The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

By their water-soaked appearance, the laths had been afloat for many days. The coasters that ran from Benton to the smaller towns down the bay often carried these for a superficial cargo; and evidently some one of them, hit by a squall, had run its deck well under and the stuff had floated off.

Joe Hinman sprang forward, seized the boat-hook, and caught one of the bundles by the rope that bound it at one end. He drew it alongside and hauled it aboard with some difficulty, as it was heavy with water. Then he took out his pocket-knife and proceeded to cut a sliver from one of the laths. Though darkened a little by its exposure, and with trails of slimy, green seaweed clinging to the bundle, the laths were sound, and the wood bright as ever beneath the surface.

“Hooray!” he cried. “They’re worth several dollars a bundle. We’re in luck. We’ll gather them all in.”

They picked up seven or eight of the bundles, stowing them in on either side of the cockpit.

“Makes us look like a cargo-carrier,” said Allan Harding.

“Yes, and a good cargo, too,” replied Joe Hinman. “They are worth several dollars each, to sell. But we won’t sell ’em. I’ve got an idea. We’ll earn as much money as Jack and Henry Burns.”

“How’s that?” asked Mr. Carleton, curiously eying the enthusiastic speaker.

Joe looked at him, beaming, and in reply exclaimed briefly, but triumphantly, “Lobster-pots!”

“That’s so,” laughed Mr. Carleton. “I guess if you can make those queer, bird-cage sort of things, you can catch all the lobsters you want around here.”

“Oh, yes, there’s money in it,” responded Joe, “though the lobsters aren’t so plenty as they used to be, the fishermen say. But we couldn’t afford to buy any pots to fish with, because it costs so much to make them nowadays.”

Joyfully, they put the Surprise on its course again and gained the shelter of the little harbour.

Three days later, the crew might have been seen, at a point about three miles down the island from their camp, busily at work out on shore, with axe and saw and hammer and nails.

“Going to build some lath-pots, eh?” Captain Sam had queried, when they consulted him. “Yes, you can do it all right. Just go out and fetch one of mine in shore, and go by that.” Then he added, with a twinkle in his eye, and a shrewd Yankee smile, “You don’t need all them ’ere laths anyway. You give me one of them bundles, and I’ll go to work and make three of the slickest lath-pots you ever saw, for myself; and you can see just how I do it.”

“It’s a bargain,” replied Joe, “if you will let us take your tools after you get the pots made.”

“Reckon I will,” said Captain Sam, smiling.

It was a good bargain for the boys, at that; for Captain Sam was a clever workman at whatever he set his hand to do.

“One of these ’ere lath-pots,” said the captain next day, as he set to work, “is just as long as the length of a lath – four feet. Now we want three strips of board, two feet long, to lay down crosswise for the bottom pieces, at equal distances apart.”

He illustrated his remarks by splitting off the requisite pieces from a chunk of board. Next he took an auger and bored a hole in each end of the three pieces.

“Now,” he said, “we want three pieces of spruce that will bend up like you was going to make a bow to shoot arrows with. Here they be, too, and I’ve had ’em soaking in water all the morning, so they’ll bend better.”

Whereupon, Captain Sam, having whittled the ends of the pieces of spruce down so they would fit snugly into the holes he had made, bent them and inserted the ends in the holes of the three strips of board. The three bows stood up like the tiny beams for a miniature house, with a rounded roof, instead of a peaked one.

“Now, we’ll nail on our laths, top and bottom,” said Captain Sam, “and then we’ve got the frame-work for a lobster-pot.”

He nailed them on to the three strips of board at the bottom and to the three hoops of spruce at the top, making a cage with a flat bottom and a rounded roof. Then, in the same way, he made a lath door, three laths in width, running the entire length of the pot. This was fitted with leather hinges and a wooden button to fasten on the inside, so that, when closed, the door formed part of the roof of the pot.

“That’s the front door where Mr. Lobster always comes out,” remarked Captain Sam. “It’s more work, though, making the end doors for him to walk in at.”

These end doors, that the captain referred to, he now proceeded to fit into place. Each consisted of a funnel-shaped mesh made of knotted cord, the larger end fastened snugly all around to the end frame of the pot, and leading into a small opening, six inches in diameter, made of a wooden hoop. This hoop was held in place by Captain Sam’s tying it fast with strings to the centre of the frame.

So that the entrance, for a hungry lobster seeking the bait inside, would be the entire end of the frame, or what Captain Sam called the “street entrance,” and narrowing to an opening only six inches in diameter, where the lobster would enter the cage.

“Why don’t they walk out again?” inquired young Tim, whose experience in fishing had been limited mostly to catching flounders and cunners.

“Well, they would, I reckon, if they swam like fish,” replied Captain Sam. “But when they have followed down the slope of the mesh, and once squeezed in through that small opening, they don’t know how to get back again, because their claws spread out so. The slope of the mesh helps them to get in, and there isn’t any on the inside to help them get out. But they will crawl out again sometimes, too, if you leave the pots too long and they get all out of food.”

He next proceeded to set up, in the bottom of the pot, a small, upright post for a bait-holder. This was spear-shaped, with a barb whittled in it, after the style of a fish-hook, so that a fish once impaled thereon could not work off with the action of the water.

“There!” exclaimed Captain Sam, when he had driven the last nail and tied the last cord. “Reckon it’s done. You boys can be chopping yourselves out some buoys, to mark your pots with, while I make the other two. You come up to the house to-night, and I’ll show you how to knot that twine to make the meshes. So it won’t cost you much to make your pots, only for a little twine and some nails.”

The crew, having thus gained their experience and the use of Captain Sam’s tools, carried their stuff some three miles down the shore the next day, and proceeded to construct their own lath-pots. The intermediate waters had been fished so much by the townsfolk that they reckoned on better success farther away. Then, too, much of the water lying between was taken up with the pots of other fishermen, as was shown by their buoys floating here and there. They constructed four of the pots the first day.

“Let’s quit for the afternoon now, and get these set,” suggested Little Tim, along about half-past four in the afternoon.

“All right, if you will trot up to town and get some rope,” said Joe. “That’s the only thing we forgot. We’ll need the boat, though, to catch some bait with. You’ll have to foot it.”

“I’ll go,” replied Tim; “but, say, who’s got any money?”

“Not any of us,” said Joe. “You’ll have to get Rob Dakin to trust us for it. Tell him Jack will pay, if we can’t. But we can pay all right, if we have any luck. Let’s see, we want a lot of rope. This water is ten feet deep at low tide off those ledges, and the tide rises eight or nine feet. We’ll need about twenty-five or thirty feet of line for each pot. That will allow for its snagging, too. Come on, fellows, we’ll catch some bait.”

There was a cove just below, with mud-flats making out into it, but covered now with water. They rowed around to this, in a small boat borrowed from Captain Sam. Baiting their hooks with clams, they dropped their lines overboard; but the fish bit slowly.

“Guess they aren’t hungry,” said Joe. “Hand me up the spear, George, and the oil. I’ll make a ‘slick,’ and we’ll see what we can do.”

The spear was a long, light pole of spruce, with a trident at one end – three sharp prongs, the middle blade with a clean point, the outer blades barbed.

They rowed into shallow water, but the bottom could not be seen, because of a slight ruffling of the surface by the wind. Taking the bottle of fish-oil that George Baker handed to him, Joe Hinman poured some of it out on to a rag tied to the end of a stick. With this, he scattered the oil for some distance about the boat. The oil spread out over the surface of the water, smoothing its tiny chopping, so that through it the bottom could be plainly seen.

Joe Hinman lay flat at the bow of the boat, holding the spear down in the water. Presently he gave a jab with it, into the mud, and brought to the surface a huge sculpin, wriggling, but fast on the prongs.

“They aren’t exactly handsome,” he remarked, as he dropped the sculpin into the bottom of the boat, “but lobsters aren’t particular about looks.”

The next jab brought up a big flounder that had wriggled its head into the mud, and fancied itself safe. The bottom of the boat was soon covered with them.

By the time young Tim was back with the rope, they had enough fish to bait the four pots, and more, and a mess of flounders for supper.

They cut the line into proper lengths, tied one end of each length to the end frame of a pot, and fastened a wooden buoy, previously boiled in coal-tar to prevent its becoming water-logged, to the other end. Then they took the pots, one by one, and rowed out with them to the off-lying ledges.

They baited each pot, by impaling the fish on the wooden spear-head sticking up from the bottom, closed the door, turned the wooden button that fastened it, and dumped it overboard. The pots, weighted with stones, sank slowly to the bottom.

“Great!” exclaimed Joe, as the last of the four went overboard. “Everything complete, except we might have painted a sign, ‘Walk in,’ on each one. What do you think about that, Tim?”

“No, they don’t need it,” said Tim, emphatically. “You might want me to go to the store again for the paint.”

They were down bright and early the next morning to haul the pots. In three of them, their efforts had been rewarded. In the fourth, the bait had been untouched. But one of the pots had begun as a money-maker in earnest. There were three good-sized lobsters in it. The other two had one each.

They had saved some fish from the catch of the night before, so they baited up the pots again, put them overboard, and resumed their occupation ashore of constructing more pots, delegating young Tim to sell their catch among the cottagers, who had nearly all arrived for the summer.

Young Tim was gone not a great while, either. He came back, whooping hilariously, and opened a small and rather begrimed fist, to disclose to their admiring gaze the sum of a dollar and twenty-five cents in silver money.

“Hooray!” cried Joe Hinman, throwing up his cap. “At this rate, we’ll have the rope paid for, and the nails, and something more besides, when Jack and Henry Burns get back. We’ll come pretty near taking care of ourselves for the rest of the summer.”

Already the crew, with visions of being self-supporting, began to have an increased respect for themselves. It was an agreeable sensation.

They soon found, however, that they were handicapped by the need of a car to store their catch in; for, on some days when they had lobsters to sell, the cottagers didn’t happen to want any; and again it happened that they hadn’t any on hand when they were wanted. They began the construction of a car, therefore, out of some old packing-boxes, after they had finished a few more pots, and were hard at work on it when the yacht Viking hove in sight on an afternoon.

The Viking, following its frightful experience in the storm, had had a prosperous trip. The boys had made some heavy catches, and were returning with twenty-two hard-earned dollars.

There was a joyful celebration down on the shore that evening, in honour of the Viking’s return, and to commemorate their luck as fishermen.

“You’ve been buying the stuff for us all along,” Joe Hinman had said to Jack Harvey. “Just come down to the camp to-night, and bring Tom and Bob and the Warren boys. We’ll get the food this time.”

And they did, in generous style. There were seven of the biggest and fiercest-looking lobsters that they had caught in the last two days, broiling over a bed of red coals, when the visitors arrived. There were two tins of biscuit, baked in the sheet-iron oven. There were provisions that the crew had been able to buy with their own earnings. There were potatoes baked in the ashes, and coffee, steaming hot.

“Yes, and what’s more, Jack,” said Joe Hinman, as they sat about the fire on the shore, “there’s enough stuff left to make about seven more pots. You fellows can go ahead and make the rest, if you want to; and we’ll take turns tending them and getting the bait.”

“All right,” replied Harvey; “and if we get a bigger stock in the car than we can dispose of around here, we’ll load up the Viking, when we get a strong westerly some day, and run down to the big hotel at Stoneland. They’ll pay bigger prices than we can get at the market.”

“My! but this lobster is good,” said young Joe Warren. “Henry, pass over that melted butter and vinegar.”

“Isn’t it a great feast, though?” exclaimed young Tim. “Beats city grub all hollow.”

And, indeed, it probably did surpass the sort of living Tim got at home.

“How’s our friend, Mr. Carleton?” asked Bob. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t been around to welcome us back.”

“Perhaps he is offended with me for not taking him aboard on our fishing trip,” said Henry Burns.

“Why, he hasn’t been to see us for two days,” replied Joe. “By the way, though, last time I met him he asked me if I had seen anything of a ruby scarf-pin aboard the Surprise. Said he’d lost one.”

“He asked me that, too,” said Arthur Warren. “He was up near the cottage yesterday. Said he thought he might have dropped it out aboard the Viking.”

“I think not,” said Harvey. “If he had we should have found it, for we air that bedding out every clear day.”

“I don’t recall seeing him wear one,” said Henry Burns.

It is quite possible that Mr. Carleton might have been on hand to greet the fishermen on their return, had he not been away down the island for the day, in a rig he had hired of Captain Sam. The horse, though well recommended by Captain Sam, was modelled somewhat on the same generous lines as the captain’s boat, the Nancy Jane; that is, broad and beamy, solid and substantial, but not especially speedy; more inclined to thrash up and down, with considerable clatter, than to skim along and make time. The result on this occasion was, that it was about half-past nine o’clock when Mr. Carleton drove into Captain Sam’s dooryard, rather weary, and not in the best of temper.

However, good-hearted Mrs. Curtis had supper waiting for him, and he lost no time in stretching his legs under the table, where, at his ease over a hot cup of tea, he was inclined to improve in spirits and rally the captain on the slowness of his horse.

“Well,” said Captain Sam, with imperturbable good humour, “I’m sorry the old nag didn’t fetch you up a little quicker. She’s a safe, steady driver, though. Reckon the youngsters would have liked to see you over to their shore supper. They’re all over there. Guess you must have seen their fire down on the shore as you drove up. You know the Viking got in this afternoon. Had real good luck, too, so Henry Burns was saying.”

Mr. Carleton, leaning back in his chair and leisurely passing his cup for another serving of tea, straightened up suddenly at this remark. But he only said, indifferently, “That so? I’ll have to look them up in the morning. I’m afraid I’m too tired to walk down there to-night.”

“Oh, they will be coming up before long now,” said Captain Sam.

“Why, don’t seem as if you was eating much,” he added, as Mr. Carleton rose from the table.

Mr. Carleton had swallowed his last cup of tea in two gulps.

“First rate, first rate,” he said. “Had a good supper. I’ll take a little stroll with a cigar, before turning in.”

Mr. Carleton walked leisurely out of the yard; but, when he had passed down the road a few steps, he quickened his pace and reached the shore almost running. Taking the first boat that came to hand, at random, he pushed off and rowed out to the Viking with a few quick, powerful strokes. Then, pausing for a moment alongside, he listened for the sounds of any one approaching. It was still. Mr. Carleton sprang aboard.

He rushed to the companionway. But the hatch was drawn, the cabin doors shut, and the lock set. Mr. Carleton uttered an exclamation of anger. Stooping over, he felt along under the seats on either side of the cockpit. His search was rewarded, for his hand rested presently on the blade of a small hatchet, which was used by the yachtsmen for all sorts of work, from chopping bait to splitting kindling.

Mr. Carleton sprang to his feet, gave one quick glance about, then rushed to the companionway and smashed the lock with two smart blows. The next moment, he shoved back the hatch, opened the doors, and vanished below.

But, though unseen, Mr. Carleton had not been unheard.

Only a few moments before this, Tom and Bob and Henry Burns and Harvey had gone down to the shore, after bidding the crew good night.

“How did you happen to bring the canoe, Jack?” inquired Allan Harding. “I thought you wasn’t going to use that any more.”

“Well, I did say so last year,” replied Harvey. “I thought I had come too near drowning ever to enjoy it again. But Tom and Bob were coming down in theirs, so Henry and I got mine down from the Warren’s shed.”

“We’ll race you up,” said Tom.

“All right,” said Harvey. “I think you can beat us, though.”

For a short distance, however, Henry Burns and Harvey held their own. Then the skill of the other two, and their long practice of paddling together, began to tell, and their canoe forged ahead.

“It’s no use, Henry,” said Harvey, good-naturedly. “I can’t handle a paddle with Tom Harris. They have kept a straight line, but I can’t keep this craft up to her course.”

They slowed down, accordingly, and the other canoe left them considerably astern. Then Tom, turning and discovering that the others had fallen back, spoke to Bob, and they waited for the second canoe to come up.

It was at this very moment that Mr. Carleton, hatchet in hand, had smashed the lock.

“Hark! what was that?” exclaimed Bob White. “Did you hear it? That was out aboard the Viking.”

“It sounded like it, sure enough,” said Tom. “Say, fellows,” he cried as the other canoe came near, “did you leave anybody aboard the yacht? We just heard somebody out there.”

“No, we didn’t,” replied Harvey. “Come on, let’s get up to her quick.”

If Tom and Bob had beaten them before, they could not do it now. Harvey’s paddle went into the water with a strength that was well-nigh doubled with excitement. Moreover, if there had been any possible doubt in their minds as to whether there was really anybody aboard the Viking, that doubt was dispelled by a faint gleam of light showing from out the cabin door.

“How can that be?” exclaimed Harvey. “I sprung that lock, myself.”

They were alongside, next moment, and aboard, with the light lines that held the canoes quickly made fast.

Rushing to the companionway, Harvey cried, angrily:

“Here! Who’s that down there? What are you doing?”

The man, springing up, and holding the lantern in one hand, disclosed the features of their friend, Mr. Carleton.

“Hello!” he said. “Say, this is too bad.”

“You bet it’s too bad!” cried Harvey, interrupting him. “What do you mean by breaking in here?”

Mr. Carleton, setting down the lantern, emerged from the cabin.

“I really must apologize,” he said, coolly. “I simply couldn’t wait – ”

“Yes, but you could wait!” Harvey broke in, hotly, and advancing toward Mr. Carleton. “It’s no way to do, to sneak out here in the night and smash our things.”

“See here, young man,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, himself warming a little, though his voice was calm and modulated, “I wouldn’t try to threaten me, if I was you, don’t you know. I might get angry, too. I – ”

“Do it!” cried Harvey, excitedly. “Get angry. I’d just like to have you. Just give us a chance and see what happens.”

“And what might that be?” demanded Mr. Carleton, sharply.

“I’ll tell you,” replied Harvey. “We’ll throw you overboard. Say, fellows, won’t we?”

“We certainly will,” answered Henry Burns, calmly.

“Say the word, Jack,” said Bob.

The four boys approached Mr. Carleton. He eyed them for a moment threateningly. They were certainly sturdy opponents. And that his intended threat had been without avail, and that they were thoroughly fearless and ready to act, there could be no doubt. Mr. Carleton’s demeanour altered.

“Good! I like your pluck,” he laughed. “Really, I think I’d do the same thing if I were in your place. I don’t blame you, and I was sorry I was so hasty, the moment I had done it. You see, I’ve lost a very valuable ruby scarf-pin somewhere – a keepsake, too, don’t you know. I’ve worried myself just about frantic over it. Now I thought it must have fallen out when I was aboard here. So, when I found your cabin locked up, I simply couldn’t stand it any longer.

“But I’ll make any amends in my power,” he added. “I’ll come out to-morrow, and I’ll bring the best lock that money will buy over in Bellport. I’ll send over for it first thing.”

“Hadn’t you better go ashore now?” suggested Henry Burns.

“Why, yes, – good night, – I will,” replied Mr. Carleton. “Good night – I’m sorry it happened – I’ll fix it all right, though.”

And, stepping into his boat alongside, he put out his oars and rowed away.

“Never mind about that lock,” Henry Burns called out.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, pausing for a moment.

“I say, never mind the lock,” repeated Henry Burns. “We’ll attend to that, ourselves. We’d just as lieves you would keep away from the Viking after this.”

Mr. Carleton made no reply as he rowed away.

“I wonder if we were too rough on him,” said Jack Harvey to his companion, a little later, as they were undressing, preparatory to turning in for the night.

“I don’t see why,” answered Henry Burns. “That’s a pretty high-handed proceeding, to come aboard here and smash into our cabin.”

“Well, perhaps he was worried about that pin,” said Harvey. “Some persons do lose their heads just that way.”

“Yes, but he isn’t one of the kind that lose their heads,” said Henry Burns. “And for my part, I can’t recall for the life of me ever seeing him wear any such kind of a pin.”

CHAPTER XV.

MR. CARLETON GOES AWAY

Squire Brackett, having received sufficient encouragement from Mr. Carleton to warrant action on his part, hitched up his horse one afternoon and drove around the road back of the cove, turning off at length at the pasture lane that led in to Billy Cook’s farmhouse. Billy, barefoot, as usual, was busy hoeing in a small garden patch at a little distance from the house.

“How d’ye do, Billy,” said the squire, sauntering out, with his hands tucked under his coat-tails.

“Afternoon, squire,” responded Billy; and added, to himself, “Wonder what he’s up to.”

“Quite a stranger, squire,” said he. “What brings you way ’round here?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Squire Brackett, seating himself on the handle of the wheelbarrow that was loaded with garden-truck. “I was driving by and thought I’d just drop in and say good day.”

“Humph! guess not,” thought Billy to himself. He knew the squire was not in the habit of making social visits.

“Well, glad to see you, squire,” he declared, cordially. “Nice summer we’re having. Wouldn’t like to take home a couple dozen fresh eggs, would you? Hens doing right well lately. I can spare you some, I reckon, store price.”

“Why, yes, I should,” answered the squire. “Those hens of yours do lay the finest eggs I know of.”

The squire, watching Billy at his work, discoursed of this and that; of the weather, the fishing, politics, and the prospect of the hay crop.

“Wonder what he’s driving at,” was Billy’s inward reflection.