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Code, as well as Ellinwood, had gone out, for they wished to test the fishing. These dories were entirely different propositions from the heavy motor-boats that the men used almost entirely near the island. They were light, compact, and properly big enough for only one man, although they easily accommodated two.
But now he remained like one fast in the clutch of some horrible nightmare, unable to reason, unable to think coherently, unable to do anything but attempt to sound the depths of a hatred such as this. "For Heaven's sake, what is it, skipper?" asked Ellinwood. Code passed the message to his mate without a word. His men might as well know the worst at once. Ellinwood read slowly.
"Maybe it was only an accident," he said. "She may be on the course to Sable Island. Give her another trial. Come about and head for Halifax." "Stand by to come about," bawled Ellinwood. Two young fellows raced up the rigging, others stood by to prevent jibing, and the mate put the wheel hard alee.
Pete Ellinwood swung him up from the transferring dory with a great bellow of delight, and he was passed along the line until, battered, joyous, and radiant, he arrived exhausted by the wheel, where he sat down. When they all had drunk to the reunion from a rare old bottle, heavily cobwebbed, Code told his story.
For a moment the signature puzzled him, and Ellinwood, grinning, stood watching his puzzled efforts to solve it. "Skipper, if it was a mule it would kick you in the face," he remarked. "If you can't see Nat Burns in that, I can. And now you've got an idea just who's at the bottom of this thing." Code Schofield went aft to his cabin companionway, and prepared to go below and open his log.
That Ellinwood and the daring Jimmie Thomas were thoroughly in accord with Schofield's preposterous sail-carrying was a foregone conclusion. But others of the crew were not of the same mind. An hour more here or there seemed a small matter to them as compared to the chance of drowning and leaving a family unprotected and unprovided for.
"Ma is dependent on me, and when I have sold fifteen hundred quintals of fish she will have enough to carry her along until that trouble is over. So I'm going out after the fifteen hundred quintals. Now, that's my story. We've heard Jimmie's; but how did you manage everything so well, Pete?" Ellinwood was flattered and coughed violently over the last of his victuals.
Late that afternoon Pete Ellinwood swung the last basket of the catch to the scales and Code completed his tally. "Sixteen hundred and seventy quintal," he announced, "and forty-three pounds. At a hundred pounds a quintal that makes 167,078 pounds, and at three cents a pound totals to $5,012.34. Not bad for a two months' cruise, but my soul and body, Bill Boughton, how the fish did run!"
Their opportunity came when the Frenchman tried to trip Pete Ellinwood after big Jean had fallen and Code rushed into the fray with the ferocity of a wildcat. Some one raised the yell "Police," he was surrounded by his enemies, some one rapped him over the head with a black-jack, and the job was done.
He barely recognized the clean-shaven, clear-eyed, broad shouldered youth he saw there as the rough, salty skipper of the schooner Charming Lass. He wondered with a chuckle what Pete Ellinwood would say if he could see him. "And now, sir, if you're ready, just come with me, sir. Dinner is at seven, and it is now a quarter to the hour."
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