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 Æneid 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?"
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.
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.
It was growing dark and the stars were already out when a new sound fell on Percy's ears.
"What's that?" he exclaimed.
Up from the south came a faint, long-drawn, mournful voice, Oo-oo-oo-ooh! They listened breathlessly. It sounded again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!
"Whistling buoy!" ejaculated Jim. He thought a moment. "Cashe's Ledge!" he shouted. "Sixty miles south of Tarpaulin! That's drifting some since yesterday afternoon. Must be less than a mile to leeward or we couldn't hear it against this gale."
Nearer and nearer, louder and louder, sounded the melancholy note, just west of south. Both boys strained their eyes.
"I see it!" cried Percy, triumphantly. "There—rising on that swell! Almost astern! It's striped red and black!"
But Jim gave him no heed. Lips parted and face pale, he was gazing intently at something farther off. Suddenly he lifted his hand.
"Listen! Do you hear that?"
Above the noise of the surrounding sea rose a low, savage roar. Percy caught Jim's alarm.
"What is it?"
"The breaker on the shoal! Sometimes it combs up high as a house. It's less than a quarter-mile southwest of the buoy, and we're drifting straight down upon it! If we go over it, we'll be swamped, sure as fate, drug or no drug! We'll simply be buried under tons and tons of water!"
Percy fought off his panic.
"What shall we do?" he stammered.
"Make the whistler—if we can. It's buoy or breaker, and mighty quick, too!"
The dory's drift, if unchanged, would take her several yards west of the steel can crowned with its red whistle-cage. Its warning blast set the air vibrating, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!
Jim snatched out his knife and sprang forward.
"Oar in the scull-hole, Perce! Lively!"
Driving the point of his blade into the side of the bow, he dragged the painter in until he reached the gasolene-can. Severing the rope with one quick, strong slash, he scrambled aft and seized the oar.
"Stand by with that painter to jump for the buoy, when I put the bow against it! Better take off your shoes first!"
Percy obeyed. In his stocking feet he would be less liable to slip on the wet iron. Making a loose coil of the painter, he crouched in the bow. Meanwhile Jim had turned the dory round and headed her north of the whistler. A strong current was setting toward the shoal. It took all his strength to scull against it.
Rapidly they neared the can. About eight feet in diameter at the water-line, it tapered to two feet across its flat top, seven feet above. From the circumference rose two iron bails, crossing each other at right angles, several inches above the whistle, which stood two and one-half feet high. A little to one side stuck up the small tube of the intake valve. Round the buoy above the water-line were bolted four lugs, or iron handles, by which the can could be hoisted on board the lighthouse steamer.
As the steel cone sank the whistle bellowed resonantly. Down, down, till the waves swept over its top. Then, slowly it began to rise. The bellowing cut off, and the air rushed into the intake tube.
Percy watched it, fascinated. Jim's voice roused him to their peril.
"Look sharp! Be ready!"
Less than ten feet of wild black water lay between the madly leaping bow and the buoy. Beyond it the shoal broke with an angry roar in a long line of crumbling foam. Percy gathered his strength for the leap.
The distance lessened, foot by foot. Foot by foot the red-and-black cone emerged, as if thrust up by a giant hand. Percy fastened his eyes on a lug.
A grayback heaved the dory forward.
Young Whittington sprang upon the bow thwart, painter end in his right hand, and leaped for the lug. A second later the boat crashed against the buoy.
His left hand caught the bent iron bar; his right missed it. His body thudded against the riveted side, slid down, and he hung by one arm, waist-deep in the water.
Oo-oo-oo-ooh!!!
From the inverted mouth of the whistle, a few feet above, a hoarse, deafening blast roared down into his face.
As he flung up his right hand and passed the end of the painter through the lug a body shot over his head. Spurling had leaped on the top of the dropping buoy. Percy was dragged down under the surface, the whistle still ringing in his ears. He clung desperately to lug and painter.
The vibrations ceased. The can had reached its lowest point. It was rising again. Out came his head.
"Can you hold on a minute, Perce?" roared Spurling's voice.
"Yes," strangled Percy.
"Then let go that painter! I've got it."
Hanging head down, his legs twined round a bail, Spurling worked rapidly with both hands. Soon he had fastened the rope securely to the lug, mooring the dory to the buoy.
Oo-oo-oo-ooh!
The can was sinking again. Putting both hands under Percy's arms, Jim lifted him. Then he lowered his grip to the boy's waist. That terrific blast rendered speech inaudible, but Percy understood. As the water raised part of his weight, he scrambled up over his friend's body.
Thirty seconds later, drenched and gasping, they stood clinging to the bails on the top of the buoy.
Jim was the first to recover his breath.
"Well!" he ejaculated. "Here we are! And mighty fortunate! We'll neither of us ever have a closer shave."
He looked southwest, where the ledge was breaking white through the gloom, and shook his head. Percy, shivering with excitement, said nothing; but he felt as thankful as his mate. They stood close together on the circular top, holding on to the crossed bails, waist-high. Between them rose the whistle, thirty inches tall. Every time they sank in the trough it emitted its dismal bellow.
To leeward the dory wallowed at the end of her painter, almost full of water.
"Split her bow when we struck," said Spurling. "Just as well not to be in her. At any rate, we're not drifting."
Their position, however, was none too secure. The buoy had a rise and fall of seven feet. Unsteadied by keel or rudder, it bobbed unexpectedly this way and that. The boys were obliged to cling fast to keep their footing on the narrow, slippery top.
A sudden jump of the rolling can wrenched Percy's right hand from its hold. But for his left, he would have been flung into the sea.
"That won't do," said Spurling.
Producing a coil of line, he took three or four turns round Percy's waist, and lashed him fast to the bails. He did the same for himself.
"Guess we'll stick on now," he remarked.
"Where did you get that rope?" asked Percy.
"It's all that's left of the ground-line. Thought it might come in handy, so I jammed it inside my oil-coat before I jumped. Never can tell when you'll need a few feet for something or other."
The screech of the buoy, recurring regularly, set their ears ringing.
"We've got to choke that off!" exclaimed Spurling, finally. "We'll go crazy, sure, if we have to listen to it all night."
"How'll you do it? Jam something into the mouth of the whistle?"
"Might smother it that way, but I know an easier one."
He pushed his handkerchief into the curved end of the intake tube just as the bellowing buoy reached its lowest point. The next time it sank there was no sound.
"Can't sing out unless it fills up with air," remarked Spurling. "It's human, so far!"
"Is it all right to shut the signal off altogether? Mightn't some vessel strike the shoal if she doesn't hear it?"
"Not much chance of that to-night! Everything'll give Cashe's a wide berth in a norther. But I'll let it scream a few times every ten minutes. That'll be often enough to warn off any craft within hearing."