Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 3

"No, I will not."

"Then you don't get a cent more from me. You've overdrawn your bank-account already."

"How do you know? You haven't been down to the bank."

"You don't suppose I'd have a monthly check deposited to your account without arranging to know something about it, do you? Mighty poor business man if I did! Now, Percy, use what little brain you have!

You've no money, and you can't earn any. n.o.body would be fool enough to hire you. There's nothing on earth you can do. I'm going to give you one last chance to make a man of yourself. You've three months to make good in and I expect you to do it. You've got to make up those conditions and earn your salt to show there's some excuse for your being alive. Your whole life hangs on the way you spend the next hundred days. I start for the West Coast to-morrow, and won't be back till fall. I want you to write me--if you feel like it. Will you go?"

The strains of a violin came floating in through the open window. The academy bell struck ten long, lingering strokes.

"Well, what do you say? I'm waiting."

Percy swallowed hard.

"I'll go."

II

A FRESH START

Two mornings later Percy Whittington was awakened in his room at the Thorndike in Rockland by a bell-boy hammering on his door.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, stupidly.

"Five o'clock! Five o'clock! Your call!"

"Is that all?" exclaimed Percy, relieved. "I didn't know but the hotel might be on fire."

He rolled over for another nap. Half an hour later he was roused by a lively tattoo beaten on the panels by two sets of vigorous knuckles.

"Inside there, Whittington!" exhorted Lane's voice. "Wake up! This isn't any rest-cure. The Stonington boat starts in twenty minutes. You've lost your breakfast, and unless you hustle you'll make us miss the steamer.

Better let us in to help you pack!"

Percy bounded out of bed and admitted Lane and Spurling. While he dressed hastily they jammed his scattered belongings into two suit-cases. Stevens joined them in the hotel office and they made a lively spurt for Tillson's Wharf, reaching the _Governor Bodwell_ just before her plank was pulled aboard.

The party had arrived in Rockland on the late train the night before, and were to start for Stonington early that morning. Percy's drowsiness had almost thwarted their plans.

"You'll have to revise your sleeping schedule, Whittington, when we get to Tarpaulin," said Spurling.

Percy was too much interested in the view opening before him to take offense at this remark.

It was a calm, beautiful June morning. A gentle breeze barely rippled the smooth, blue water as the _Governor Bodwell_ headed eastward out of the harbor. Behind lay the city, fringed with lazily smoking lime-kilns, each contributing its quota to the dim haze that obscured the sh.o.r.e-line. Leaving on their left the little light on the tip of the long granite breakwater, and presently on their right the white tower on the hummock of Owl's Head, marking the entrance of rocky Muscle Ridge Channel, they were soon plowing across the blue floor of West Pen.o.bscot Bay. Due north, Rockport Harbor opened between wooded sh.o.r.es, while beyond it rose the Camden Hills, monarchs of the rolling line of mountains stretching up toward Belfast.

A five-mile sail, and they were threading their way through narrow, winding Fox Island Thoroughfare, to the wharf at North Haven. Thence across East Pen.o.bscot Bay, by Deer Island Thoroughfare, to the granite wharf at Stonington, the rockiest town in the United States. Here they disembarked, and a short walk up a side-street brought them to the house of Spurling's uncle, Mr. Thomas Sprowl.

Uncle Tom was at home, confined by his rheumatism and the doctor's orders. He greeted the boys gladly.

"Got your letter last night, Jim," said he, "and I can tell you it took a weight off my mind. Since I've been sick I've nigh fretted myself to death about Tarpaulin."

He groaned, and s.h.i.+fted himself painfully in his chair.

"Those twinges take me unexpected," he explained. "You see," returning to his subject, "all my gear's on the island, besides those fifty sheep.

Quite a risk for a man with so little as I've got. You don't know how pleased I am that you fellows are going to be on deck there this summer.

You're a good, husky lot--at least most of ye." He scanned Percy a trifle dubiously. "You'll have a fine time the next three months, and you'll make some money. Wish I could go down with ye!"

He winced and stifled another groan.

"When do you plan to start?"

"Just as soon as we can arrange for our boats and stores," replied Jim.

"Good enough! You can be there to-night, slick as a whistle. Remember the _Barracouta_, that old power-sloop we've taken so many trips in?

I've had her overhauled this spring and a new seven-and-a-half-horse engine put in her; her jibs and mainsail are in first-cla.s.s shape.

You'll find her at my mooring near the steamboat wharf. My Bucksport dory has just been pulled up on the ledges and painted. You'll need another boat besides, so I've arranged with Sammy Stinson to let you have his pea-pod. She'll do to lobster in. Now as to gear. You'll find over a hundred lobster-traps piled up on the sea-wall near my cabin, and there's six tubs of trawl in the fish-shed. Keep an account of whatever stuff you have to buy for repairs, and we can settle at the end of the season."

"What's the best way of handling our catch?"

"The fish you can split and salt and take over to Matinicus once a week.

Your lobsters will sell easy to some smackman. Captain Ben Higgins comes east from Portland every week in the _Calista_; he's been in the habit of making Tarpaulin his next port of call after York Island. You'll find him square as a brick. Better buy your supplies at Matinicus; it's a strong twelve miles off, but that isn't a bad run in decent weather."

The boys rose to go.

"Well, Uncle Tom," said Jim, "the next time we see each other, I hope you'll be feeling fit as a fiddle."

"You can't wish that any harder than I do, my boy. Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot one thing. Here, Nemo!"

A fox-terrier, lying on a rug, sprang up alertly. He was white, except for two brown ears and a diamond of the same color on the top of his head.

"Better take this dog along. The mate of a St. John coaster gave him to me last fall. I call him Captain Nemo. He's death on rats; and there's some on the island this year. Must have come ash.o.r.e from a schooner wrecked there in the winter. Another thing! Got any gun?"

"No."

"Then there's my ten-gauge." He indicated a double-barreled shot-gun standing in the corner. "You'll find a couple of boxes of loaded sh.e.l.ls in that table drawer. You may want to kill some ducks in the fall. Only don't shoot Oso!"

"Oso?"

"Yes. My tame crow. I had a Spanish fellow with me a few weeks last summer, and he found the bird in a nest. Clipped one wing, so he couldn't get away from the island. Named him 'Oso'; said it meant 'The Bear.' He'll pester ye to death round the fish-house, after he gets acquainted."

Putting Nemo on a leash and taking the gun, the boys filed out. Uncle Tom called Jim back.

"I almost forgot to tell you to go to Parker's for your outfit. He'll use you right. Who's that pale-faced fellow with the tow head?"

Spurling told him briefly about Percy. Uncle Tom grunted.