Swept Out to Sea Part 1

Swept Out to Sea.

by W. Bertram Foster.

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH MY COUSIN AND I HAVE A SERIOUS FALLING OUT

The wind had died to just a breath, barely filling the canvas of the Wavecrest. We were slowly making the mouth of the inlet at Bolderhead after a day's fis.h.i.+ng. Occasionally as the fitful breeze swooped down the sloop made a pretty little run, then she'd sulk, with the sail flapping, till another puff came. I lay in the stern with my hand on the tiller, half asleep, while Paul Downes, my cousin, was stretched forward of the mast, wholly in dreamland. A little roll of the sloop as she tacked, almost threw him into the water and he awoke with a snarl and sat up.

"For goodness sake! aren't we in yet?" he demanded, crossly. "What you been doing for the last hour Clint Webb? We're no nearer the inlet now than we were then, I swear!"

That was a peculiarity about Paul. He was addicted to laying the faults of even inanimate objects to the charge of other people; and as for himself personally, he was never in the wrong! Now he felt that he must have somebody on whom to vent his vexation--and hunger; I was used to being that scapegoat, and it was seldom that I paid much attention to his snarling. On this particular occasion, I said, calmly:

"Now, Paul, you know very well that I hold no position with the Meteorological Bureau, and therefore you shouldn't lay the sins of the weather to me."

"Huh! ain't you smart?" he grunted.

You see, Paul had awakened in rather a quarrelsome frame of mind while--well, I was hungry, too (it was long past our dinner hour) and so felt in a tantalizing mood. If we had not been at just these odds on this lovely September evening, the incidents which follow might never have occurred. Out of this foolish beginning of a quarrel came a chain of circ.u.mstances which entirely changed the current of my life. Had I held my tongue I would have been saved much sorrow and peril, and many, many regrets.

"I'm smart--I admit it," said I, cooly; "but I can't govern the wind.

We'll get in by bedtime."

"And nothing to eat aboard," growled Paul.

"There's the fish _you_ caught," said I, chuckling.

Paul had had abominable luck all day, the only thing he landed being what we Bolderhead boys called a "grunter"--a frog-mouthed fish of most unpleasant aspect and of absolutely no use as food. All it did when he shook it off his hook in disgust was to swell up like a toy balloon and emit an objective grunt whenever it was poked. Funny, but these "grunters" always reminded me of Paul.

Now, at my suggestion, my cousin broke into another tirade of abuse of the Wavecrest, and what he termed my carelessness. I didn't care much what he said about me, and I suppose there was some reason for his criticism; I should not have gone outside the inlet without more than just a bite of luncheon in the cuddy. But when he referred to my bonnie sloop as "an old tub" and said it wasn't rigged right and that I didn't know how to sail her, then--well, I leave it to you if it wouldn't have made you huffy? You know how it is yourself. Wait till the next fellow makes disparaging remarks about your bicycle, for instance or your motor cycle, or canoe, or what-not, and see how you feel!

"What's the use of talking that way, Paul?" I demanded, interrupting him. "You know the Wavecrest is by far the lightest-footed craft of her cla.s.s in Bolderhead Harbor."

"No such thing!" he declared. "She's a measly, good-for-nothing old tub."

"All I've got to say is that you're a bad judge of tubs," said I.

"You're a fool!" he exclaimed, and jumped up.

"Now, you know, Paul, if your opinion was of any consequence at all I should be angry," I replied, still with exaggerated calmness.

"I'm going to take the skiff and row ash.o.r.e," said he. "You can bring your old tub in when you like."

"Thank you; but I guess not! I'd gladly be relieved of your company; but I shall want to get ash.o.r.e myself some time tonight," I rejoined.

"I tell you I'm going ash.o.r.e!" cried Paul, coming aft to where the painter was. .h.i.tched.

"Get away!" I commanded, my own temper rising. "You're not going to leave me without means of landing after we reach our buoy."

"Oh, somebody will see you and take you off," he said, selfishly.

"Maybe somebody will; then again, maybe they won't."

"I'll come out for you after dinner," he said, with a grin that I knew meant he had no such intention.

"Get away from that painter!" I commanded. "You forced your company on me today--I didn't invite you to go fis.h.i.+ng--"

"The sloop's as much mine as yours," he growled.

"I'd like to know how you figure that out?" returned I, in amazement.

"When your mother bought it she told father it was for us to use together; but of course you always 'hog' everything."

Now I knew that my mother never would have said what he claimed; but I was angry with her for the moment because of her good natured invitation to Paul to use my personal property. The Wavecrest was my dearest possession. As the saying is, there was more salt water in my veins than blood; our folks had all been sailors--my father's people, I mean--and I was enamored of the sea and sea-going.

When mother built our summer cottage on the Neck I knew how 'twould be.

I foresaw that her brother-in-law and his son (Aunt Alice was dead some years then) would live with us about half the time; but that mother should have said anything to give Paul ground for his statement, rasped me sorely.

"Let me tell you, Paul Downes," said I, sharply, "that no person has any right in this boat but myself, unless I invite them; and I'll inform you right now that this is the last trip you'll ever take in her with my permission."

"Is that so?" sneered Paul.

"That's so--and you can make the best of it."

"Well, who wants to go out in your old tub?" he burst forth. "Goodness knows, I don't. But I'm going ash.o.r.e right now and you can come in when you like."

He started to untie the painter. Somehow his perversity made me furious.

"Drop it!" I repeated; "you're not going to leave this sloop till I do--unless you swim ash.o.r.e."

"Well, you just try stopping me," he snarled, his temper getting the better for the moment of his usual caution. Paul was a bigger and heavier, as well as an older fellow than I; but he had never dared try fisticuffs with me.

I sprang up and let the tiller bang. Luckily there was so little wind that the sloop took no harm. "Get away from there!" I cried.

"I tell you I am going ash.o.r.e now."

"You're not."

"I am; and it won't be healthy for you to try to stop me, Clint Webb."

I know very well that this is a bad way to begin my story; I expect you will be disgusted with me right at the start. But what am I to do? I have started out to narrate the incidents which occurred and the various changes that have come into my life since this very September evening; and truth compels me to begin with this quarrel. For from this time dated the purpose which inspired my future life.

So, I hope that the reader will bear with me, even though I introduce much the worse side of my character first. Facts are stubborn things, and I have in this introduction to set down some very stubborn and unpleasant facts.

I sprang up, as I say, and left the tiller, and as Paul seemed to have no intention of obeying me, I advanced upon him threateningly. We were both enraged.

"Take your hand off that rope," said I, earnestly. "Get away! I mean it."