"Two to one on Camden!" he shouted in a high-keyed voice.
All heads turned his way. For a moment nobody spoke. Percy mistook the silence. He struck a theatric attitude.
"Three to one! Are you afraid to support your home team?"
A girl giggled. Two or three boys hooted. Then a short, dark, thick-set man in the second row whirled about and answered the challenger.
"No," he said, deliberately. "We're not afraid to support our nine. If we were, it wouldn't be playing here to-day. We expect it to do its best. If it wins, it wins. If it loses, it loses. And that's all there is to it. Whatever dollars we have to put into baseball will go to meet the regular expenses of the team. We haven't any money to fool away in betting; and we don't care for any more second-hand talk from a half-baked youngster like you! You get me?"
The crowd applauded uproariously. Pursued by the jeers and catcalls of the small fry, Percy sat down, his face, if possible, redder than before.
Spurling caught an errorless game. It was Lane's bat in the last half of the ninth that finally drove in the winning run for Camden. Five to four.
The crowd streamed noisily off the grounds. A knot of the younger element tried to heckle Percy, but he strode loftily by them, puffing his inevitable cigarette. Jim and Budge went to the hotel with the Camden team to change their suits.
Beverage was jubilant over the victory.
"It's a mean thing to say," he remarked; "but I'm glad that power-boat didn't get here. We owe the game to you two fellows. How much shall we pay you?"
"Nothing," answered Jim. "We're paid already. We've enjoyed winning as much as you have."
"Well, if you ever come to Camden, remember that you own the town."
The boys decided to stop over for the early-evening celebration. The Vinalhavens were good losers, and the excursion steamer was not to start back until nine o'clock, so the town promised to be lively enough for the next few hours.
Before it had grown very dark the streets began to blaze with fireworks. Percy's remarks of the afternoon still rankled in the minds of the junior portion of the residents, and, as he sauntered to and fro, he became the butt of many pointed jests. He ignored them all. Such trivialities were beneath the notice of a scion of the house of Whittington.
It was his air of haughty superiority that got him into trouble. Tempted beyond endurance by his cool, insolent swagger, a small boy on the other side of the street discharged a Roman candle at him point-blank. One of the fiery balls struck his right side and dropped into the open pocket of his coat, starting a lively blaze. The garment got a smart scorching, and Percy's fingers were burnt and his feelings badly ruffled before he succeeded in extinguishing the conflagration.
Singling out the offender among a group of boys dancing delightedly up and down, Percy made a sudden rush and pounced upon him like a hawk on a chicken. Holding him by the collar, he cuffed his ears soundly. The criminal wriggled and twisted, loudly and tearfully protesting his innocence.
A stocky, freckled lad of about eighteen, with a close-cut head of brown hair, came out of a neighboring house on the run. His snub nose and projecting jaw suggested a human bulldog. He thrust his face close up to Percy's.
"What're you maulin' my brother for?" he demanded, truculently.
Percy dropped his victim, having finished chastising him. The latter rubbed his eyes and howled louder than ever.
"I asked you why you were maulin' my brother," reiterated the newcomer in a still more belligerent tone.
"Because he burned this hole in my coat," replied Percy, exhibiting the damaged garment.
"I didn't do it!" howled the boy.
"You hear that?" exclaimed the freckled lad, angrily. "He says he didn't and I say he didn't."
"Well, I say he did!"
"Do you mean to tell me I lie?"
Percy became suddenly aware that a ring was forming round him. He cast a hasty glance about the lowering faces and recognized some of his would-be hecklers of the afternoon. No Tarpaulin Islanders were there. He was a stranger in a strange land. But the Whittington in him was up, and he did not blench. He faced his questioner.
"If you say he didn't burn that hole—yes!"
An indignant chorus rose from the group.
"Did you hear that, Jabe? He called you a liar. I wouldn't stand that. Make him eat those words! It's the fresh guy who made the cheap talk at the ball-game. Soak him! Do him up!"
Spurred on by these exhortations, Jabe dropped his head between his shoulders and came at his enemy with the rush of a mad bull.
Percy was a good boxer. He had taken lessons from several first-class sparring-masters, and would have been no mean antagonist for anybody of his age and weight. But Jabe was a year older and fully twenty-five pounds heavier. Evidently, too, he had the abounding health and strength that come from life in the open. The odds against the city boy were heavy, but he stood up gamely.
Jabe rushed in upon him and struck with all his might. Percy side-stepped, and the blow went harmlessly by, while his assailant's rush carried him to the other side of the ring. Whirling about with a cry of rage, he came back, swinging his arms like a windmill.
"Now, Jabe! Now, Jabe!" rose the cry.
Again Percy leaped aside, and his right arm shot out. The blow caught his foe fairly under the left ear, and he went sprawling; but he was down only for a moment. Springing to his feet, he hurled himself into the fray with redoubled fury. Again he was knocked down, and again he renewed the battle, with more strength than before.
The fight could not last long. It was muscle against science, and in the end muscle won. Percy began to tire and to grow short of breath. He had smoked too many cigarettes to be able to keep up such a whirlwind pace for many minutes. Though he landed five blows to his enemy's one, the latter's one did more damage than his five.
For the first time in the contest Jabe used his head. Hitherto he had struck straight for the mark each time. Now he feinted with his right for his foe's body. Percy dropped his guard somewhat wearily. Before he realized what was happening, Jabe's left, sent in with tremendous force, hit him a smashing blow squarely on the nose, knocking him over backward.
It was the beginning of the end. Percy tottered up, blood spurting from his nose, his head spinning. He saw Jabe preparing for another rush and knew it would be the last one. He stiffened himself to receive the knock-out.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure broke through the circle.
"What's the trouble here?"
It was Spurling's voice. His glance took in the situation.
"That'll be about all," he said. "Come away, Whittington!"
A bullet-headed, shirt-sleeved man bristled up defiantly. It was Jabe's father.
"Guess we'll let 'em fight it out," he observed.
"No," said Jim. "It's gone far enough."
"Not looking for trouble, are you?"
"No," remarked Jim, easily. "I don't want any trouble with you, and you don't want any with me."
The shirt-sleeved man glanced appraisingly at his square shoulders and strongly knit figure.
"Right you are, George!" he laughed. "I don't want any trouble with you. You must be a mind-reader. You call off your dog and I'll call off mine."
He grasped Jabe by the collar and jerked him backward. Jim dropped a compelling hand on Percy's shoulder.
"Come on, Whittington! You ought to have brains enough to know you've been licked. It's time we started for Tarpaulin Island."
X
REBELLION IN CAMP
Conversation lagged on the Barracouta as she jogged smoothly over the starlit sea toward Tarpaulin Island. By the dim light of two lanterns, Jim, Throppy, Budge, and Filippo were busy baiting the trawls with herring and coiling them into the tubs in the standing-room. Percy had withdrawn from his companions and lay across the heel of the bowsprit on the decked-over bow.
He had stanched the flow of blood from his nose, but it still pained him, and he was otherwise bruised and badly shaken by the buffets from Jabe's knobby fists. Judged by Percy's feelings, Jabe must have been all knuckles. Percy had to acknowledge that only Spurling's opportune appearance had saved him from being pounded unmercifully. But his pride had been injured far more than his physical body. It seemed improbable that he would ever see Jabe again, but he determined that some time, somewhere, and somehow the freckled lad should pay dearly for the slight he had put upon the house of Whittington.
It was a few minutes past eleven when the sloop's engine stopped and she glided up to her mooring in Sprowl's Cove. Five sleepy boys tumbled into the dory and paddled ashore. The Fourth was over and the routine of workaday life would begin again for them early the next morning.
Nemo dashed back and forth on the beach, barking a furious welcome and springing upon his masters indiscriminately. Unwittingly he leaped at Percy and in playful mood closed his teeth over the lad's right thumb, sprained and aching from the fight.
"Get out, you cur!" exclaimed Whittington.
He launched an aimless, vindictive kick in the general direction of the gamboling beast. As often happens with random blows, it went too true. Nemo ki-yied up the beach on three legs.
"What are you about, Whittington?" burst out Lane, angrily. Among the entire five he was the fondest of the dog.
Percy was ashamed and sorry that he had hurt the animal, but Lane's eruption of temper smothered his repentant feelings.
"He bit my thumb," he muttered, sullenly.
"You know well enough he was just in sport. Don't you kick him again! You hear me!"
Percy mumbled an indistinct reply. As soon as the cabin was unlocked he turned into his bunk, without a word to anybody. For him the Fourth had been anything but a holiday.
Before going to sleep, Spurling outlined their work for the morrow.
"Throppy, you and I'll try our luck on Martingale Bank. It's only a half-mile northwest of the island, and sometimes you can get a big catch there. I've been saving it for a time like this. Budge, you and Percy ought to get at least a couple of hundred pounds out of those lobster-traps. They'll have been down two days and should yield some good-sized ones. Set the clock at four, Filippo! We'll be lazy for once."
Percy's sleep was broken. He dreamed of being chased along the main street of Vinalhaven by a crowd of small boys shooting at him with Roman candles. He dodged into an open doorway, only to be driven out by a giant with Jabe's face and a half-dozen pairs of arms the fists of which were studded with a double allowance of knuckles. He was fast being pounded to a pulp when the alarm-clock went off. He woke in a cold sweat.
Lying with closed eyes, he pretended to be asleep while Jim and Throppy finished a hasty breakfast. Soon the exhaust of the Barracouta proclaimed that they were on their way to Martingale Bank. Percy dozed, but remained conscious of Filippo's culinary operations.
At five Lane turned out, according to schedule. He shook Percy vigorously.
"Wake up, Whittington! Breakfast!"
"Don't care for mine yet."
"Aren't you going out with me to haul those traps?"
"No!" retorted Percy, sourly.
"Suit yourself!" was Lane's brief response.
Percy knew that Budge would rather go without him. He heard him give a whistle as he examined Nemo's leg; the animal cringed and whimpered.
"Poor fellow! Too bad!" sympathized Lane.
The remark was evidently intended for Percy's ears. At least the lad took it so. He felt sorry if Nemo was really hurt. Lane went out, and Percy turned over for another nap. When he next woke it was almost seven and the cabin was empty. He got up and dressed leisurely.
Looking out of the window, he saw Filippo digging clams on the flats across the cove. That meant chowder for dinner, a dish he particularly detested. He made a wry mouth and turned to the larder, but could discover nothing but some cold fish and fried potatoes. The fire had gone out, and he determined to await Filippo's return before breakfasting.
Deliberately scratching a match, he lighted a cigarette, thereby breaking the rule against smoking in the cabin. Then he stretched himself out on his bunk and began reading The Three Musketeers. Filippo returned before he had finished his chapter. The Italian's eyes grew round at the tobacco smoke.
"You know Misser Jim say no smoking!"
"Mister Jim isn't here now. You mind your own business and I'll mind mine. Get me some breakfast, will you?"
"Fire gone out while you sleep and everything grow cold. You bring some wood and I build another."
To Percy's still overstrained nerves Filippo's way of putting the matter suggested a condition on which the meal depended rather than a request.
"Bring it yourself!" he growled. "I'm no servant! I don't shag kindling for any Dago!"
At this insult Filippo's olive cheeks became quite pale. Into his eyes flashed a look Whittington had never seen there before. For an instant he almost feared that the young foreigner was about to seize a knife and spring upon him. Then the look passed and Filippo's color came back.
"All right!" he laughed. "No wood, no breakfast!"
Stepping out to the fish-house, he began shelling the clams he had just dug. Percy vacillated between pride and hunger. Hunger won.
"I didn't mean that, Filippo," he repented. "I beg your pardon. I'll get the wood."
He did, and Filippo heated up the fish and potatoes. Percy tried to engage him in conversation, but was able to extract only monosyllables in return. Evidently his hasty words still rankled in the Italian's breast.
Breakfast over, Percy took his book and started for the beacon. It was a beautiful July morning. The sea rippled blue and sparkling to the horizon. Budge was hauling his traps on the ledges around the base of Brimstone. A half-mile farther out Jim and Throppy were busy at their trawls. Conditions for fishing could not have been more ideal.
For a time Percy tried to read; but somehow Dumas's heroes failed to keep his interest. The sense of contrast between his own idleness and his mates' industry took all the pleasure out of his book. He tossed it aside and stood up. A motor-boat was rounding the eastern point. Percy recognized her as the Calista. Ordinarily he would have been glad to exchange chaff with Captain Higgins and Brad while they dipped the lobsters out of the car. This morning, however, he felt too much disgruntled to joke with anybody.
A hawk with a flapping fish clutched in its talons scaled in from the south and disappeared among the evergreens. Percy suspected that there was a nest somewhere in the scrub growth. The search for it promised just enough of novelty to keep him interested. Making a detour around the north shore, so as to keep out of sight of Captain Higgins, he began hunting for the nest in the tops of the low trees.
Two hours went by fruitlessly. It was hot and breathless in the close woods. Despite his dislike for clam chowder, Percy found himself growing hungry. At last he gave up the search in disgust, and started back for camp by the shortest route.
As he emerged into the cool breeze on the summit of the high southern shore he saw that the Calista still lay at anchor in the cove. Lane was alongside her in the pea-pod, while Jim and Throppy were rounding Brimstone Point in the Barracouta, with the dory in tow. The keenness of Percy's appetite made him careless of whether he was seen or not. He took the trail leading along the edge of the pasture. Directly below him the bank broke off in an abrupt dirt slope seventy-five feet high, overhung by a brow of sagging turf.
Behind and above the cabin the slope was unusually steep. As Percy reached this point his eye was caught by a smoke-feather on the southern horizon. Steamers always interested him. Stopping, and shading his eyes with his hand, he gazed intently at the distant vessel. The Barracouta was now just entering the cove; the thudding of her exhaust echoed loudly against the barrier of earth beneath his feet.
The rapid detonations, beating upon Percy's ear-drums, drowned until too late the quick pad-pad of hoofs from the opposite direction. Engrossed in watching the steamer, he had forgotten everything else. A nasal, threatening bleat, rising suddenly behind, roused him to a sense of danger. He whirled about.
Charging straight at him, head down, only a few feet distant, old Aries, the ram, spurned the turf with drumming hoofs.
Behind lay the treeless pasture; in front the bank fell away steeply. Instant flight along the trail was Percy's only resort. He turned to run.
As he jammed his heel down hard to gain momentum for his start, the overhanging sod broke suddenly. His foot slumped, and before he could recover himself his foe was upon him.
Biff!
Struck from behind with the force of a battering-ram, Percy shot over the brink. As he fell he described a partial somersault, landing on hands and knees half-way down the slope. His momentum carried him heels over head, and he rolled and tumbled the rest of the way, bringing up in a heap at the bottom.
He scrambled to his feet, wild with rage. Peals of mirth from the cove reached his ears. His mates and Captain Higgins, as soon as they saw that he was not seriously hurt, had doubled up with laughter. Their outburst of merriment increased Percy's fury.
A triumphant bleat resounded above. Outlined clearly against a background of blue sky, legs well apart and hoofs braced stoutly, Aries stood on the brink, gazing proudly down upon his overthrown enemy. White with wrath, Percy groped for a stone and launched it viciously. It just grazed the ram's head. The laughter from the cove redoubled.
A new idea struck Percy. Darting into the cabin, he ran out with Uncle Tom's shot-gun.
"None of that, Whittington!" bellowed Spurling.
Heedless of the shouted command, Percy clapped the gun to his shoulder and pulled first one trigger and then the other. Click! Click! Both barrels were empty. He might have remembered that so careful a fellow as Jim would never leave a loaded gun standing about. But there were a half-dozen shells in a box on the shelf. Laying the gun down, he rushed back into the cabin.
Spurling realized what Percy was after. Springing into the dory, he sculled rapidly to the beach. He had almost reached the shore when Whittington dashed out of the door with the shells in his hands. He crammed two into the breech, while the ram gazed haughtily down upon him.
"Put that gun down!" shouted Jim as the dory grounded and he leaped out on the beach.
Up went the weapon to Percy's shoulder. His finger sought the trigger, but no report followed. The ram had vanished and the sky-line was unbroken.
Before the exasperated lad could decide on his next step Jim was at his side, clutching at stock and barrel with strong hands.
"Give it to me!"
There was a short scuffle, and the gun was wrenched from Percy's grasp.
"Let me alone, Spurling! I'll kill that brute before he's ten minutes older!"
"Oh no, you won't!" replied Jim, coolly.
Breaking open the weapon, he extracted the shells and dropped them into his pocket.
"How many of these did you bring out?"
"Never you mind!"
"Oh, well, I know how many I had. I can count 'em. They're too dangerous to be lying around loose where a hothead like you can get hold of 'em."
He took the gun into the cabin. In half a minute he was out again.
"Two missing! Hand 'em over, Whittington!"
"I won't!"
Three steps, marvelously quick for so deliberate a fellow, brought Spurling to the other's side. An iron grip compressed Percy's shoulder.
"Will you give 'em to me or shall I have to take 'em? Say quick!"
The strong, unwavering grasp brought Whittington to his senses. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he brought out the shells. "Here they are!"
Jim bestowed them carefully inside his coat. His manner changed instantly.
"Now, Percy," said he, "pull yourself together! I don't wonder you were sore at the ram. What you got was enough to rile anybody; it would have set me hunting rocks myself. But you'll have to draw the line a long way this side of a gun. You can't blame the brute; it's his nature. And you can't blame us for laughing—we couldn't help it; you'd do the same in our place. The thing's over now. Forget it! Let's eat a good dinner, and all take hold on the fish this afternoon. We've made a whopping big catch, not much under three thousand pounds, I should say—enough, at any rate, to keep us all busy till dark. Let's bury the hatchet, handle and all, so deep that it'll never be dug up again! Shake on it!"
Whittington ignored Jim's outstretched hand. Trembling with humiliation and anger, he had all he could do to keep the tears from his eyes. Turning away without replying, he walked eastward along the beach to the ledges. He clambered over these until he gained a spot out of sight of the cove, then threw himself down to think. His hunger had disappeared; food would have choked him.
There he lay till the middle of the afternoon, smoking moodily. When he returned to camp at three he had decided on his course of action.
All the others were aboard the Barracouta, at work on the fish.
Spurling hailed Percy. "Want to lend a hand, Whittington?"
"No!" refused Percy, shortly.
Entering the cabin, he made a dry lunch on cold biscuit and soda-crackers, then threw himself on his bunk and began reading. The afternoon dragged on. At five Filippo came in and began to peel potatoes and slice ham for supper; soon they were frying in the spider. The smell was pleasant in Percy's nostrils.
Half an hour later in came the others, tired and hungry. The fish had been finished. All sat down at the table, Percy, uninvited, drawing up his soap-box with the rest. Nobody said anything to him, but he ate with a relish.
The meal over, Spurling turned to him with a serious face. It was plain he had something of importance on his mind.
"Whittington," said he, "I've been talking matters over with Budge and Throppy, and we're all agreed it's time we came to an understanding. Things can't go on in this way any longer. To put the matter in a nutshell, we can't afford to have you living off us and not working. You've got to do your share or quit. That's all there is to it."
Percy reddened with wrath. Nobody but John P. Whittington had ever dared to speak like that to him before.
"What do you mean by making such talk to me?" he demanded. "You needn't be afraid but you'll be well paid for every meal I've eaten in this old shack!"
"That isn't the point at all," said Spurling. "I gave your father fair warning what it would be when you came out here. We're not running any Waldorf!"
Percy gave a derisive laugh.
"And that's no dream!" he interjected, sarcastically.
Spurling paid no attention to the interruption.
"We're out here for work," he continued. "That means you as well as everybody else. I didn't count on you for much, but you haven't done even that."
"I've known for the last week you were trying to freeze me out," observed Percy. "It's been cold enough about this camp to make ice."
"Well, whose fault has it been?"
"You treat that little Dago better than you do me!"
"What of it? He's earning his salt, and a good deal more; and that's something your best friend couldn't accuse you of doing."
Percy's temper was fast getting the better of him.
"I'm not going to stop here to be kicked round by a bunch of Rubes like you," he snarled. "I won't stand for it any longer. I'll give you ten dollars to set me over on Matinicus to-night."
There was a dangerous flicker in Spurling's eyes, but his voice was steady.
"You can go, and welcome, on our next trip, day after to-morrow; but we can't break into our regular work to set you across."
"No? Say twenty, then! And that's nowhere near what it'd be worth to me to be shut of you and your whole gang!"
"I'm beginning to think I did wrong in stopping that fight at Vinalhaven yesterday. Guess you needed all you got and more, too!"
In Percy's wrathful condition the reference to the pummeling he had received from Jabe came like a dash of acid in a raw wound. A flood of fury swept away his judgment.
"You beggar!" he shouted. "You dollar-squeezer! I'll teach you to talk to me, you—!"
He flung himself on Spurling with clenched fists.
So sudden and unexpected was the onslaught that there was but one thing for Jim to do, and he did it, expeditiously and accurately. Percy went over backward and fell like a log. For a moment he lay motionless, then staggered up, feeling of his face.
"What hit me?" he inquired, dazedly.
"I did—right on the point of the jaw. Sorry I had to. Feel better?"
Percy made no reply. Walking unsteadily to his bunk, he lay down. There was no violin-playing in the cabin that night.
XI
TURN OF TIDE
At half past eight that night Camp Spurling was dark and quiet. Everybody was asleep but Percy Whittington. He lay in his bunk, wide awake and thinking hard, and his thoughts were far from pleasant.
His face was still sore as a result of his battle with Jabe. His jaw ached dully from its encounter with Jim Spurling's fist. But worse than any physical pain was the smart of his wounded pride.
Life in that cramped, tarry, fishy cabin was hard enough for a fellow who had lived at the best hotels and had the cream of everything. This painful wrenching of dollars out of the sea told sorely on his tender skin and undeveloped muscles. Yet beneath the surface he had enough of his father's stubbornness to make him stick doggedly to his lot, disagreeable though it was, if only he could have felt that he was receiving the consideration due to the son of John P. Whittington.
Spurling's blow was the straw that had broken the camel's back. Percy had endured it just as long as he could. He had reached his limit.
"I hate the whole bunch," he thought, bitterly. "Everybody's down on me, even to the dog. I won't stand it any longer. I'm going to get out to-night."
His mind once made up, he promptly began planning. He decided to take one of the boats and row up to Isle au Haut. It was a good ten miles to Head Harbor, but he felt confident he could reach it long before daybreak. Leaving the boat there, he would tramp six miles up the island and catch the early steamer for Stonington. Beyond that his plans did not go.
A flicker of light from the dying fire in the stove fell on the face of the alarm-clock ticking tinnily on the shelf. It was quarter to nine.
Percy woke to the need of acting at once. At midnight Filippo would get up to make coffee and warm the baked beans and corn-bread for Spurling and Stevens, who were to start for the hake-grounds not far from one. By that time he must be miles away—too far, at any rate, to be overtaken. Overtaken? He smiled sardonically. Not one of them, he knew, would lift a finger to prevent him from going. He could just as well set out in the daytime. But his pride shrank from the relieved faces and grudging farewells that would signalize his departure. No; it would be far better to slip away by night, without saying anything to anybody. But his going must be unobserved. It would be humiliating to be detected.
Cautiously he crept out of his bunk and pulled on his clothes, stopping apprehensively to listen for the regular breathing of his sleeping mates. But no one woke. The dying embers snapped in the stove. Nemo, slumbering on his canvas, stirred uneasily. Yet, so stealthy were Percy's movements, not even the dog's keen ears telegraphed them to his alert brain.
A few minutes sufficed for the deserter to dress and crowd his more valuable belongings into a suit-case. Noiselessly he lifted the latch and stepped outside.
It was a lovely summer night. A southwest breeze barely rippled the sheet of sapphire under the radiant stars. Tiny wavelets broke crisply on the pebbled beach. From the boulders that fringed the point came the drowsy murmur of the surf. A sheep bleated plaintively high above in the pasture; while far over the ocean to the south floated the faint, weird cry of a gull.
The tide was more than half down, and dory and pea-pod lay high and dry on the shingle. The sloop rode at her mooring in the cove. Percy hesitated. Her engine would take him to Head Harbor in less than two hours, and save him a long, hard row. But no. Her absence would interfere seriously with pulling the trawls and lose Spurling & Company a good many dollars. Bitter though his feelings were, he did not wish to cause financial loss. He decided on the pea-pod.
Ten feet of gravel lay between her stern and the water. Grasping her gunwale, Percy dragged her inch by inch gratingly down over the shingle, every sound magnified to his ears by his dread of discovery. He worked with the caution of an escaping convict. Now and then he glanced nervously toward the cabin, but from its gloomy interior came no sign that he was seen or heard. Apparently Spurling and his mates were sleeping the sleep of the dead. At the end of five minutes the pea-pod was afloat.
Percy tossed in his suit-case and clambered hastily aboard. There was no time to waste. He wished to put as much salt water as possible between himself and Tarpaulin Island before midnight.
Shipping his oars, he began to row, using infinite care lest creaking rowlock or splashing blade betray him. Gradually he drew out of the cove, and there was less need of caution. As he rounded Brimstone Point he cast one last, long look at the cabin, square and black and silent.
The remembrance of his discomforts and indignities of the last three weeks surged over him. He shook his fist at his vanishing prison.
"Good riddance!" he muttered. "Hope I'll never set eyes again on you or the bunch inside you!"
He bent to his oars with redoubled vigor, and presently a high boulder shut out the camp. In five minutes more he had rounded the point and was pulling north on the heaving Atlantic swell.
The tide was running out strongly. It came swirling round Brimstone in rips and eddies. Percy had never before realized that its force was so great. He made a hasty calculation, and was very unpleasantly surprised to discover that he would have to pull against it for fully ninety minutes ere it turned to run the other way. He began to feel less sure of reaching Head Harbor before daybreak.
"Guess I've bitten off an all-night job," thought he, disconsolately.
But there was no help for it—unless he desired to slink back to the camp he had just abandoned with such thief-like stealth. Percy set his teeth.
"Not while I've got arms to pull with!"
Before buckling to his task he glanced about. On his left rose the familiar shores of Tarpaulin. Miles to his right and almost due west the twin lights on Matinicus Rock twinkled faintly across the sea; while behind him, a little to the west of north, shone the single star of Saddleback, a good four leagues away. The dark-blue summer sky, unmarred by the slightest cloud-fleck, was brilliant with constellations.
It was a night of nights for an astronomer or a poet, but Percy was neither. He had no eyes for the splendor that overhung him. Ten long, watery miles must be traversed before he could beach his pea-pod in the little haven behind Eastern Head. Would his arms stand the strain?
His muscles were harder and stronger than they had been in the middle of June. Likewise, his grit had strengthened with his physique.
"I'll make Head Harbor before light, if it kills me!"
Turning, he scanned the starry sky, and by means of his scanty knowledge of astronomy identified the Great Dipper. Its pointers located the North Star. Under it he knew lay Isle au Haut, now a low, black ridge on the horizon, east of Saddleback Light.
Percy settled himself on the thwart, steeled his muscles, and gripped the oars harder. Short as his inaction had been, he could see that the tide had swept him back a trifle. It was going to be no picnic, that pull in to Eastern Head!
He threw all his strength into his arms, and again the boat made headway against the tide. By degrees Tarpaulin Island fell back. Before long it lay behind him—as he planned, forever. His anger still burned hot against Spurling and his associates.
"Treated me like a dog, the beggars! Well, who cares for 'em? Let 'em sweat out their dollars catching fish and lobsters! I'll get my cash some easier way."
The thought of money brought back the memory of his father, and with it a faint uneasiness. Up to this time, engrossed in making his escape, Percy had not troubled to look beyond the immediate future. Isle au Haut had bounded his mental as well as his optical horizon. But after that what?
Stonington ... Rockland ... Boston ... New York ... two months of living on his acquaintances ... and then—John P. Whittington!
Percy could picture the expression on the millionaire's features when he learned that his son had broken his promise and sneaked away from Tarpaulin Island, like a thief in the night. That grim face with its bulldog jaw was one any erring son well might dread, and particularly such a son as he had thus far been. John Whittington had told Percy plainly that the island was his last chance, and, whatever faults the millionaire might have, he was not the man to break his word.
For the young deserter it was liable to be out of the frying-pan and into the fire with a vengeance.
Percy had been in the frying-pan three weeks; life there, though not pleasant, had been endurable.
At any rate, he had seen the worst of it; but for his wounded pride, he could have schooled himself to withstand its hardships, for they would have been only temporary.
What the fire might have in store for him he did not know; but one thing he did know, and that was John P. Whittington!
Not unimaginably, there might be far worse places than Tarpaulin Island.
The lad's elation at his easily earned freedom vanished. The snap and vim went out of his strokes, and his speed slackened perceptibly. Though he still dragged doggedly at the oars, there was no longer any heart in his pulling.
Westward, almost in line with the beacon on Matinicus Rock, grew a fairy pyramid of twinkling lights—the Portland boat, bound for St. John. Larger, higher, brighter, nearer, until they burned, a sparkling triangle of white and red and green. Soon the steamer crossed his bow not far to the north. He could hear the rush of foam and the throbbing of her screw. Gradually she passed eastward and blended again with the horizon.
Slower and weaker fell Percy's blades, until the pea-pod was barely moving. The ebb, still running against the boat with undiminished strength, almost sufficed to hold her stationary. But, though the lad's muscles were relaxed and listless, a fierce battle was being fought out in his troubled brain.
Should he keep on or should he go back?
Go back? Return to two months more of the uncongenial drudgery from which he had been so glad to escape? Besides, he could hardly hope to drag the pea-pod up on the beach and regain his bunk without attracting the notice of somebody in the cabin. He could imagine the talk of the others when he was out of hearing.
"Started to run away, but got cold feet and sneaked back again. Hadn't the sand to carry it through! We'd better sack him when the four weeks are up."
His futile midnight sally would only result in added humiliation.
But what if he kept on? Already more than an hour had passed. It would not be many minutes now before the tide would turn. The ebb would cease running out, and the flood would set just as strongly the other way, bearing him in toward Isle au Haut. To row with it would be an easy matter.
Head Harbor before daybreak. Boston or New York the morning after. Two months or more of easy living in the same old way. After that the deluge, alias John P. Whittington.
Isle au Haut or Tarpaulin Island, which should it be? Beads of sweat started on Percy's face as he wrestled out his problem.
Far more was involved than the mere question of going north or south. He had come to the parting of the ways. His whole life hung in the balance. Floating in that frail skiff on the uneasy swell, he realized that everything depended on the direction in which he swung the prow. His future lay in his oar-blades.
Under the horizon north and west stretched the coast. He closed his eyes and saw a vision of the feverish city life he knew and loved so well—lighted streets thronged with gay crowds, human banks between which flowed rivers of velvet-shod automobiles and clanging cars; hotel lobbies and theaters and restaurants alive with men and women who had never stooped to toil; all the luxury and glare and glitter that wait upon modern wealth. This was what he was fitting himself for. What did it all amount to?
He opened his eyes and came back to the little boat, rocking gently on the undulating swells; to the lonely glory of the peaceful ocean, arched by the starry sky. A light breeze was beginning to blow from the southwest, dispersing the thin silver mist that overhung the water.
Percy glanced at his watch; it was quarter past ten, almost time for the ebb to cease and the flood to begin.
Should he keep on or go back? He must decide quickly. Already his arms were tired, and he was more than two miles north of the island. The longer he delayed his decision the harder would be his pull against the flood if he turned.
Minutes passed as he pondered, barely dipping his oars. It was slack tide now and the pea-pod just held her own. Down on the breeze floated a distant, melancholy note, the voice of the whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge, two miles from Isle au Haut. Was it an invitation or a warning?
Slowly at first, then faster, the stern of the boat swung round. The tide had turned. The flood would carry him north with but little effort on his part. Should he let himself go with it?
Percy's indecision vanished. The tide of his own life had turned, like that of the ocean; slow and doubtful though the change had been, the current was at last setting the other way. Grasping the oar-handles tightly, he whirled the head of the pea-pod southward and started again for Tarpaulin Island.
XII
PULLING TOGETHER
The next hour and a half was anything but fun for young Whittington. His mind was set on reaching Camp Spurling before the hands of the alarm-clock came together at midnight. At any cost he must be in his bunk before the others woke.
It was a long, hard row, a battle every second with the tide running against him with untiring strength. It demanded every ounce of energy Percy possessed. His back complained dully. His arms felt as if they would drop off. Time and again he decided that the next stroke must be his last, that he must lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest; but each time he tapped some hitherto unknown reservoir of power within himself, and kept on pulling.
With the stern demand on his physical forces a change was being wrought in his brain. His foolish pride, his false sense of shame at changing his hasty plan to desert, his bitter feeling toward the others, gradually disappeared. Every oar-stroke brought him not only nearer the island, but also nearer a sane, wholesome view of life itself.
His thoughts turned naturally to the group at the camp, this clean, independent, self-respecting crowd, who cared no more for his money than for the pebbles on the beach; who estimated a fellow, not by what he had, but by what he was. After all, that was the real test; Percy could not help acknowledging it.
Saddleback glimmered astern. The whistle south of Roaring Bull was growing fainter. Percy felt encouraged. He turned his head. Yes, Tarpaulin was certainly nearer. Disheartening though the pull was, he had gained perceptibly. But the southwest breeze had stiffened, adding its opposition to that of the tide.
It was now past eleven. He had decided that he must reach the cabin not later than quarter to twelve. Barely half an hour longer! His hands were blistered, his breath came in sobs, but he dragged fiercely at the oars. At last he was stemming the strong tide-rip off Brimstone Point.
The next ten minutes were worse than all that had gone before. As he surged unevenly backward and forward, the current swung the pea-pod's bow first one way, then the other. Deaf and blind to everything but the work in hand, Percy swayed to and fro. Foot by foot the boat crept round the fringing surf at the base of the bluffs.
Hands seemed to be plucking at her keel, holding her back. It was no use. They were too strong for him. All at once their grasp weakened. He glanced up with swimming eyes. He had passed the eddy, and the entrance of the cove was near. A few strokes more and the pea-pod grounded on the beach. It was twenty minutes to twelve!
Percy staggered up to the cabin. All was dark and quiet. Gently lifting the latch, he slipped inside, pulled the door to again, and stood listening. The regular breathing of his sleeping mates reassured him. Compelling himself to walk noiselessly to his bunk, he crept under his blanket without even taking off his shoes.
He had been gone three hours; and they had been the most momentous hours of his life.
Kling-ng-ng-ng-ng ...
Off went the clock. It was midnight. Muttering drowsily, Filippo slid out of his bunk, checked the alarm, and lighted a lamp. Then he busied himself with his cooking-utensils.
The last thing Percy heard was a spoon clinking against a pan. Dead tired, he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep.
It was eight in the morning before he woke. What had made his arms and back so lame and raised those big blisters on his hands? Percy remembered. He lay for a few minutes, his eyes shut. An unpleasant duty was before him, and he must be sure to do it right.
Aching in every joint, he rolled out at last and stood up stiffly. Filippo, who was washing the breakfast dishes, turned at the sound. His face was neither hostile nor friendly.
"Your breakfast in oven," said he. "Sit down and I get it."
He set before Percy a plate of smothered cod and a half-dozen hot biscuits. It was more thoughtfulness than Percy had expected.
"Much obliged, Filippo," he said, gratefully.
Filippo made no reply to this acknowledgment; but, as Percy ate, he could feel the young Italian watching him curiously. It was the first time Whittington had ever thanked him, and he did not understand it.
After he had finished eating, Percy took his plate, knife, and fork to the sink.
"Let me wash these, Filippo," he said.
"No," returned the Italian, "I do it."
But a look of surprise crossed his face. What had come over the millionaire's son?
Percy spent the rest of the forenoon on the ledges. At noon he came back to the cabin. He had steeled himself for the task before him, and he was not the fellow to do things half-way. The John P. Whittington in him was coming out.
Everybody else was in camp when he stepped inside. Lane did not look at him at all. Spurling and Stevens nodded coolly. Percy drew a long breath and launched at once into the brief speech he had spent the last three hours dreading.
"Fellows," he stammered, "I've been pretty rotten to all of you. There's no need of wasting any more words about that. Last night I took one of the boats and started to row up to Isle au Haut. But I got to thinking matters over out there on the water, and it changed my mind about a lot of things. So I came back. Jim, I want to apologize to you for what I said last night. I deserved what you gave me, and it's done me good. I want to stay here with you for the rest of the summer—if you're willing. I'll try to do my full share of the work. You can send me off the first time I shirk."
He ceased and awaited the verdict, looking eagerly from one to the other. There was a moment of silence. Surprise was written large on the faces of the three Academy men. Then Spurling stepped forward and held out his hand.
"Percy," said he, with a break in his voice, "I've always thought you had the right stuff in you, if you'd only give yourself half a chance. For one, I'll be more than pleased to have you stop. What do you say, boys?"
He glanced toward Lane and Stevens.
"Sure!" exclaimed Lane, heartily; and Stevens seconded him.
The boys shook hands all round; and they sat down to the table with good appetites. Everybody enjoyed the meal.
"Boys," said Jim as they got up at its close, "this is the best dinner we've had since we came out here."
Percy's heart warmed toward the speaker. He knew that it was not the food alone that made Jim say what he did.
It had been Percy's habit to smoke three or four cigarettes during the half-hour of rest all were accustomed to take after the noon meal. He went, as usual, to his suit-case, and this time took out, not merely one package, but all he had, including his sack of loose tobacco and two books of wrappers.
"Got a good fire, Filippo?" he inquired, approaching the stove.
A burst of flame answered him as he lifted the cover. In went the whole handful. He watched it burn for a moment before dropping the lid.
"I'm done with you for good," he said.
As Lane and Spurling started for the Barracouta to dress the fifteen hundred pounds of hake they had taken off the trawls that morning Percy joined them, clad in oilskins.
"Jim," he petitioned, "I want you to teach me how to split fish."
"Do you mean it, Percy?" asked Spurling.
"You heard what I said this noon about shirking. I'm through with dodging any kind of work just because it's unpleasant. I want to take my part with the rest of you."
"I'll teach you," said Jim.
He did, and found that he had an apt pupil. Percy worked until the last pound of the fifteen hundred was salted down in the hogshead. He discovered that it was not half so bad as it had looked, and felt ashamed that he had not tried his hand at the trick before.
"You've earned your supper to-night," observed Jim.
"Yes; but I'm glad it's something besides fish."
"You'll get so you won't mind it after a while."
That night Throppy played his violin and the boys sang. They passed a pleasant hour before going to bed.
"I'd like to go out with you to the trawls, Jim, to-morrow morning," said Percy.
"Glad to have you," responded Spurling, heartily.
Two hours before light they were gliding out of the cove in the Barracouta, bound for Medrick Shoal, four miles to the eastward.
"Percy," said Jim as the sloop rolled rhythmically on the long Atlantic swells, "I want to tell you something. I was awake the other night when you left camp. I watched you row north and come back; and I saw the hard fight you had round Brimstone. I'm glad you made a clean breast of the whole thing, even when you thought nobody knew anything about it. It showed me you intended to turn over a new leaf and play fair. You'll find that we'll meet you half-way, and more."
Percy was silent for a moment.
"Glad I didn't know you heard me go out," he remarked. "If I had I might not have had the courage to come back. Well, I've learned my lesson. From now on I'll try not to give you fellows any reason to find fault with me."
Medrick Shoal yielded a good harvest. About eighteen hundred pounds of hake lay in the pens on the Barracouta when they started for home at ten o'clock. As they took the last of their gear aboard, a schooner with auxiliary power, apparently a fisherman, approached from the eastward.
"The Cassie J.," read Spurling, deciphering the letters on the bow. "Somehow she looks natural, but I don't remember ever hearing that name before. Probably from Gloucester. Wonder what she wants of us."
The vessel slowed down and changed her course until she was running straight toward the Barracouta. One of her crew stood in the bow, near the starboard anchor; another held the wheel; but nobody else was visible.
"Where are you from, boys?" hailed the lookout, when the stranger was only a few yards off.
"Tarpaulin Island," answered Spurling.
The man put his hand behind his ear.
"Say that again louder, will you?" he shouted. "I'm a little deaf."
Jim raised his voice.
"I said we were from Tarpaulin Island."
The lookout passed the word back to the helms-man. The latter repeated it, evidently for the benefit of somebody in the cabin. Then the man at the wheel took up the conversation, prompted by the low voice of an unseen speaker below.
"How many fish have you got there?"
"Eighteen hundred of hake."
"What's that?"
Was everybody aboard hard of hearing? Jim raised his voice.
"Eighteen hundred of hake!"
"What'll you take for 'em just as they are? We'll give you fifty cents a hundred."
"Can't trade with you for any such figure as that."
"Good-by, then!"
The tip of the Cassie J.'s bowsprit was less than two yards from the port bow of the Barracouta, altogether too near for comfort.
"Keep off!" roared Spurling. "You'll run us down!"
The steersman whirled his wheel swiftly in the apparent endeavor to avert a collision. Unluckily, he whirled it the wrong way. Round swung the schooner's bow, directly toward the sloop. A few seconds more and she would be forced down beneath the larger vessel's cutwater, ridden under.
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.