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There was something besides and what could it be but Withrow? After the weighing was done Nell asked me all at once, "I hear, Joe, that Captain Hollis is going to have your new vessel? How is that? We I thought that Captain Blake was going master of her and such a pretty vessel!" I answered that I didn't know how it was, and looked over at my employer, as much as to say, "Maybe he can tell you."
Four weeks since we've been on the ways and maybe a scrubbing wouldn't hurt her, but if it keeps a-blowin' who'll mind that? Not the Johnnie. Oh, Tommie, if you'd seen her comin' across the Bay of Fundy yesterday afternoon and last night. Did she come? did she come? Lord O Lord " "And so that's Withrow got his vessel tuned up like a fiddle and now he's putting extra ballast in her.
I drew what money I had saved that summer out of my seining share two hundred and twenty-five dollars and bet it myself with one of the Withrow's crew that the Johnnie Duncan would beat the Withrow, whether the Johnnie was home to race or not. It was really betting against Withrow himself, who, it was said, was taking up every bet made by any of the Withrow's crew.
He had an argument with Maurice, Wesley, and Maurice don't know what it was half about, but he knows he came near to punching Withrow."
With ballast stored, masts stepped, rigging set up, and sails bent, setting as sweet as could be to her lines and the lumpers beginning to get her ready for the mackerel season, the Fred Withrow was certainly a picture. After a couple of extra long pulls, blowing the smoke into the air, and another look above and below, "That one she'll sail some or I don't know," said Wesley.
Going to windward, too, was generally held to be her best point of sailing. All that Hollis had to do was to keep his nerve and drive her. Hollis was certainly driving her now. He ought to have felt safe in doing so with the Lucy Foster to go by, for the Lucy, by reason of the ballast taken out of her, should, everything else being equal, capsize before the Withrow.
Of course, while they're there Withrow had to help out and make himself agreeable, especially to Miss Foster, but I can't see that she warms up to him." "Ha? No? You don't think so?" "Not much, but maybe it's her way. She's pretty frosty generally anyway, different from my cousin she's something like." "Yes, your cousin is all right," said Maurice. "You bet," I said.
I thought that a good sign, but Withrow said he wished she hadn't: she ground the names out so between her teeth. Some of her state of mind came out through her talk not much. It was from one or two casually seen letters that I became aware of her desire to go a little just a little mad. In the spring Kathleen Somers had a relapse. It was no wonder.
Old Withrow sat on the step, with his chin in his hands, smoking, and two dove-colored hounds stood, in mantel-ornament attitude, before him, looking up with that vaguely expectant air which even a long life of disappointment fails to erase from the canine countenance.
With her hand on her beating heart the woman panted out her words: "She has come downstairs in a wrapper. She hasn't been down for weeks. And she has found your hepaticas." "Oh, hell!" Withrow was honestly disgusted. He had never meant to insult Kathleen Somers with hepaticas. "Is it safe to leave her alone with them?" He hardly knew what he was saying.
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