bluff.

In less than an hour he was back, bringing the sweater minus the rockweed. His face was flushed, and streaked with lines where the perspiration had run down it, and he was breathing hard. Evidently he had been through some sort of strenuous physical exercise.

"It's all right, boys," he said, in response to their chaffing. "Just a little secret between me and myself. No, I'm not trying to reduce the size of my head. Later on you'll know all about it."

And with that they had to be content.



XIII

FOG-BOUND

Dog-Days began about the 20th of July. Before that the dwellers in Camp Spurling had experienced occasional spells of fog, but nothing very dense or long-continued. Now they got a taste of the real thing. They were dressing fish on the Barracouta one afternoon when a cold wind struck from the southeast.

Spurling held up his hand.

"We're in for it!" said he. "Feel that? Right off the Banks! In less than an hour we'll need a compass to get ashore in the dory."

He was so nearly right that there was no fun in it. The wind hauled more to the east, and in its wake came driving a gray, impenetrable wall. The ocean vanished. The points on each side of the cove were swallowed up. Quickly disappeared the cove itself, the beach, the camp and fish-house, and the bank beyond them. The sloop was blanketed close in heavy mist.

Jim made a pretense of scooping a handful out of the air and shaping it like a snowball.

"Here you go, Budge!" he exclaimed. "Straight to third! Put it on him! Fresh from the factory in the Bay of Fundy! If this holds on until midnight, we won't be able to see outside our eyelids when we start trawling; there's no moon."

"Will you go, if it's thick as it is now?" inquired Lane.

"Sure! Here's where the compass comes in. If we stayed ashore for every little fog-mull, we wouldn't catch many hake the next six weeks. This isn't a circumstance to what it is sometimes. I've known it to hang on for two weeks at a stretch. Ever hear the story of the Penobscot Bay captain who started out on a voyage round the world? Just as he got outside of Matinicus Rock he shaved the edge of a fog-bank, straight up and down as a wall. He pulled out his jack-knife and pushed it into the fog, clean to the handle. When he came back, two and a half years later, there was his knife, sticking in the same spot. He tried to pull it out, but the blade was so badly rusted that it broke, and he had to leave half of it stuck in the hole."

"Must have had some fog in those days!" was Lane's comment. "Did you say this all comes from the Bay of Fundy?"

"Not all of it. Fog both blows and makes up on the spot. Sometimes it rises out of the water like steam. I've heard my uncle say that Georges Bank makes it as a mill makes meal. It's worst in August. Then the smoke from shore fires mingles with it; and the wind from the land blowing off, and that from the sea blowing in, keep it hazy along the coast all summer."

Jim's predictions proved correct, as they generally did. While there were occasional stretches of fine weather during the next few weeks, the fog either hovered on the horizon or lurked not far below it, ready to bury the island at the slightest provocation in the way of an east or southeast wind. Despite its presence, the routine of trawling and lobstering went on as usual. Every Friday came the regular trip to Matinicus to dispose of the salted fish and procure groceries, gasolene, and salt, as well as newspapers and mail.

On each of these visits Percy always weighed himself on the scales at the general store. Beginning at one hundred and thirty-five, he climbed steadily, pound by pound, toward one hundred and fifty. An active, out-of-door life, combined with regular hours and a simple, wholesome diet, together with the exclusion of cigarettes, resulted inevitably in increasing weight and strength. At the close of each afternoon he climbed the bluff with his sweater stuffed with rockweed. The others joked him considerably about these mysterious trips, but failed to extract any information from him regarding them. When he chose, Percy could be as close-mouthed as his father.

At about this time a letter from the millionaire reached his son through the Matinicus office. It bore the postmark of San Francisco, and ran as follows:

DEAR PERCY,—Stick to it.

Affectionately,

JOHN P. WHITTINGTON.

It actually surprised Percy to find out how glad he was to receive this laconic epistle from his only living relative. He cast about for a suitable reply.

"I want to send something that'll please him," he thought. "He hasn't had much satisfaction, so far, out of me."

Finally, after mature deliberation, he indited the following:

DEAR DAD,—I'm sticking.

Your affectionate son,

PERCY.

The Three Musketeers gathered dust on the wooden shelf. Percy had faced squarely the fact of his college conditions, and had determined that they must be made up at the opening of the fall term; so his spare time went into Virgil and Caesar and algebra and geometry, instead of being spent on Dumas. He rarely asked for assistance from the others; they had little leisure, and it was his own fight. He buckled down manfully.

Another task that he set before himself was the establishment of cordial relations with the other members of the party. He realized that his own fault had made this necessary. It had been an easy matter to get on good terms with Jim, Budge, and Throppy. With Filippo it was a little harder; but soon he, too, thawed out when he found that Percy treated him courteously and was willing to do his share of the camp work. Even Nemo wagged his tail when Percy appeared, and the crow grew tame enough to eat fish out of his hand.

One afternoon, when the fog had lifted sufficiently to make it possible to see a few hundred feet from the island, a motor-boat unexpectedly appeared from the north and swung round Brimstone Point into the cove. She ran up alongside the Barracouta, where the boys were baiting their trawl.

"I'm the warden," said one of the two newcomers, a gray-mustached, keen-eyed man. "I've come to look over your car."

Jim took his dip-net and stepped into the motor-boat, and they ran up to the lobster-car. A few minutes' investigation of its contents satisfied the official that it contained no "shorts."

"Glad to be able to give you a clean bill of health," said he as he set Jim back on board the sloop. "I wish some other people I know of did business as clean and aboveboard as you young fellows."

A quarter-hour later the sound of his exhaust had died away in the fog to the northward.

"What would he have done if he'd found any 'shorts'?" asked Percy.

"Fined us a dollar for every one," answered Jim. "Taken the cream off the summer, wouldn't it? Sometimes it pays, even in dollars and cents, to be honest."

The next morning was hot and muggy. The sea about the island was clear of fog for one or two miles. Jim and Budge had started long before light to set the trawl, and Throppy wished to make some changes on his wireless; so Filippo was glad enough of the chance to go out with Percy to haul the lobster-traps.

The little Italian had lost much of his melancholy. He enjoyed his work and the good-fellowship of the camp. The weeks of association with his new friends had made of him an entirely different fellow from the lonely, homesick lad they had picked up on the steamboat wharf at Stonington.

The two boys started in the pea-pod at six o'clock. A glassy calm overspread the sea. Even the perpetual ocean swell seemed to have lost much of its force.

"I'll row!" volunteered Percy.

He stripped off his oil-coat and sweater and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.

"It'll be hot up in the granite quarries to-day, hey, Filippo? S'pose you're sorry not to be there?"

"Io sono contento" ("I am satisfied"), replied the Italian.

Hauling and rebaiting the hundred-odd traps was a good five hours' job and more for the couple, neither of whom had ever handled a small boat or seen a live lobster before the previous month. As the forenoon advanced the air seemed to grow thicker and more breathless. Over the water brooded a languid haze, through which the sun rays burned with a moist, intense heat.

Percy's bare arms began to grow red and painful.

"Feel as if they were being scalded," he complained. "I've heard Jim say a fog-burn was worse than any other kind. Now I know he's right."

Eleven o'clock, and still twenty-five traps to be pulled. Most of these were on the Dog and Pups, a group of ledges more than a mile northeast of the island. It was the best spot for lobsters anywhere about Tarpaulin. Percy hesitated.

"Fog seems to be closing in a little," he observed, "and we haven't any compass. Should hate to get out there and have it shut down thick. Might be hard work to find the island again."

He glanced at the tub of lobsters.

"If the Dog and Pups keep up anywhere near their average, we'll beat the record. What d'you say, Filippo? Shall we take a chance and surprise the rest of 'em?"

Filippo flashed his white teeth.

"I go with you," he smiled.

"Then go it is!" decided Percy.

He headed the pea-pod for the Dog and Pups.

"We'll keep a sharp lookout, and if it starts to grow anyways thick we'll strike back for old Tarpaulin."

A pull of about twenty minutes brought them to the ledges, around which the traps were set in a circle. They began hauling at the point in the circumference nearest to the island, following the buoys west and north. The catch exceeded their hopes.

"We'll need another tub, if this keeps up," chuckled Percy.

Filippo laughed jubilantly. The fog was forgotten. Their entire attention was centered on the contents of each trap as it was pulled.

Round on the edge of the circle farthest from the island a pot refused to leave bottom. Percy tugged till he was red in the face, but he could not start it.

"Catch hold with me, Filippo!" he puffed.

The Italian joined his strength to Percy's, but to no avail. The slacker still clung to the bottom. The boys straightened up, panting.

"We'll have to leave it," acknowledged Percy, disappointedly. "Probably there's half a dozen two-pound lobsters in it."

He looked about and gave a startled cry.

"Where's the island?"

The wooded bluffs of Tarpaulin had disappeared. While they had been wrestling with the stubborn trap the fog had stolen a march on them. On all sides loomed a horizon of gray mist, not a half-mile distant and steadily drawing nearer. They must locate the island and get back to it at once.

Percy tossed over the buoy and the warp at which they had been pulling. Tarpaulin lay southwest; but which way was southwest? Busied with the trap, he had utterly lost all sense of direction. The sun? He glanced hopefully up. No; that would not help any. The fog was too dense. Ha! The surf?

"Listen hard, Filippo!" he exhorted.

They strained their ears. No sound. The swell was so gentle that it did not break on the ledges of the island loudly enough to be heard a mile and a quarter off. The heaving circle of which they were the center was contracting fast. Its misty walls were now less than five hundred feet away.

"Guess we'd better take a buoy aboard, and hang to it till Jim comes out to hunt us up. It'd make me feel cheap to do it, but it's the only safe way. But wait! What's that?"

Both listened again. A sound reached their ears, plain and unmistakable, the rote of dashing water.

"There's the surf!" rejoiced Percy. "Don't you hear it?"

"Si, I hear it," answered Filippo.

Dropping the buoy he had just gaffed, Percy took the oars and began rowing hard toward the sound, which gradually grew louder. The fog came on with a rush, sliding over them like an avalanche. It was hardly possible to see beyond the tips of the oar-blades.

"Lucky we can hear that surf!" said Percy, comfortably. "But strange it sounds so loud and so near."

Now it was close ahead. He stopped rowing, puzzled. A blast of cold air smote them. Suddenly there was a rushing all around. It was not the surf at all, but waves, breaking before the coming wind. They were lost in the fog!

Percy faced Filippo blankly. For a moment his head went round. With bitter regret he now realized that in dropping the buoy he had given up a certainty for an uncertainty that might cost them dearly. But nothing was to be gained by yielding to discouragement. He reviewed his scanty stock of sea lore.

"That wind is probably blowing from some point between northeast and southeast. If we turn around, and run straight before it, we'll be likely to hit the island."

He swung the pea-pod stern to the breeze.

"Here goes! Watch out sharp for lobster-buoys, Filippo!"

But no buoys appeared. They might pass within ten feet of one and never see it. Five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed; and still no sign of Tarpaulin. The wind was becoming stronger, the waves higher; their rushing was now loud enough to drown the sound of any surf that might be breaking on the ledges of the island. Percy rowed for a quarter-hour longer, dread plucking at his heart-strings. At last he rested on his oars.

"We've missed it," he acknowledged, despondently.

They were lost now in good earnest. It was one o'clock. The fog hung over them like a heavy gray pall, so damp and thick that it was almost stifling. Percy turned the pea-pod bow to the wind and began rowing again.

"We must try to hold our own till it clears up," he observed, with attempted cheerfulness.

But his tones lacked conviction. It might not clear for two or three days. By degrees his strokes lost their force, until the oars were barely dipping. The boat was going astern fast.

Two o'clock. Long ere this Jim and Budge must have returned from trawling and realized that the pea-pod and its occupants were lost. They were probably searching for them now, perhaps miles away on the other side of the island, wherever it might be.

A gruff bark startled them. A round, black, whiskered head suddenly thrust up out of the water close to the port gunwale. Filippo cried out in alarm, but Percy reassured him.

"Only a seal!"

Abruptly the sea grew rough. All around them tossed and streamed and writhed long, black aprons of kelp. They were passing over a sunken ledge. Soon it lay behind them; the kelp vanished and the waves grew lower.

Three o'clock went by; then four. The afternoon was waning. The thick, woolly gray that surrounded them assumed a more somber shade. Night was coming, pitchy and starless, doubly so for the two lost boys, adrift on the open ocean.

Hark! What was that? They both heard it, far distant, off the port bow! Percy leaped up in excitement.

"The shot-gun!" he cried. "They're signaling!"

Heading the boat toward the sound, he rowed his hardest, while Filippo strained forward, listening. Ten minutes dragged by, and once again—pouf!—slightly louder, and slightly to starboard. Percy corrected his course and again threw his whole heart into his rowing.

So it went for an hour, the signals sounding at ten-minute intervals, each louder and nearer than the one before. At last Percy thought it possible that their voices might be heard against the wind. He stopped rowing.

"Now shout, Filippo!"

Their cries pealed out together. They were heard. An answering hail came back. Soon the puff-puff-puff of the Barracouta's exhaust was driving rivets through the fog. A little later they were on board the sloop, answering the inquiries of Jim and Budge, while the empty pea-pod towed astern.

"Your seamanship wasn't bad, Perce," was Jim's judgment. "After you dropped the buoy, and then found you'd been rowing into the teeth of the wind, it might have been better to have tried only to hold your own until we came out to look you up. That breeze at first was nearer north than northeast, and when you ran before it you went south past the island. After that you were all at sea. But I might have done just the same thing. I can't tell you, though, how glad we are to see you back, even if it did cost next to our last shell of birdshot. The Gulf of Maine's a pretty homesick place to be kicking round in on a foggy night."

"You aren't any gladder than we are," replied Percy.

He glanced at the pea-pod towing astern.

"But say, Jim! Just cast your eye over that tub. When it comes to catching lobsters, haven't Filippo and I got the rest of the bunch beat to a frazzle?"



XIV

SWORDFISHING

All through July the Tarpaulin Islanders had been troubled with dogfish. Beginning with a few scattering old "ground dogs," which apparently live on the banks the year round, they had become more and more numerous as the month advanced. Bait was stripped from the hooks; fish on the trawl were devoured until only heads and backbones were left; and the robbers themselves were caught in increasing numbers. At last their depredations became unbearable.

Jim and Percy had made a set one foggy morning on Medrick Shoal. When the trawl came up it was a sight to make angels weep. For yards at a stretch the hooks were bare or bitten off. Then came "dogs" of all sizes from "garter-dogs," or "shoe-strings," a foot long, to full-grown ten-pounders of about a yard. Mingled with them was an occasional lonesome skeleton of a haddock, cusk, or hake.

"Look at the pirate!" said Jim.

Grasping a ganging well above the hook, he held the fish up for Percy's inspection. It was two feet long, of a dirty gray color, slim, shark-shaped, with mouth underneath. Before each of the two fins on its back projected a sharp horn.

"Think of buying perfectly good herring at Vinalhaven, and freighting 'em way down here to feed a thing like that!" mourned Jim. "He's the meanest thief that ever grew fins. Swims too slow to catch a fish that's free; but good-by to anything that's hooked, if he's round. He'll gouge out a piece as big as a baseball at every bite. I'd hate to fall overboard in a school of 'em."

"Don't touch him!" he warned, hastily, as Percy reached out an investigating hand. "He'll stick those horns into you, and they're rank poison."

"Aren't dogfish good for anything?" asked Percy.

"Not a thing! No, I'll take that back. They can be ground up for fertilizer; their livers are full of oil; and their skin makes the finest kind of sandpaper for cleaning or polishing metal without scratching it. They've been canned, too, under the name of grayfish; but no fisherman'd ever eat 'em; he knows 'em too well."

Rod after rod of trawl yielded the same results.

"I'm almost tempted to save my buoys and anchors, and cut all the rest away," announced Jim in disgust. "I've known it to be done. They wear the line out, sawing across it. But I guess the best way is to save what we can and stop fishing for a while. Sometimes they come square-edged, like a stone wall, just as they have this morning; and in a few days they'll have gone somewhere else. Hope it'll be that way this time!"

It was almost noon before the whole trawl was aboard. It had yielded barely two hundred pounds of hake.

"Tell you what!" exclaimed Jim as he looked at his compass and headed the Barracouta westward through the fog for home, "we'll put the trawl in the house for a few days, and fit up for swordfishing. There's a good ground fifteen miles south of the island. I've been down there with Uncle Tom. If we could get some fair-sized fish, it'd be worth our while to take 'em into Rockland."

That afternoon they mustered their swordfish gear. In the house were three or four of the wrecked coaster's mast-hoops. One of these Jim lashed to the sloop's jibstay, about waist-high above the end of the bowsprit.

"That'll do for the pulpit!"

Near the jaws of the gaff he nailed a little board seat, rigged like a bracket on a roof for shingling. On this the lookout could sit, his arm round the mast, watching for fins.

"Now for a harpoon!"

Across the rafters inside the house lay a hard-pine pole eighteen feet long, ending in a tapering two-foot iron. Strung on a fish-line hanging from a spike were a half-dozen swordfish darts. These were sharp, stubby metal arrows, all head and tail and no body, with a socket cast on one side to admit the top of the pole-iron. Back of the arrow-head was a hole, through which was fastened the buoy-line.

"Righto!" exclaimed Jim. "Now when the fog clears we'll be ready to do business."

That very night the mists scaled away before a brisk north wind. Morning showed the sea clear for miles, though a fleecy haze still blurred the southern and eastern horizon.

"We'll take this chance," decided Jim. "May not get a better. Remember it's dog-days!"

At five o'clock they started south. Before eight they were on the swordfish-grounds. The wind, blowing against the long ocean swell, raised a fairly heavy sea. Though the day was clear, they could still feel the fog in the air.

Jim allotted the company their several stations.

"Budge, you swarm up to that seat on the gaff and watch out for fins! Throppy, you steer as Budge tells you! Stand by to take the dory, Perce, and go after any fish I'm lucky enough to iron. Filippo, be ready to throw that buoy and coil of warp off the starboard bow the minute I make a strike. I'll get out in the pulpit with the harpoon. Keep alive, everybody! We're liable to run across something any minute."

Perched aloft, Budge scanned the tossing, glittering sea. His keen eye detected a triangular, black membrane steering leisurely through the waves a hundred yards ahead.

"Fin on the starboard bow! Keep her off, Throppy!"

In a short time the Barracouta was close behind the unconscious fish.

From the bowsprit end burst a shout of disgust:

"No good! I can see him plain! Tail's too limber! Only a shark! Swing her off, Throppy!"

"How can I tell a shark from a swordfish?" Budge called down to Jim.

"Shark's back fin is shorter and broader, and he keeps his tail-fluke whacking from side to side. Swordfish has two steady fins, stiff as shingles; front one is long and slender and curves back on a crook; the after one is the upper tail-fluke. Try again!"

Five minutes passed. Then an excited yell:

"Fin to port!"

Following Budge's shouted directions, the sloop gave chase. Soon they were near their quarry.

"Swordfish!" breathlessly announced Jim. "And a big one! Put me on top of him, Budge!"

Leaning against the mast-hoop that encircled his waist, he lifted the long lance and poised it for the blow. The tail of the fish was almost under his feet when he launched the harpoon with all his strength.

Unluckily, at just that moment the sloop dipped and met a big sea squarely. Her bowsprit dove under, burying Jim almost breast-deep, spoiling his aim. The dart struck the fish a glancing blow on the side of the shoulder. Off darted their frightened game.

Jim gave a cry of disappointment.

"Too bad! Ten feet, if he was an inch! Well, better luck next time!"

A quarter-hour passed. Budge strained his eyes, but no fin! The breeze was shifting to the northeast. Jim cast a practised eye about the horizon.

"If the wind swings round much farther it'll bring the fog again. See anything, Budge?"

"No—yes! Up to starboard! Right, Throppy! Keep her as she is!"

The fish was swimming at a moderate rate, and the sloop had no trouble in catching up with him. The two stiff fins betrayed him.



"Swordfish all right!" muttered Jim. "Not quite so big as the other one, but too good to lose! Steady, Throppy!"

Foot by foot the Barracouta's bowsprit forged up on their prospective prey. Nobody spoke. Jim's grip on the pine staff tightened; his eye measured the distance to the dull-blue shoulder.

Six inches further ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... now!

With all his might he drove the harpoon downward, straight for its mark. There was a tremendous flurry, and down went the fish, leaving a trail of blood.

"Got him that time! Right through the shoulder! Over with that warp and barrel, Filippo!"

The Italian obeyed, his eyes wide as saucers. Soon the coils of the fifty-fathom lobster-warp had straightened out in the wake of the terrified fugitive, and the red buoy danced off over the wave-crests.

"He's up to you, Perce!" shouted Jim. "Go after him! Only be sure to remember what I told you coming out. Keep your eye on the barrel! Haul it aboard as soon as you can, and coil in the warp. Don't get snarled up in it if he starts running again."

Percy drew the dory alongside and jumped in. Meanwhile the harpoon staff was dragged aboard by the line attached to it, the pole-iron having pulled out of the socket in the dart when the fish was struck. Jim stuck on a fresh dart, attached to another warp and buoy, and was ready for a second strike.

"Pass Percy that lance, Filippo!" he ordered.

"He may need it to keep off the sharks."

The Italian handed to Whittington a short, stout pole, on its end a two-foot iron rod, flattened to a point shaped like a tablespoon, and filed to razor sharpness. Percy set out in pursuit of the red barrel, now almost two hundred yards to starboard.

"Another fin to port!" hailed Budge; and the Barracouta sheered off in quest of a second prize.

For the first few minutes, though Percy rowed his prettiest, he could not hold his own with the moving barrel. Each glance over his shoulder showed that it was farther away. He bent stoutly to his oars. The sloop was heading in the opposite direction, and the distance between them widened rapidly. The wind had veered still further to the east and the fog hung more thickly on the horizon.

The barrel was nearer. At last he had begun to gain on it. He rowed with renewed vigor. Either the fish was tiring out or had stopped swimming altogether. Presently the dory bumped against the keg.

Pulling in his oars and dropping them over the thwarts, he sprang forward and gaffed the buoy. A moment later he had lifted it aboard and was pulling in the warp.

The first ten feet came over the gunwale without any resistance; then he had to surge against the sag of a dead weight. The fish had either given up the ghost or was too exhausted to struggle.

Fifty fathoms is a long distance to drag two hundred pounds. Percy's arms began to ache before he had coiled in half the warp. Then he was treated to a surprise.

Several feet of line jerked through his hands. The fish had come to life again!

Percy closed his grip on the strands, but soon let them slip to avoid being pulled overboard. He started to make the line fast, but remembered Spurling's caution against the danger of tearing the dart out of his prey. So he tossed the barrel over again and began rowing after it.

After traveling a few rods, it stopped. Once more he took it aboard and began coiling in the warp. This time the fish must surely be spent. But no! Thirty fathoms had crossed the gunwale when the rope was whisked from his hands with even more violence than before.

Taken completely by surprise, Percy was wrenched forward. He hung for a moment over the side, twisted himself back in a strong effort to regain his balance, and incautiously planted his foot inside the unlaying coil. A turn whipped round his ankle, and he was snatched overboard, feet first.

Before he could make a motion to free himself he was plowing rapidly along under water. His first panic passed. Unless he wished to drown, he must somehow clear his foot of that vise-like grip. And whatever he did must be done at once.

He tried to reach his ankle, but the rate at which he was traveling straightened out his body, and he could not bend it against the water rushing by him. The warp leading back to the dory trailed across his face. He felt his way down it, hand over hand, to his ankle.

There was a terrible pressure on his chest, a roaring in his ears; he was strangling. He could not hold his breath ten seconds longer.

Bent almost double, he grasped the taut line beyond his foot, first with one hand, then with both, and flung his whole weight suddenly on it in a desperate pull.

The strain round his ankle eased, the rope loosened. Kicking vigorously, he freed himself from the loop. Then he let go of the warp and quickly rose to the surface.

Percy was a good swimmer. He cleared the water from his mouth and nose, paddled easily while he drew two or three long breaths, then raised himself and looked around.

Twenty yards away the dory bobbed aimlessly, the rope still running at a rapid rate over its gunwale. As Percy rose on a wave he caught a glimpse of the Barracouta more than a mile off; engrossed in the chase of the second fish, her crew had probably not observed his mishap. He turned his eyes back to the dory at the very moment that the warp ran out to its full length and the barrel was whirled overboard.

Its red bilge flung the spray aloft as it towed rapidly toward him. Ten yards away it came to a sudden stop. The swordfish was either dead or taking another rest.

It was a matter of no great difficulty for Percy to reach the little cask. He rested on it for a moment, then resumed his swim toward the boat. Presently he was grasping the gunwale.

A month earlier it would have been absolutely impossible for him to scramble into the high-sided, rocking craft. As it was he had a hard fight, and he was all but spent when he tumbled inside and lay panting.

When he raised himself, the first thing he noticed was that the fog was driving nearer. The wind was now due east. It promised to bring the day's fishing to an early end. He must retrieve the barrel and get the fish aboard as soon as possible or he might lose it altogether.

Shipping his oars, he rowed up to the cask and took it in. A pull on the warp showed that the swordfish was motionless. Percy began hauling again, but this time he was very careful to keep his feet clear of the coil.

A damp breath smote his cheek. He glanced toward the east, and saw the fog blowing over the water in ragged, fleecy masses. The Barracouta was momentarily hidden. When she reappeared, fully a mile distant, her crew were hoisting a black body aboard. While he was fighting for life they had succeeded in capturing the second fish. The sight reminded him of his duty. He resumed pulling.

As the fathoms came in there was no sign of life on the other end. The fish sagged like lead. At last the long drag was over and its body floated beside the dory.

"Deader 'n a door-nail!" muttered Percy.

His prize was fully seven feet long. The iron had gone down under the shoulder and out into the gills, causing it to bleed freely. Its sword, which was an extension of the upper jaw, suggesting a duck's bill, was notched and battered, where it had struck against rocks on the bottom.

Following Jim's directions, Percy fastened a bight of the warp securely round the tail of his prize, triced it up over the dory's stem, and made the line fast round a thwart. The fish was so heavy that he could not lift it very high, and most of its body dragged in the water. He began to row slowly toward the sloop.

Thicker and thicker blew the fog. Finally it blotted out the Barracouta; but Percy's last view of her told that she was heading his way. What if she could not find him! The thought gave him an unpleasant chill. He rowed harder.

A splash astern attracted his attention. A violent shock set the dory quivering. He started up just in time to see a large fish dart away, leaving the blood streaming from a gory wound in the head of the swordfish.

A shark! Percy knew he was in for a fight. He seized the lance and sprang into the stern.

A black fin shot alongside. The marauder rolled up for his turn at the banquet. Just as his jaws opened Percy drove the keen steel into his throat.

Mad with fright and pain, the robber flashed off, thrashing the bloody water. Another fin appeared on Percy's left. Again he lunged, and found his mark. The tail of the wounded shark struck the dory a heavy blow. Down it rolled, almost pitching the boy overboard head foremost among the blood-crazed sea-tigers. For a moment he sickened at what might have happened; but he regained his balance and hung to the lance. His fighting blood was roused. He had risked too much already to have the swordfish torn to pieces under his very eyes.

Knees braced tightly against the sides of the stern, hands locked round the stout butt of the lance, he foiled rush after rush of the black-finned, white-bellied pirates. Again and again he lunged and stabbed, until the water round the rocking boat was dyed crimson.



There seemed to be no end to the sharks. Fins crisscrossed the water all about and cut in toward the swordfish in quick, savage rushes. Percy was becoming exhausted; his arms ached; his breath came short. He could not keep up the fight much longer. Where was the Barracouta?

He shouted at the top of his lungs. Unexpectedly, out of the fog to starboard Jim's voice answered him.

"Sharks!" yelled Percy. "This way! Quick!"

"Fight 'em off! We're coming!"

In less than two minutes the sloop was alongside, and oars and harpoon helped beat off the assailants while the prize was being hoisted aboard. Though badly gouged and bitten about the head, the swordfish was but little impaired in value, for its body had hardly been touched. Another of about the same size lay in the standing-room. It had been a good morning's work.

Percy told his story as the Barracouta nosed home through the fog. When he had finished, Jim dropped his hand on his shoulder.

"Perce," said he, "you certainly put up a great fight and saved your fish. Nobody could have done any better."

Those few words, Percy felt, amply repaid him for what he had gone through that morning. He had won his spurs and was at last a full-fledged member of Spurling & Company.



XV

MIDSUMMER DAYS

Half past twelve found the Barracouta again at her mooring in Sprowl's Cove. Throppy and Filippo were landed, with instructions to haul the lobster-traps the next morning if the fog would allow them to do it safely. Without waiting for dinner, Jim, Budge, and Percy started in the sloop for Rockland to dispose of their catch. They had no ice, so it was necessary to get the two swordfish to market as soon as possible.

"Thicker 'n a dungeon, isn't it?" said Jim as they rounded Brimstone Point and headed northwest into the fog. "Lucky we've got a good compass! Without it we wouldn't stand the ghost of a show of getting to Rockland. We'd pile up on some ledge before we'd gone half-way."

Shaping their course carefully by the chart, and keeping on the alert to avoid passing vessels and steamers, they drove the Barracouta at top speed. Ten miles from Tarpaulin the increased height of the ocean swells told that they were crossing the shoal rocky ground of Snippershan. Five miles farther on they left behind the clanging bell on Bay Ledge and soon passed the red whistler south of Hurricane. A straight course from this brought them at five o'clock to the bell east of Monroe's Island, and before six they were alongside the steamboat wharf at Rockland.

"Look out for her, boys!" directed Jim. "I want to get up-town before the markets close."

He landed, and started on the run for Main Street. In twenty-five minutes he was back.

"Sold 'em!" he announced. "Sixty dollars!"

A little later an express-wagon with two men drove down on the wharf. The swordfish were hoisted from the Barracouta, the agreed price paid, and the team hurried away.

"Not a bad day's work," said Budge.

"Fair! Now let's go somewhere and get a good supper!"

They found a restaurant on Main Street, unpretentious but clean, and sat down at one of its small tables. Two months ago Percy would have turned up his nose at the idea of eating in such a place; now he looked forward to a meal there with eager anticipation. Jim winked at him, then scanned the bill of fare, and turned to Budge.

"What'll you have, Roger?" he asked. "I see they've some nice fish here."

"Fish!" almost screamed Lane. "Not on your life! I've eaten so much fish the last two months that I'm ashamed to look a hake or haddock in the face. None for mine! Beefsteak and onions are good enough for me."

Jim glanced at Percy. Percy nodded.

"Three of the same," said Jim to the waiter.

They starved until the viands came on, then turned to. Fifteen minutes later the three orders were duplicated and despatched without undue delay.

"Try it again, Budge?"

"I'd like to," returned Lane, truthfully, "but I can't."

Jim broke a five-dollar bill at the cashier's desk, and they filed out.

"Sorry Throppy and Filippo aren't with us," said Percy.

"So am I; but we'll even it up with 'em somehow, later."

After an evening with Sherlock Holmes at the movies the three went down to the Barracouta and turned in. The next morning the fog was not so thick. They started at sunrise, and reached the island before eleven o'clock. At noon Stevens and the Italian came in with a good catch of lobsters.

And now came some of the most enjoyable weeks of the summer. The five boys were thoroughly acquainted and on the best of terms. Their work had been reduced to a frictionless routine that left them more leisure than at first. Lane was treasurer and bookkeeper for the concern, and his reports, made every Saturday night, showed that returns, both from the fish and from the lobsters, were running ahead of their estimates at the beginning of the season.

Percy, in particular, was learning to enjoy the free, out-of-door life, so different from anything to which he had been accustomed. At the close of pleasant afternoons, when a land breeze had driven the fog to sea and the work of the day was finished, he liked to take his Caesar or Virgil up to the beacon on Brimstone, and lie at ease on the cushion of wiry grass, while he followed the great general through his Gallic campaigns or traced the wanderings of pious AEneas over a sea that could have been no bluer or more sparkling than that which surrounded the island. Sometimes it pleased him to explore the sheep-paths through the scrubby evergreens with gray wool-tags clinging to the branch ends, and to emerge at last from the tangle of dwarfed, twisted trunks on the northeast point. There he would throw himself at full length on the summit of the bluff, with the surf in his ears and the cool, salt breeze on his face, and watch the sun flashing from the brown glass toggles near the white lobster-buoys; or, lifting his gaze to the horizon beyond the purple deep, he would trace the low, rolling humps of the mainland hills, the cleft range of Isle au Haut, or the heights of Mount Desert. But no studies or scenery caused him to forget his daily trip with sweater and rockweed.

The glades on the southern edge of the woods were overgrown with raspberry-bushes. When Filippo's daily stint about the camp was finished, he visited these spots with his pail; and while the season lasted, heaping bowls of red, dead-ripe fruit or saucers of sweet preserve varied their customary fare. There were blueberries, too, in abundance, and these also made a welcome addition to their table.

"Boys," said Lane, one morning, "I'm meat hungry. I can still taste that beefsteak we got the other night at Rockland. Think of the ton or so of mutton chops running loose on top of this island, while we poor Crusoes are starving to death on the beach!"

"No need of waiting until you're in the last stages, Budge," observed Jim. "Uncle Tom told me we could have a lamb whenever we wanted one. All we've got to do is to kill it."

A silence settled over the camp. The boys looked at one another. Nobody hankered for the job.

"Budge spoke first," suggested Throppy.

"I'm no butcher," returned Lane. "Come to think of it, I don't care much for lamb, after all."

"Now see here!" said Jim. "What's the use of beating round the bush? We're all crazy for fresh meat. The only thing to do is to draw lots to see who'll sacrifice his feelings and do the shooting. We'll settle that now."

He cut four toothpicks into uneven lengths.

"Filippo's not in this."

He had noticed that the Italian's olive face had grown pale.

"Now come up and draw like men!"

The lot fell to Lane.

"You're it, Budge! Don't be a quitter! There's the gun and here's our last shell. Don't miss!"

Lane's lips tightened. But he took the gun, put in the shell, and started up over the bank.

"Don't follow me," he flung back. "I'll do this alone."

Five minutes of silence followed. Then—bang!

"He's done it!" exclaimed Throppy.

The boys felt unhappy. In a few minutes Lane came crunching down the gravel slope. His face was sober.

"Where's the lamb?" asked Jim.

"Up there! I didn't agree to bring it down."

"Come on, boys!"

Jim, Percy, and Stevens went up to the pasture; Lane remained in the cabin. A careful search failed to reveal the victim. Jim walked to the edge of the bank.

"Oh, Budge!" he called.

Lane came out of the camp.

"Where's that lamb?"

"Don't know! Running around up there, I s'pose!"

"Didn't you shoot him?"

"No! I couldn't. And I know none of the rest of you could, either. So I fired in the air."

Jim's laugh spoke his relief.

"Well, I guess that's the easiest way out of it for everybody. Next trip to Matinicus I'll order a hind quarter from Rockland. It'll mean a little more wear and tear on the company's pocketbook, but a good deal less on our feelings."

One of the accompaniments of the heat and fog of those August days was a kind of salt-water mirage. Ships and steamers miles away below the horizon were lifted into plain view. Low, distant islands rose to perpendicular bluffs, distorted by the wavering air-currents; other islands appeared directly above the first, and came down to join them. Percy watched these novel moving pictures with great interest.

Every few mornings either the trawl or the lobster-traps would yield something unusual. Now it might be a dozen bream, called by the fishermen "brim," "redfish," or "all-eyes"; again up would come a catfish, savage and sharp-toothed, able to dent an ash oar; and rarely a small halibut would appear, drowned on the trawl. Sometimes the lobstermen would capture a monkfish, whose undiscriminating appetite had led him to try to swallow a glass float; or a trap would come to the surface freighted with huge five-fingers or containing a short, ribbon-shaped eel, blood-red from nose to tail-tip.

Spurling & Company were dressing a big catch of hake on the Barracouta early one afternoon when a rockety report resounded close to the island. Percy, who was wielding his splitting-knife with good effect, as his oilskins showed, glanced up quickly.

"That's a yacht's gun!"

Sixty seconds revealed that he was right. Into the mouth of the cove shot a keen-pro wed steam-yacht, resplendent with brass fittings and fresh, white paint. Five or six flanneled figures lounged aft, while a few members of her crew, natty in white duck, dropped anchor under the direction of an officer. Side-steps were lowered and an immaculate toy boat swung out; a sailor occupied the rowing-thwart, while one of the yachtsmen stepped into the stern and took the rudder-lines. The boat sped straight toward the Barracouta, which grew dingy and mean by contrast.

Presently the strangers were near. The yachtsman touched his cap. He was a good-looking fellow of perhaps nineteen, with a light, fuzzy mustache and eyes that were a trifle shifty.

"Would you be so kind as to tell me—"

He broke off abruptly as he recognized Percy.

"By the Great Horn Spoon!" he almost shouted, "if it isn't P. Whittington! Percy, old man, what do you mean by hiding yourself away offshore in a lonesome spot like this? Come aboard! Come aboard! The old crowd's there—Ben Brimmer and Martin Sayles and Mordaunt and Mack and Barden. I've chartered the Arethusa, and invited 'em to spend a month with me along the New England coast. We're not having a time of it—oh no! or my name isn't Chauncey Pike!"

His eyes dwelt curiously on the details of Percy's costume and occupation.

"What you masquerading for? Hiding from the sheriff?"

Percy met his gaze evenly. His estimate of men and the things that make life worth living had undergone a material change during the last two months. Pike's jesting flowed off him like water off a duck. He introduced the other members of Spurling & Company, and Pike greeted them cordially.

"I want you all to take dinner on board with us to-night. We've got a first-class chef, and I'll have him do his prettiest. 'Tisn't every day you run across an old friend."

Jim was inclined to demur, but Pike would not take no for an answer, and he finally gave in when Percy added his entreaties to those of the yachtsman.

"Signal the yacht when you're through, Perce," said the latter as he rowed away, "and I'll send ashore for you. I know your friends here will excuse you for a while if you come aboard and talk over old times with us."

"Better let me set you ashore now," said Jim, "so you can wash up and change your clothes."

"Not much!" refused Percy. "I'll see every fish salted first."

He was as good as his word. Not until the last hake lay on the top of its brethren in the hogshead did he take off his oilskins and prepare for his visit to the yacht. At his signal the boat rowed in and took him aboard. He received an uproarious greeting from his former friends. The first welcome over, he came in for more or less chaffing.

"Boys," jeered Pike, "what do you suppose I found this modest, salt-water violet—or barnacle, I should say—doing? Actually dressed in oil-clothes and cleaning fish! Think of it! P. Whittington, the one and only! Wouldn't his friends along Fifth Avenue like to see him in that rig! Honest, Perce, if I wanted to bury myself, I'd pick a cemetery where the occupants didn't have to perform so much bone labor. I'd rather face the firing-squad than do what you were doing this afternoon."

"Guess you're telling the truth, Chauncey," retorted Percy.

"Come down below and let's have a drink all round!"

"Not unless it's Poland water," said Percy, firmly. "The one drawback about this island is that the only spring's brackish. If you've any good bottled water I'll be glad to drink with you, but nothing stronger."

"Just listen to that, fellows! Well, have your own way, Perce! We've a dozen carboys of spring water aboard, and you can drink 'em all if you want to. Try these cigarettes!"

"Swore off over a month ago."

"No! Shouldn't think you'd find life worth living. What do you have for amusement?"

"We're too busy to need any," replied Percy, truthfully.

Pike looked serious. Removing Percy's cap, he tapped his head with the tips of his fingers.

"There's some trouble inside," he said at last, "but I can't quite make out what it is. I think we'll have to take him up to the city to consult some prominent alienist, as the newspapers would say. But first he's going east in the Arethusa with Doctor Pike. Come on, Perce! Put off the sackcloth and ashes, or rather the oilskins and fish-scales, and travel with us for a while. We're all artists aboard, but we paint in only one color, and that's a deep, rich red! We're going to spread it over Castine and Bar Harbor and Campobello, and we want your esteemed assistance. Do we have it?"

Percy shook his head.

"You do not," he declined. "I'm booked for college in the fall, and I'm studying to make up my conditions."

Pike looked sadly round at the others.

"And so young!" he lamented. "I presume your friends ashore share your sentiments, and we'll have to take 'em into consideration in planning for that dinner to-night. Wouldn't have any scruples, would you, about beginning with a clear soup, then tackling a juicy beef roast with all the fixings, and winding up with lemon pie and ice-cream?"

"Lead me to it," grinned Percy. "Well, fellows, I'm mighty glad to see you, even if we don't agree on all points. Now I've an engagement ashore for a half-hour or so, and if you'll set me on the beach I'll come aboard with the others."

Curious eyes followed him as he climbed the bluff with his sweater and plunged into the woods. At six he rowed out with the rest of the Spurlingites, Filippo included. The dinner to which they sat down was one they remembered for the rest of the season. Pike had not overpraised his French chef. Everybody had a good time, and at the close of the meal a toast was drunk—in spring water—to the continued success of Spurling & Company. The boys went ashore early.

No trawling was done the next morning, as it was the regular day for the trip to Matinicus. The Barracouta started at nine o'clock. At about the same time the yacht catted her anchor, fired a farewell gun, and proceeded eastward, her passengers first lining up and giving three cheers for their guests of the night before, and receiving a similar salute in return.

"Perce," said Jim as the sloop rose and sank on the swells on her way over to Seal Island, "if you won't think me impertinent, I'd like to ask you a question."

"Fire ahead!"

"You can tell me or not, just as you please, but I've been wondering since last night whether, right down at the bottom of your heart, you'd rather be with your friends on the yacht or with us on the island."

"That's an easy one, Jim," replied Percy. "And the best answer I can make is the fact I'm on the boat with you this minute. I had an invitation to go with them, and I declined it. Things look different to me from what they did two months ago."

At Matinicus Percy found a letter from his father, answering his epistle of a few weeks before.

DEAR PERCY [it ran],—Glad to hear you're on the job. Keep it up.

Percy countered that night as follows:

DEAR DAD,—I'm still sticking.



XVI

A LOST ALUMNUS

Throppy stepped out of the fish-house at the close of a breezy afternoon and started for the camp to wash up. The morning's catch had been split and salted; it just filled a hogshead. He glanced seaward at the white-capped squalls chasing one another over the broad blue surface. Three steps from the building he halted in surprise.

"Hulloo! Who's that?"

Round the eastern point came a small sloop. Evidently she had met with disaster, for the end of her boom was broken and dragging and her mainsail hung loosely. It was easily apparent that she had made a safe harbor none too early.

Attracted by Throppy's exclamation, the other boys joined him, and together they watched the strange craft limp into the cove. As she came nearer they could see that she was old and dilapidated. Her brown canvas was frayed and rotten; tag-ends of rope hung here and there; and her battered sides were badly in need of a coat of fresh paint.

"Built in the year one!" was Jim's verdict. "Almost too old to be knocking round so far offshore!"

Gliding slowly into the cove, she lost headway not far from the Barracouta. A small black dog began to run to and fro on board and bark excitedly. The man at the helm, evidently her only crew, hurried stiffly forward, let the jib and mainsail run down, and dropped the anchor. Then the boys were treated to a fresh surprise.



A shaggy white cat leaped from the standing-room upon the roof of the cabin. A Maltese followed her. Then another, jet black, sprang into view. The three rubbed about the legs of the man as he made his cable fast. Nemo, roused from his nap under the stove, ran down to the water's edge and began an interchange of ferocious greetings with the strange canine; while the cats, lining up in a row on the side, arched their backs and spit fiercely.

The boys viewed this menagerie with amazement.

"Barnum & Bailey's come to town!" muttered Budge.

His craft safely moored, the man drew in a small punt which was towing astern and stepped into it. The dog followed.

"Back, Oliver!" ordered his master.

Grasping the animal by the scruff of the neck, he tossed him into the standing-room. Then he slowly sculled the punt to the beach. Jim walked down to meet him.

The stranger was of medium height, and apparently over sixty years old. His beard and mustache were gray. He wore a black slouch-hat and a Prince Albert coat, threadbare and shiny, but neatly brushed. He stepped briskly ashore, with shoulders well set back. His dark eyes carried a suggestion of melancholy, and his face was deeply lined.

"I've dropped in to make repairs," said he. "Broke my main boom in a squall about a mile north of the island, and thought I might get some one here to help me fix it."

"You did right to come," returned Jim. "We'll be glad to do anything we can, Mr.—"

"Thorpe," supplied the other. "That isn't my name, but it'll do as well as any."

"Mine's Spurling," said Jim.

They shook hands and walked up to the camp. There Jim introduced the newcomer to the other boys. Supper was about to be put on the table and the stranger was invited to share it. He accepted, and ate heartily, almost ravenously.

"Seems good to taste somebody's cooking besides your own," he apologized. "When you've summered and wintered yourself, year in and year out, the thing gets pretty monotonous and you almost hate the sight of food."

"Then you're alone most of the time?" ventured Lane.

"Not most of the time, but all the time."

The boys would have liked to inquire further, but courtesy forbade, and their guest did not volunteer anything more regarding himself. He shifted the conversation to Nemo.

"Bright-looking dog you've got there!" he commented.

"Yes," said Jim. "And he's fully as bright as he looks. I see you've a dog and some cats aboard."

"Yes; and they're good company—better, in some ways, than human beings, for they can't talk back. The dog's Oliver Cromwell; and the cats I've named Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Victoria. I must go aboard and give 'em their suppers."

He rose from the table.

"Come back again in an hour," invited Jim, "and we'll have some music. We've a violin here."

"I'll be more than glad to come," returned their guest. "Music's something I don't have a chance to hear very often."

Walking down the beach, he sculled out to his sloop. His animals greeted him, Oliver Cromwell vociferously, the cats with a more reserved welcome.

"What d'you make of him?" asked Percy. "Odd stick, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Jim, meditatively, "but he seems like a gentleman. What I can't understand is why he's cruising along the coast alone in that old Noah's ark. It doesn't seem natural. Besides, it's dangerous business for a man of his age. Well, it's no concern of ours. Let's give him a pleasant evening."

Promptly at the end of the allotted hour the stranger came ashore again.

"Got the children all in bed for the night," said he. "Now I can make you a little visit with a clear conscience."

He spoke faster and more cheerfully than he had done before. The melancholy in his bearing had vanished. Jim thought he detected a slight odor of liquor about him, but he could not be sure. They all sat down together, and Throppy brought out his violin.

"What shall it be, boys?" he asked, after a preliminary tuning up.

"Give us 'The Wearing of the Green,'" suggested Lane.

Soon the wailing strains of the familiar Irish melody were breathing through the cabin. "Kathleen Mavourneen" followed, and the stranger sat as if fascinated. At "'Way Down Upon the Suwanee River" he dropped his head in his hands and his shoulders shook.

"Something livelier, Throppy," said Jim.

Stevens started in on "Dixie." As the first spirited notes came dancing off the violin their guest raised his head quickly, and before the selection was finished his cheerfulness had returned.

"Can you play 'The Campbells Are Coming'?" he inquired.

As Stevens responded with the stirring Scotch air Thorpe rose to his feet and began whistling a clear, melodious accompaniment. The notes trilled out, pure and bird-like. The boys broke into hearty applause when he finished. Their approval emboldened him to ask a favor.

"I used to play a little myself," he said; "but it's been years since I've had a bow in my hand. Would you be willing for me to see if I can recall anything? I'll be careful of your instrument."

"Sure!" cordially returned Stevens.

He handed violin and bow to Thorpe. The latter took them almost reverently. Tucking the violin under his chin, he drew the bow back and forth, at first with a lingering, uncertain touch, but soon with an increasing firmness and accuracy that bespoke an old-time skill. Gradually he gathered confidence, and a bubbling flood of liquid music gushed from the vibrating strings.

At first he played a medley of fragments, short snatches from old tunes, each shading imperceptibly into the one that followed, blending into a whole that chorded with the night and sea and wind and the driftwood fire crackling in the little stove in the lonely island cabin. The boys sat motionless, listening, brooding over the visions the music opened to each. They had never heard such music before. Even Percy had to acknowledge that, as he leaned breathlessly forward, eyes glued to the dancing bow.

One final, long, slow sweep, and the last notes died away, mellow and silvery as a distant bell. The musician raised his bowed head and looked about.

"More!" begged the boys.

With a nod of assent, he began "Annie Laurie." His audience sat spellbound. "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" followed; and he closed with "Auld Lang Syne." Then he laid the violin carefully on the table and burst into tears.

For two or three minutes nobody spoke. Filippo was weeping silently; Percy cleared his throat; and even the other three were conscious of a slight huskiness. The evening was turning out differently from what they had anticipated.

Brushing away his tears, the stranger controlled himself with a strong effort.

"I don't know what you'll think of me, boys," said he, shamefacedly. "I'm sorry to have made such an exhibition of myself. But music always did affect me; besides, it's wakened some old memories. Guess I'd better be going now."

He half rose.

"Stay awhile longer," urged Jim; and the others seconded the invitation.

Thorpe sank back on his box.

"You won't have to persuade me very hard. Evenings alone on the Helen are pretty long."

His eye fell on Percy's AEneid on the shelf beside the window.

"Aha! Who's reading Virgil?"

"I am," confessed Percy. "Making up college conditions."

The stranger looked at him keenly.

"Conditions, eh? Guess you don't need to have any, unless you want 'em."

"Found you at home there, Perce!" laughed Lane.

"I don't propose to have any more after this summer," averred Percy, stoutly.

"Stick to that!" encouraged Thorpe. "There's enough have 'em that can't help it."

Taking down the volume, he opened it at the beginning of the first book, and began reading aloud, dividing the lines into feet:

"Arma virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit.

"Wouldn't want to say how long it's been since I last set eyes on that. Probably you boys notice that I use the English pronunciation of Latin instead of the continental; it's what I had when I was in college."

"What was your college?" inquired Percy.

Melancholy darkened Thorpe's face again.

"Never mind about that," he replied, a little brusquely.

Glancing round the cabin, he caught sight of Throppy's wireless outfit; soon the two were engaged in an interested discussion on wave-lengths and the effect of atmospheric disturbances. Later he was talking over the lobster law with Jim, and life-insurance with Lane. He seemed to be equally at home on all subjects.

Eight o'clock came before they realized it. The stranger's face suddenly grew somber.

"Boys," said he, "I must be going now. You've given me a mighty pleasant evening and I sha'n't forget it right away. You'll think it a strange thing for me to say, but the best return I can make for your kindness is to tell you something about myself."

He glanced at Percy.

"You asked me what my college was. I'm not going to answer that question, but I'll say this: At the end of its catalogue of graduates you'll find a page headed 'Lost Alumni,' and my name—my real name—is there. It's a list of those whose addresses are unknown to the college authorities, men who have dropped out, gone back, disappeared. Nobody knows what's become of 'em, and by and by nobody cares. That's just what I am—a lost alumnus! And it's better for me to stay lost!"

With trembling hands he picked up a worm-eaten stick beside the stove.

"I'm like this stick now—only driftwood! Once I was young and sound and strong as any one of you—just as this wood was once. Now—"

Lifting the stove cover, he flung the stick into the fire; a burst of sparks shot up.

"That's all it's fit for; and it's all I'm fit for, too! Name ... character ... friends ... home ... all gone—all gone!"

He took a step toward the door, then halted.

"I've told you this because it may do some one of you some good while there's time. Don't throw your lives away, as I've thrown away mine!"

The sober, startled faces of his hearers apparently recalled him to himself.

"Sorry I spoke so freely," he apologized. "Forget it, boys, and forget me! Everybody else has. Good night!"

He opened the door.

"Won't you stop ashore with us?" invited Spurling. "We can fix you up a bunk."

"No; I must go aboard. My dog and cats would be lonesome; wouldn't sleep a wink without me. They're mighty knowing animals."

He went out and closed the door. The boys looked at one another. Lane was the first to speak.

"What d'you suppose was the matter with him? Must have been something pretty bad to make him feel that way. But, say! Didn't he make that violin talk? Never heard anything like it before!"

That night the boys went to bed feeling unusually serious. Percy, in particular, did not get to sleep until late. The stranger's remarks had given him much food for thought.

The next morning, before sunrise, the barking of Oliver Cromwell and a thin, blue smoke curling from the stovepipe of the Helen told that the lost alumnus was preparing breakfast. Jim and Percy had started off with their trawls some time before. Stevens volunteered to help their visitor repair his boom, so Filippo went out with Lane to haul the lobster-traps.

All the boys were back at noon, when Thorpe, repairs made, waved farewell and sailed slowly out of the cove, dog and cats manning the side of the Helen, as if for a last salute. Throppy told of his morning's work.

"Tried to pay me for what I did; but of course I wouldn't take anything. You might not think it, but, inside, that old boat is as neat as wax. Got a good library on board, too; books there that were beyond me. All the current magazines. Easy to see how he keeps up to date about everything."

At two o'clock that afternoon in popped the Calista in quest of lobsters. The boys told her captain about their strange caller. Higgins laughed shortly.

"What—old Thorpe! Oh yes, I've known of him these twenty years! Mystery? Not so much as you might think. It's the same mystery that's ruined a lot of other men—John Barleycorn! Thorpe showed up from nobody knows where about a quarter of a century ago; and ever since then he's been banging up and down the coast in that old boat. They say he's a college graduate gone to the bad from drink."

"What supports him?" asked Lane. "Does he fish?"

"Not more than enough to supply himself and his live stock. I've heard he's got wealthy relatives who furnish him with all the money he needs. He likes to live in this style, and they like to have him. He's out of their way, and they're out of his. In the winter he ties the sloop up in some harbor and stops aboard."

"He seemed to be sober enough last night," said Jim.

"Yes; when he's all right you couldn't ask for a man to be more peaceable or gentlemanly; but when he's in liquor, look out! I passed him a month ago one squally day off Monhegan, running before the wind, sheet fast, shot to the eyes, and yelling like a wild man. It's a dangerous trick to make that sheet fast on a squally day, or on any day at all, for that matter. Some time he'll do it once too often. Well, as the saying goes, 'When rum's in, wit's out!' How's lobsters?"



XVII

BLOWN OFF

At two o'clock on a Friday morning toward the end of August Spurling and Whittington started with six tubs of trawl, baited with salted herring, for Clay Bank. Long before sunrise the last fathom of ground-line had gone overboard and the tubs were empty.

Swinging the Barracouta about, they retraced their course to the first buoy.

A long, oily ocean swell, heaving in from the south, undulated the breezeless sea. The air was mild, almost suspiciously so. Dawn was breaking redly as they reached their starting-point and prepared to pull in the trawl.

"I'll haul the first half, Perce," volunteered Spurling.

Drawing the dory alongside, he cast off her painter and sprang aboard. Before taking in the buoy he stood for a half-minute, scanning sky and sea.

"Almost too fine!" he remarked. "I don't like that crimson east. You remember how the rhyme goes:

"A red sky in the morning, Sailors take warning.

Looks to me like a weather-breeder. Those swells remind me of a lazy, good-natured, purring tiger. You wouldn't think they'd swamp a toy boat; but let the wind blow over 'em a few hours and it's an entirely different matter. Still, I don't think we'll see any really bad weather before midnight at the earliest. Guess we'd better plan not to set to-morrow."

He was soon unhooking hake and coiling the trawl into its tub. Percy kept the Barracouta close by. At the middle buoy he relieved Spurling in the dory. The set yielded over two thousand pounds of fish, principally good-sized hake.

"Very fair morning's work," said Spurling. "We'll leave that last load in the dory. Now for home!"

Soon the sloop was heading for Tarpaulin, the weighted dory towing behind. They were almost up to Brimstone Point when, with a final explosion, the engine stopped. Spurling gave an exclamation of mingled disgust and relief.

"Something's broken! Well, we're lucky it didn't give way five miles back. It'd have been a tough job to warp her in so far, with a white-ash breeze. Cast off that dory, Perce!"

As Percy pulled the smaller craft alongside the distant quick-fire of an approaching engine fell upon his ears. He glanced quickly toward the northeast.

"No blisters for us this morning!" he shouted. "Here comes Captain Ben in the Calista! He'll tow us in."

Presently the lobster-smack was alongside, and soon the Calista, with sloop and dory in tow, was heading for Sprowl's Cove. Jim and Percy had left their boat and come on board the smack. They noticed that Higgins seemed unusually serious.

"What's the matter, Cap?" inquired Spurling. "Any trouble with lobsters?"

"No," replied the captain, soberly, "there's no trouble with lobsters, so far as I know. Haven't met with any losses to speak of, and I'm paying twenty-five cents a pound. But something's happened to a friend of yours. Remember that stranger who made you a call a couple of weeks ago?"

"Sure! What about him?"

"Well, coming across from Swan's Island yesterday afternoon, I nearly ran over a boat, bottom up, close to Griffin Ledge. I managed to spell out the name on her stem; it was the old Helen. Thorpe had made his sheet fast once too often, as I've always said he would. So he's gone, dog, cats, and the whole shooting-match. I cruised about for a while to see if I could find anything, but it wasn't any use; the tide runs over those ledges like a river. The old fellow had a good streak in him, and I'm all-fired sorry he had to go that way. It only shows what rum can do for a man, if you give it a fair chance."

The tragic news had a sobering effect upon the boys. Percy, in particular, remembering the habits of certain of his friends, took the story to heart. Nobody said anything more until they were inside the cove and running toward the lobster-car. Budge and Throppy saw them coming and rowed out in the pea-pod.

While the lobsters were being dipped aboard the smack and weighed, Spurling tinkered the Barracouta's engine. At last he discovered the cause of the breakdown.

"Broken piston-rod!" he exclaimed. "That means a trip to Matinicus. And we've got to go right away, so we can get back before night ahead of the storm that's coming. We must fix that engine, or we may lose two or three days' good fishing, after the sea smooths down. Perce, you and I'll go in the dory. You other fellows'll have to dress those hake alone this time."

"I'll tow you across, Jimmy," offered Higgins. "But it looks a bit smurry to me. I think there may be a norther coming; and you wouldn't want to get caught out in that. Remember what happened to Bill Carlin!"

"I know," answered Spurling. "But that engine's no good without a piston-rod. I was born in a dory. Besides, if it should blow too hard, we can stop on Wooden Ball or Seal Island."

A few minutes later the Calista, with Jim and Percy aboard and the dory in tow, was moving away from Tarpaulin. An easy run of two hours brought them to Matinicus. Higgins dropped his anchor in the outer harbor near Wheaton's Island, and the boys rowed ashore in their dory, landing in the head of the little cove near the fish-wharf.

Percy made a few necessary purchases at the store while Jim attended to the piston-rod. A half-hour later they were pushing off the dory, ready for their long row back. The sky was hazy and the sea calm. In the outer harbor Captain Ben hailed them from the Calista.

"Be good to yourselves, boys, and don't risk too much. You won't have any trouble getting to Seal Island; if it looks bad, you'd better hang up there with Pliny Ferguson. He'll be glad of company at his shack for the next two days; for, unless I'm 'way off, there won't be many trawls set or traps pulled until next Monday. I'm going to stick to Matinicus till the blow is over."

It was still calm when they passed the Black Ledges and headed for the northeast point of Wooden Ball. Jim was rowing, and the dory drove easily onward under his powerful strokes.

Percy looked north. The mountains on the mainland had vanished, and even the heights on Vinalhaven were being blotted out; but as yet not a breath of air disturbed the glassy, undulating sea.

They were now only a few hundred feet north of the ledges on the extremity of the Ball. The swell was breaking white against its barnacled granite boulders in a long, crashing rumble.

"Let me spell you at the oars, Jim," said Percy.

"Don't care if you do! And pass that bag of hard bread forward! I feel hungry enough to eat the whole of it. Wonder what Filippo'll have for supper to-night!"

The boys had been in such a hurry to get away from Matinicus that they had not taken time for any dinner; so both had keen appetites. Jim made a hearty lunch on the crisp crackers. Percy's mouth watered as he swung to and fro at the oars, facing his companion. Ten weeks ago he would have disdained such plain fare; but now he could eat it with a relish. His gristle was hardening into bone.

Four or five of the brittle disks satisfied Jim's hunger.

"Your turn now, Perce! Let me take her again!"

"Hadn't I better row a little longer?"

"No! I feel good for five miles. Those crackers put the strength into a man."

Percy attacked the bag with an appetite equal to Jim's. Malcolm's Ledges were near, breaking white half-way from the Ball to Seal Island. To Percy's ears the roar of the surf sounded louder.

"Sea's making up a bit, isn't it, Jim?"

"Yes; but I don't think it'll amount to anything for a long time yet."

Down swept a squall from the north, roughening and darkening the water. The dory careened a trifle as it smote her side.

"Well, Perce, we're more than a third of the way home. There's Brimstone Point, eight miles ahead. We may see a little rough water before we get there. Lucky you're not seasick nowadays!"

The squall passed, but left a steady breeze blowing in its wake. The sky was gray, the sea leaden. The horizon all around seemed to be contracting, and the familiar islands were losing their height.

They ran to leeward of the breaker on Gully Ledge, and passed into smooth water under the protecting barrier of Seal Island. Pliny Ferguson's shack was in plain view, and its owner came out and swung his hand to them. Spurling remembered Captain Higgins's advice, and hesitated.

"What do you say, Perce? I'll put it up to you. Shall we keep on or stop here with Pliny? Seems to me there isn't the least doubt about our reaching the island before dark; but I don't want to make you run any needless risk. So I'll do as you say. Pliny'll be glad to make us comfortable, and we can slip across after the gale is over."

Percy scanned the steep, desolate cliffs a half-mile to the north.

"What would you do if you were alone, Jim?"

"Make for Tarpaulin as fast as oars would take me."

"Then I say keep on!"

"Keep on it is, then," assented Spurling.

Shielded from the wind by the high shore, the dory sped on east by south. The island was over a mile long. When they emerged from the protection of the ledges on its eastern end they could see that the breeze had increased in force. Up to windward in the direction of Isle au Haut Bay occasional white-caps were breaking.

Spurling stopped rowing and took a long look around. Then he pulled off his sweater, settled himself firmly on the thwart, and braced his heels against the timber nailed across the bottom of the dory. His oar-blades caught the water with a long, steady stroke.

"We'll head north of the island," he said to Percy, after a few minutes of vigorous rowing. "The flood'll be running for the next three hours, and that'd naturally set us toward the north; but before we get to Tarpaulin the wind'll be blowing us the other way. We've got to allow for both."

Fifteen minutes went by, thirty, a full hour. Little by little Seal Island sank behind them and the familiar outlines of Tarpaulin loomed clearer and higher. The increasing breeze, blowing against the ocean current, kicked up a lively chop, on which the dory danced skittishly. It took all Spurling's strength and skill to drive her onward.

At four o'clock they still had between four and five miles to go. The sea was alive with white horses. As the boat fell into the trough Percy momentarily lost sight of the island. He now recognized Spurling's wisdom in heading so far north of their goal. But for that they would inevitably have been blown off their course.

Jim was buckling to his task like a Trojan. Bare-headed, shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, he swayed to and fro, a tireless, human machine. His blades entered the rough sea cleanly and came out on the feather. Admiringly, almost enviously, Percy watched the play of the banded muscles on his brawny forearms. He would have given anything to be as strong as his dory-mate.

Past five o'clock, and still over two miles to the island. It was growing rougher every minute. The gale had fairly begun. It sheared the crests off the racing billows and flung them over the boat in showers of spray. Now and then a bucketful came aboard. It kept Percy busy bailing.

Occasionally Jim brought the dory head to the wind and lay on his oars to rest. After all, human muscles, powerful as they may be, are not steel and india-rubber.

"Pretty rough, isn't it?" said he, at one of these intervals. "Seasick, old man? You look a little white around the gills."

Percy shook his head. The situation was too serious for seasickness. In spite of the jocularity of his words, Jim's voice sounded hollow. Both of them knew that it meant a hard fight to reach Tarpaulin.

Silence, gray and leaden as the misty sky, settled over the dory. Spurling was throwing all the strength he possessed into every stroke; Percy bailed continuously. It took considerably more than an hour to make the next mile and a half. A rainy haze, driving down from the north, had shrouded the island, and Brimstone Point was barely visible.

Jim's strokes were slower; they lacked their earlier force. His face showed the strain of the last hour. Uneasily Percy noted these signs of weariness.

"Tired, Jim?"

"Yes."

The brief monosyllable struck Percy with dismay. If Spurling's strength should give out, what would happen to the dory?

"Don't you want me to row awhile?"

"You can take her for a few minutes."

Scrambling forward, Percy grasped the oars and took Jim's place on the thwart. The latter lay down flat on his back in the bottom of the dory. Apparently he was not far from complete exhaustion.

"Keep her up into the wind as well as you can," he directed.

Percy did his best; but he found it a hard job. The gale, now far stronger than the tide that flowed against it under the surface, was forcing them steadily southward. Brimstone Point could just be seen, a half-mile to the northeast.

Though he pulled his heart out, Percy could tell that he was losing ground, or rather water, every second. The wind mocked his efforts. He could not keep the boat on her course. Big rollers swashed against the port bow and broke aboard. Jim raised a drenched face, haggard with weariness, and took in the situation.

"Harder, Perce!" he urged. "Hold her up till I can get my breath. It's the ocean for us to-night, if we don't hit Brimstone."

Spurred by this exhortation, Percy jerked at the oars savagely and unskilfully. As he swayed back there was a sharp snap, and the starboard oar broke squarely, just above the blade.

Round swung the dory, head to the south. Up started Spurling with a cry of alarm, his fatigue forgotten.

"You've done it now!"

Wrenching the port oar from his horrified mate, he sprang aft, dropped it in the notch on the stern, headed the boat once more for the island, and began sculling with all his might.

It was a hopeless attempt. However strong he might be, no man with only one oar could make headway into the teeth of such a gale. For a time his desperate efforts held the dory in her place. Then little by little she began to go astern.

With sinking heart Percy watched Spurling's shoulders rack and twist as he threw his last ounce into his sculling. By degrees his motions became slower and more painful. Suddenly he pulled in the oar and dropped it clattering aboard.

"No use!" he groaned as he toppled backward and collapsed in the bottom of the dory.



XVIII

BUOY OR BREAKER

Consternation seized Percy. Never before had he known Jim to acknowledge himself beaten. Their plight must be serious indeed.

The dory swung side to the sea and sank into the trough. A half-barrel of water slopped aboard. Percy bestirred himself. Setting the oar in the scull-hole, he brought the boat's head once more into the wind. He was not strong enough to drive her against it; but he could at least keep her pointed into the teeth of the gale and prevent her from swamping. He dropped to his knees, for it was too rough for him to keep his balance if he stood upright.

How far off was Tarpaulin? As he looked back a red glare sprang up northeast. Budge and Throppy had fired the driftwood beacon on Brimstone Point. Small good it would do Jim and himself to-night.

They could not reach the island with one oar, and it was now too dark for their friends on Tarpaulin to make out the drifting dory.

Percy began sculling frantically.

"Hi! Hi! Hulloo-oo!" he yelled. "Oh, Budge! Oh, Throppy! We're going to sea! Come out and get us!"

It was like shouting against a solid wall. His cries were whirled away by the gale. Presently he became silent, realizing that he was wasting his breath.

Rapidly the dory drifted seaward. The fire dimmed to a misty red glow. A smart shower burst, and great drops spattered over the dory.

Jim sat up. He turned his face toward the island, and Percy knew his eyes had caught the dying beacon. He said nothing; there was nothing to say. In a little while all was black, north, east, south, and west.

Then Jim spoke, and his voice was as calm and deliberate as if he were in the cabin on the island, instead of a mile to leeward, driving to sea before a norther.

"Well, Perce, we're in for it! I'm sorry I spoke so sharp when you broke that oar. It's an accident liable to happen to anybody. Let's take account of stock! We're in for a night and more on the water, and we want to do our best to keep on top of it, and not under it, until the gale blows itself out. The prospect isn't exactly rosy; still, it might be a blamed sight worse. We're in a good dory, and that's the best sea boat that floats."

"Aren't we likely to be picked up before morning?"

"Pretty slim chance. Everything small has scooted to harbor long before this. We haven't any light, and a vessel or steamer large enough to pay no attention to the storm would be as liable to run us down as to pick us up. So about the best we can hope for is to have everything give us a wide berth until daylight."

"Will the gale last as long as that?"

"Longer, I'm afraid. 'Most always we have one good, big norther in August that blows two or three days. I'm really the one to blame for getting us into this mess. I know the sea, and you don't. I ought to have had brains enough to stop on Seal Island. Well, it's no use crying over spilled milk. The only thing now is to try not to spill any more."

The rain was descending in torrents. Storm and night drew a narrow circle of gloom about the reeling boat.

Spurling tried to rise to his feet. The dory jumped like a bucking horse, and he caught the gunwale just in time to escape being pitched overboard.

"Jerusalem!" he gasped. "Guess I won't try that again! Hands and knees are good enough for me. Hold her, Perce! I'll throw out some of this water."

Kneeling in the flood that swashed from bow to stern, he bailed vigorously until the boat was fairly clear.

"No use wearing ourselves out trying to keep her head to it with the oar!" said he. "I'm going to rig a drug!"

Directly under Percy's arms, as he sculled, was a trawl-tub containing their purchases at Matinicus. These Jim tossed into the stern. Taking the tub, he crept forward. A lanyard of six-thread manila, put across double between holes in the top of its sides, formed a rope bridle or bail. To the middle of this bail Jim tied the thirty-foot painter with a clove hitch. Then he dropped the tub over the bow.

"Pull in your oar, Perce!" he called out.

Percy obeyed gladly. A heavy sea struck the dory. She reared, shot back, and started to swing sidewise. Then the "drug" caught her, and she seesawed again up into the wind and rode springily.

The tub, filled with water, and drifting on its side thirty feet before the bow at the end of the straightened-out painter, formed a floating anchor, which held the dory head to the wind and sea. Practically submerged, and offering the gale no surface to get hold of, it moved much more slowly than the high-sided boat, and so retarded its course.

Jim came crawling aft again.

"Guess that'll hold her!" he exclaimed. "I've strengthened the lanyard with some ground-line, and it ought to last us through the night. We'll be as snug as if we were in Sprowl's Cove, hey, Perce?"

Percy could hardly agree with him. The roaring, rain-shot blackness, roofed with murky clouds and floored with rushing surges, was not calculated to inspire confidence in a landsman. With every sea the dory leaped back several feet, until the straightened painter brought her up. Showers of spray flew over the boys. It was well both were clad in oilskins.

They were not entirely without light. The water was firing. Every breaking wave dissolved in phosphorescence. The tub before the bow was outlined in radiance; the whipping painter was transmuted to a rope of silver; and as the dory split the crashing rollers they streamed away in sparkles of ghostly flame. Even in their peril the boys could not help appreciating the weird beauty of the display.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" said Percy. "Say, Jim, how far south's the nearest land?"

"Somewhere around two thousand miles, I guess. Too far to interest us any. I think it's one of the West Indies."

The wind was growing stronger, the sea rougher. Now and then a young flood set both boys bailing, Jim with the bucket, Percy with the scoop.

"Won't do to let it gain too much on us," remarked Jim. "She can't sink; but if she should fill it'd be pretty uncomfortable."

The rain had ceased; the clouds did not hang so low. Suddenly Percy gave a whoop of joy.

"Look in the west!"

Not far above the horizon appeared a rift of clear blue sky, sown with stars. Longer and wider it grew. Other rifts added themselves to it, and in an unbelievably short time the entire heaven was swept clean. But somehow the wind seemed to blow harder than before.

"How soon will it calm down?" asked Percy.

Jim shook his head.

"Can't say! May be a dry blow for two days longer."

He looked eastward.

"What's that coming? Steamer?"

Sure enough it was. Below the white light on the masthead appeared and disappeared the red and green, obscured intermittently by the tossing waves. Soon they could be seen all the time. Percy began to grow excited.

"Suppose they'll pick us up?"

"Not a chance in a thousand. It's too rough for the lookout to spy our boat, and, even if the steamer should come close, we could never make her hear. She's either a tramp or an ocean liner from Halifax for Portland."

On she plowed unswervingly and majestically, straight toward them.

"I'm afraid she's coming too near for comfort," said Jim, anxiously. "She might run us down and never know it. Lots of fishermen have gone that way. Ship that oar in the scull-hole. I'm going to haul in the drug."

He lifted the trawl-tub aboard and sprang quickly aft.

"We'll know pretty quick whether she's likely to pass ahead or astern. We can't count on being seen. We've got to look out for ourselves."

Freed from its floating anchor, the dory bobbed wildly. Wielding his oar skilfully, Spurling held her bow to the north, ready to scull for the last inch, or to let her drop back, as the approach of the steamer might make it advisable.

Closer and closer came the big boat; her lights oscillated with pendulum-like regularity as she rolled on the heavy seas.

"She'll pass astern," was Jim's verdict. "Won't do to drift in front of her."

He sculled strongly, keeping an anxious eye on the threatening monster. Percy's hair bristled.

"Harder, Jim!" he shouted. "She's going to run us down! Steamer ahoy! Keep off! Keep off!"

The rushing foam smothered his cries. Meanwhile Spurling worked like a steam-engine. Two lives hung on his oar-blade.

As the knife-like stem sheared past, close astern, the green eye disappeared; the red glared menacingly down from the huge bulk looming overhead. Then the lofty black side swept by, flashing an occasional ray from a lighted port-hole. The screw gave them a sickening moment, but they soon tossed safely astern, breathing hard, eyes on the dwindling leviathan, wallowing westward.

Jim spoke first: "Close as they make 'em! I'm glad that's over!"

Percy agreed with all his heart. Jim had discovered that the tub was becoming a bit shaky, so he reinforced the lanyard, and strengthened the bottom by binding it with ground-line. Before long it was towing again in front of the bow, as good as new.

Hours passed, but the intensity of the gale did not slacken. The sea was frightfully rough. It kept the boys bailing continually.

Dawn broke at last. On the eastern horizon grew a pale light, against which the ragged, savagely leaping crests were silhouetted weirdly. It brightened to a crimson glow, and soon the sun was shooting its fiery arrows across the heaving, glittering waste.

The forenoon wore slowly on as they drifted steadily south. The water around the dory was alive with whirlpools. Gigantic green seas rushed down as if to overwhelm her, but she flirted her bow aloft and rode them stanchly.

Percy, glancing to starboard, saw a black fin cutting the slope of a watery ridge.

"Shark, Jim?"

"Yes. And there's another to port. They're looking for trouble. They'll stick by till we're out of this scrape or in a worse one."

He was right. The sun reached its zenith and began to descend, but still the black fins wove their ceaseless circles round the boat.

Jim had been scanning the sea, hand over his eyes.

"There's a schooner," he remarked, without enthusiasm.

Percy was all excitement.

"Where? Where?"

"Up there, two miles to windward. Double reefed and clawing west. She'd never see us in a thousand years, and if she did she couldn't do us any good. Forget her!"

The schooner inched her way imperceptibly under the horizon. The boys had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours; excitement had prevented them from feeling hungry. Now they came to a realization that they had stomachs, and they finished half the hard bread remaining in the bag.

"We'll save the rest," decided Jim. "May need it worse later than we do now."

Percy could easily have eaten twice his share, but he recognized the wisdom of Jim's decision. Both were very thirsty, but without a drop of fresh water aboard there was nothing to do but wait.

At four o'clock came disaster. The drug suddenly let go!

Round whirled the dory, side to the seas. Jim grabbed the oar and jammed it into the scull-hole, but before he could wet the blade a crumbling roller almost swamped the boat. Out went everything that would float.

"Save that bucket, Perce!" shouted Spurring.

Percy clutched the handle just as the pail was going over the side. He bailed, while Spurling brought the flooded craft stern to the seas.

"Take her now, Perce! Give me the bucket!"

Furiously he began scooping out the water. After a long, discouraging fight the boat was bailed clear.

"We've got to run before it while I rig another drug," said Spurling. "Keep her as she is."

In the stern stood a five-gallon can of gasolene, one of the few things that had not been washed overboard when the dory filled. Making use of the sadly diminished coil of ground-line, Jim fastened this can to the end of the painter. Picking a smooth chance, he swung the bow up into the wind again; and soon they were floating snugly behind their new drug.

For another hour they drifted uneventfully. Out of a cloudless sky the red sun dropped below the flying spindrift. A second night was coming, and still the norther raged with undiminished violence.