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CHAPTER XV
HENRY BURNS IN TROUBLE
Will Adams, stirring the coals in the fireplace of his cheery dining-room, added two sticks of oak to the blaze, resumed his seat and addressed his guests.
“I’ve been wishing for years,” he said, “that I could have a chance to catch one of these dredging pirates that misuse their men so. Why, I’ve lain in bed on summer nights and heard those poor fellows out aboard begging for mercy – and I couldn’t do anything to help them. It’s hard to catch a captain in the act of beating a man, and they have all kinds of tricks to escape; the worst ones stand together and help one another out. But we’ll get this man, Haley, because he comes into the river, you say. I don’t remember him, at all, but I think I know the boat, as you describe it.”
“We’ll get a warrant for him, the first thing,” said Edward Warren.
“Well, that’s what we’ll have to depend on,” replied Will Adams; “but that’s a slow process, and we may be able to do better, in the meantime, ourselves. We want to get young Harvey, right off, before he has any more of Haley’s rough handling.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Ed. You take the boat, day after to-morrow, for Baltimore, swear out the warrant, and get back here as quick as ever you can. That will start the authorities after the fellow. But I warn you, they’re rather slow. They’ll have to put a steamer on Haley’s trail, to make sure.
“You see, news has a way of leaking out up in Baltimore. I don’t know how they do it – politics, I suppose. But as soon as a warrant is out, somebody gets word of it on the water-front and then the news travels down the bay like wildfire. One captain passes it along to another. Why, the chances are, Haley might have young Harvey out of the way aboard some other craft, or set ashore down in the Eastern shore swamps, before any police captain came up with him.
“That’s why I say I hope we can get the boy off, ourselves, in the meantime. Now I’ve got a sloop up in the creek back of Solomon’s Island, that I can fit out and have ready by to-morrow afternoon. She’s a good one, too, is the old Mollie. She’s fast, and she can go across the bay in anything that ever blew; thirty-seven feet long; a good, roomy cabin that will sleep six of us easy, and seven on a pinch, by making up some beds on the cabin floor. She’ll carry sail, too, and if it comes to a brush between us and Haley’s craft, why the Mollie will show up surprisingly. He’d have hard work to give us the slip, altogether, unless night came on.
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Will Adams, arising and squaring his broad shoulders, “we’ll fit out the Mollie like a regular sloop-of-war. I’ve got three shot-guns and any number of revolvers, and you’ve got a good rifle, Ed. Why, we could show enough force to capture a Malay pirate, let alone Haley. We may get him easier than that, right here in the river – and then again we may not. We’ll be ready for anything. What do you say?”
“Well,” said Edward Warren, “I’m for capturing the man wherever he shows himself, if we can; but I’m not so sure that I ought to let these youngsters run the risk of getting into a fight like that.”
Will Adams smiled.
“Perhaps I put it a little bit strong,” he said. “I don’t really think there would be very much fight about it. Haley is a coward, I’ll venture to say, if it comes to a pinch. Most bull-dozing men like that are. We won’t give him a chance to fight, if we can help it; just take him of a sudden, and he’ll give up.”
“Don’t you worry about us, Cousin Ed,” said George Warren. “We are old enough to take care of ourselves. We don’t mind running some risk, if we can only get Jack out of his scrape.”
“Well,” replied Edward Warren, “you fit up the Mollie, Will, and wait till I get back from Baltimore before you start off anywhere. Then we’ll see.”
“I wish we could start to-night,” said Henry Burns.
It was surprising, the change that had come over this usually coolest and most deliberate of the boys. He and Jack Harvey had not always been friends; but now that circumstances had brought them together, and they had cemented their friendship by a summer together and a partnership in a fishing enterprise, they were loyal comrades. Henry Burns would have set out on the moment, for Solomon’s Island and the sloop Mollie, and have worked all night to get her ready, if Will Adams had only said the word.
But there was, plainly, nothing to be done until morning; and so, with a hearty handshake all round, the boys and Edward Warren left the big house on Drum Point and headed homeward across the river in the canoe.
There was no time lost, on the following morning, however. They were up and across the river at an early hour; and, taking Will Adams into the canoe, they all went along by the shore into the creek where the Mollie lay at her mooring. She was stripped of her sails and some of her rigging, out of commission for the winter season.
The young yachtsmen recognized her for what she was, a smart sea boat; and they went to work with a will to assist in getting her ready for cruising. From a loft on Solomon’s Island they carried down the big main-sail and the jibs and a single topsail. They lugged the big anchor-rode and two anchors, including a spare one, carried for emergency, down to the shore, and rowed the stuff out aboard. They assisted in bending on the sails; lacing them to boom and gaff; in reeving rigging; splicing a rope here and there; trying the pump and putting on a fresh leather to the sucker rod; greasing the foot of the mast, where the hoops chafed; putting aboard water jugs and spare rigging – in short, the score and more things that went to make the craft fit and safe for winter cruising.
By early afternoon, the sloop, Mollie, was spick and clean and ship-shape, with a brand new main-sheet and topping-lift, that would stand a winter’s squall; her ballast stowed in, as some of it had been taken ashore. Everything was in readiness for the cruise, even to the starboard and port lights, for use at night, and some charts of the bay provided by Will Adams. They locked the cabin, and went back in the canoe, first to Will Adams’s landing and then across to the other shore. George Warren held the tiller, in the absence of Edward Warren, who had remained at home, preparing for his trip to Baltimore the following morning.
Through all that afternoon and until darkness settled over the river, there was not a half hour that did not find Henry Burns either at a window or out in the dooryard, gazing off through Edward Warren’s spy-glass. He looked longingly for the sight of a craft, the image of which, with its exact lines and the cut of its sails, was clear and distinct in his mind.
George Warren pointed out at him, once, and called Edward Warren to look.
“He’s all cut up about poor Jack,” he said. “I never saw him so worked up about anything. You’d better hurry back from Baltimore, Cousin Ed, or he’ll be sailing off alone in the Mollie after Haley’s bug-eye.”
Edward Warren laughed.
“I’ll risk that,” he said. “Don’t you boys worry; we’ll get Haley, all right. We’ll have young Harvey ashore here before many days, or I miss my guess.”
That very afternoon, the bug-eye, Z. B. Brandt, was coming slowly up the coast, heading for Cedar Point, the lighthouse on which marked the turning-point for vessels bound into the Patuxent. Hamilton Haley, sitting gloomily at the wheel, turned a sour face upon the mate, as the latter stepped near.
“I never did see such all-fired mean luck since I took to dredging!” he burst out, glowering at the mate, as though Jim Adams were in some way at fault. “First it’s that sneaking foreigner, that we took to help Bill out, that gets away. Who’d have thought he’d ever swum for it, a night like that, and all that way from shore? I hope he drowned! I hope he drowned and the dog-fish ate him. That’s what.”
“He’d make pow’ful bad eatin’, I reckon,” suggested Jim Adams.
“Yes, but he could have turned a handle of the winch like a soldier,” said Haley. “And he’s a dead loss, being as I’m bound by the law as we make ourselves, and swear to, to leave Sam Black aboard Bill’s boat, so long as I’ve gone and lost Bill’s man.”
“I didn’t think that youngster, Harvey, and that business chap, Edwards, had the nerve to do what they did,” said Jim Adams.
Hamilton Haley snorted. The subject was like a match to gun-powder.
“’Twas that young rascal, Harvey, that did it!” he cried. “I didn’t beat him up enough. I wish as how I had him lashed up for’ard there now. ’Tother chap wouldn’t have gone and done it. ’Twas the youngster’s work. And p’raps it didn’t cost me a penny!”
Haley pointed, with high indignation, to a new hatch which replaced the one on which Harvey and Tom Edwards had floated to shore.
“Seven dollars for that!” he exclaimed, “to say nothing of the time it took to make it. And ten dollars apiece to Artie Jenkins for the two of ’em that’s gone. And Sam Black worth as much more. I tell you it ain’t right for a poor dredger, as earns his money by hard work and tends to business, to get such luck as that dealt out to him.”
Haley was half whining. From his view-point, the fates had, indeed, been unkind.
“There’s someone coming down,” remarked the mate.
Haley took a long look ahead, at a craft visible nearly a mile away.
“It’s Tom Noyes’s boat,” he said, finally. “I’d know his masts anywhere.”
The other craft, a bug-eye somewhat smaller than the Brandt, came dead on toward them. The distance between them rapidly diminished, and they came presently within hailing distance. The other craft did not merely hail, however. It came up into the wind and lowered a boat. Haley brought the Brandt into the wind, also, and the small boat came alongside. A man stepped aboard and said something to Haley. The latter jumped as though a shot had been fired at him. A grin of satisfaction overspread his dull face.
“You don’t mean it, Tom!” he cried. “Hooray! I’d rather get him than ten bushels of oysters in one heap. Come below. Jim, you take the wheel.”
The two captains descended into the cabin, leaving Jim Adams to hold the bug-eye into the wind. They remained below some minutes, conversing earnestly; and when they reappeared Haley was in a good humour that made Jim Adams stare.
“Jim,” he said, slapping the mate on the shoulder with a jocularity all unusual to him, “you’re a right good mate. We’re going up the river to-night – away up. We’re going to ship a good man – a right good man, Jim. You never saw such a rare fellow at a winder as he’ll be. Ho! Ho! I reckon the rest of ’em won’t have to work at all with him aboard. Good-bye, Cap’n Tom. I’ll see you down on the Eastern shore. We’re going to quit around here. The reefs seem all played out. Good luck!”
Haley, seeing his guest off, turned to Jim Adams and proceeded to impart to him a piece of information that brought a broad smile to his features, also. The two had emerged thus suddenly from the depths of gloom and discouragement into a feeling almost of hilarity. The bug-eye was brought by the wind once more, and they went on up the bay.
The night falling, Henry Burns, up at the old farmhouse, gave over looking for any sail and went in to supper. It was a serious looking party at table that night. The next few days might mean much to them, or little, according as fortune favoured. The boys urged upon Edward Warren to lose no time in returning to them.
“And you look out for yourselves, while I’m away,” he cautioned. “If you see anything of Haley, just take the canoe and scoot for Drum Point. Then let Will Adams handle the thing. He’s careful and he knows everybody around here, and just what to do.”
“We will,” replied George Warren. “We’ll be all right. Don’t you worry.”
They were off to bed in good season, though Henry Burns would have sat up and gone down to the shore from time to time. He was persuaded by Edward Warren that it were better to turn out at daybreak and look for the vessel, before she should get under weigh, if she should happen to come in during the night.
Henry Burns was usually the soundest of sleepers. He had a way of dismissing care for a night, when he knew there could be nothing affected by lying awake. He could have slept at sea in the hardest of storms, once satisfied that the vessel was staunch and weathering the gale. But to-night it was different. He had at first suggested that they watch through the night, by turns; but Edward Warren had not approved. His mind was set on the warrant and the action by the authorities.
Therefore, Henry Burns was restless. Once he arose and sat for a time by the window, Young Joe slumbering peacefully in the bed. The moon was beginning to show above the horizon, and it made a fine sight. But Henry Burns thought of Jack Harvey out aboard Haley’s bug-eye, and the night had little of beauty in it for him. He turned in and slept, lightly, for an hour or two. Then the impulse to arise again was too strong. He crept out of bed, wrapped a blanket about him, and seated himself in a big armchair by the window.
Sleep overtook him as he sat there, with the picture of the moonlight, lying across the river in a great flooding pathway, before his eyes as they closed.
Again he awoke. The picture was still there. The moon had risen higher, however, and the pathway of silver light across the river was more diffused. The river rippled and danced beneath the mellow flood. But the picture was not just the same, either. There was something in it which he had not seen before – the masts and rigging of a vessel, clearly outlined in the moonlight. Henry Burns gave one look, rubbed his eyes to convince himself that he was really awake, then sprang to his feet.
“It’s the Brandt,” he said, softly. “I can’t be mistaken. I’ll just slip down and make sure.”
It was, indeed, Haley’s bug-eye, anchored for an hour, for Haley to pick up some stuff he had left up on the bank – a bit of rigging and a small anchor he had bought – for he would not stop on his way down the river, but would make all sail for the Eastern shore.
Henry Burns dressed himself hurriedly, but quietly, without waking Young Joe. He would make sure, before arousing the household. If he should get them up and then prove to be mistaken, he knew what Edward Warren would think. He was warmly clad, but he found a short reefer, which was a thick, warm overcoat, on the rack in the hall below, and he put that on, for the night was sharp.
Cautiously, he slipped the bolt of the front door and stole out of the house, closing the door gently after him. Then he set off for the shore at a rapid pace.
He came to the bank overlooking the river, shortly, and crouched down by some bushes, looking off at the vessel carefully. He was sure he could not be mistaken in her. She lay not over quarter of a mile off shore, and he could see her lines and rig sharply defined.
“I’d stake my half of the Viking on its being the Brandt,” he murmured. “I’d like just one glimpse of her name, though, to make sure.”
As he spoke the words, there flashed into his mind the idea of going out to see. It was easy. There was the skiff that went with the canoe, on long trips. It lay at a stake, just a few feet from the canoe. He knew where the sculling oar was hidden, under a log at the foot of the bank. Henry Burns arose and stole quickly down to the shore, a short distance up river from where he had been hiding. In a moment more, he was seated in the skiff.
He was no novice in small boat handling. It was the work of but a few minutes for him to be close upon the bug-eye. He waited a moment, a few rods away, listening intently. There was no sound aboard. There was no light showing. He drew nearer, and drifted alongside. There was no mistaking the craft now. There, in dull and worn lettering, but plainly to be read, was the name on the bow, “Z. B. Brandt.”
It was an exciting moment for Henry Burns. Two ideas met in conflict in his brain. One was, to hasten ashore and alarm the Warren household; the other, to slip aboard the vessel and see if he could not arouse Harvey in the forecastle, and carry him off triumphantly then and there. The second idea overmastered him. It was too tempting to be resisted. Think of appearing in one brief half-hour at the old house, presenting Jack Harvey to their astonished gaze and saying, proudly, “Here he is – and without a warrant.”
Henry Burns, cool enough at a crisis, made his skiff fast forward, and climbed aboard. Another moment, and he had stepped to the companion-way and slipped below.
At the same moment, two figures on the shore, who had been watching his manoeuvres, in astonishment and wrath, stepped into another skiff and one of them sculled harder than he had ever sculled before, for the bug-eye.
Henry Burns, groping down into the forecastle, called softly, “Jack, Jack Harvey. Jack, old boy, where are you?” There was no response, only a stir in one of the bunks and a murmur from some drowsy sleeper. The sailors of the Brandt, worn out with work, were seizing the short stop on the way up the river for a snatch of sleep, and were slumbering as only tired sailors can.
Henry Burns felt through his pockets and produced a match, which he lighted and held to the faces of three of the sleepers in turn. No Jack Harvey! The match burned out, and he lighted another, and yet one more. When he had seen the last match flicker out on the face of the one remaining man in the forecastle, and that one was not Jack Harvey, Henry Burns felt his heart drop clear down till it seemed to leave his body. A sense of disappointment and alarm overpowered him. His legs were weak. There was no Jack Harvey in the forecastle! What had become of him?
Henry Burns, his brain in a whirl, climbed the companion steps weakly. He put his hand on the side of the hatch at the top and took one step on deck. As he did so, a rough hand grasped his wrist; another seized upon his throat so he could utter no sound, while the hoarse voice of Hamilton Haley sounded in his ears, “You little thief! Stealing, eh? I know you young shore-rats, always looking for a chance to run off with stuff. You won’t get away so easy this time. You’ll get a bit of dredging for this. Hang you! You can cull oysters, if you give out at the winders. Take that, and stay below till you’re called for.”
The heavy fist of Hamilton Haley shot out. Henry Burns, sent spinning down the companion way by the blow, landed in a heap on the forecastle floor, stunned, senseless. A moment more, and he was tossed into a bunk like a sack of dunnage. There was a call for the crew to turn out.
The bug-eye, Brandt, was going on up the river – not secretly this time, under cover of fog, but boldly in the full moonlight, in the middle of the river, getting the benefit of the flood tide, coming in with the rising moon.
Captain Hamilton Haley had nothing to hide – not now. He was merely going after another recruit. And he had gained still another, all unexpectedly. Luck seemed to be turning.
CHAPTER XVI
ARTIE JENKINS COMES ABOARD
Early in the afternoon, on the day of the events just related, a bug-eye had turned in at a little cove at a place some ten miles up the Patuxent river called Sotterly. The sails were dropped and a boat was lowered. A tall, sharp featured, keen-eyed man, who had been giving orders, called out to one of the sailors. “Get into this skiff, Sam Black,” he said; “I want you to row me ashore.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n Bill,” responded the man. He shuffled to the side of the vessel, stepped into the boat alongside, and took his seat at the oars.
When the skiff had reached shore and had been drawn up on land, “Cap’n Bill” tossed an empty gunny sack to the sailor.
“Going back up to Hollywood,” he remarked. “I reckon you won’t cut and run on me, eh?”
“I reckon not, with the season’s wages coming to me from Haley,” responded the sailor, and added, gruffly, “It’s the third winter I’ve been oystering with Haley. He and I get along. He don’t bother me none. When he growls at me, I give it back to him, I do. That’s the way to get along with him. There ain’t many as dares do it, though.”
Captain Bill gave a chuckle.
“You’re shrewder than you look,” he said. “But you’re all right. Ham Haley says you’re the best man he’s got aboard. When you get sick of the Brandt, you come and sign with me. Good men are sure enough scarce.”
“I reckon we’d get along, too,” assented Sam Black.
With this somewhat unusual exchange of cordiality, captain and sailor went on together up the road leading back inland from the shore. After walking about a mile, they turned off on a cross-road that led more to the southward, and proceeded along that for a distance of some three miles. They passed a score of houses on either side of the road, and came at length to a settlement comprising about twenty houses at the junction of cross-roads.
Fetching up at a building which, by its display of dusty boxes seen through still more dusty windows, proclaimed itself to be a country store, Captain Bill entered, followed by Sam Black. The latter, seating himself on an up-ended cracker box at the farther end of the store, proceeded to solace himself with a black, short-stemmed pipe, while Captain Bill entered into conversation with the proprietor.
Their negotiations were interrupted presently by the entrance of a young man, who sauntered in, with an air of importance as befitting one who was evidently from the city and impressed with his own superior worldliness. His dress, though of a flashy character and glazed by wear at elbows and knees, was yet distinctly of a city cut, and he displayed certain tawdry jewelry to the most advantage. He nodded patronizingly to the keeper of the store.
“How’d do, Artie,” said the storekeeper. “When are you going back?”
“About as soon as I can get there now, Ben,” replied the youth, yawning. “I like to come up and see the folks, all right, but it’s deadly dull here. I want a little bit more of the electric lights and something going on at night. Not much like Baltimore down here.”
“No, I guess not,” admitted the other. “I hear you’re doing pretty well up there – let’s see, what is it you’re in?”
The youth paused a moment, then replied, “Oh, I’m running things for a contractor. Expect I’ll go in with him some day, when I get a couple of thousand more put away.”
Captain Bill, turning to observe the youth who was speaking, gave a start of astonishment. He turned away again, but cast several sharp glances at the young man from the corners of his eyes.
“Well, I’m blest if it isn’t Artie Jenkins,” he muttered. “The measly little crimp!”
Which term, be it known, is that applied to those engaged in that peculiar calling in which young Artie Jenkins was a bright and shining light – the trapping of unfortunate victims and selling them to the dredgers and such other craft as could make use of them.
Some time later, Captain Bill followed the youth outside the store and hailed him, as the latter was walking away.
“Hello,” he said, “wait a minute.”
The young man turned and stared at the stranger in surprise.
“You don’t know me, I reckon,” ventured Captain Bill, extending a hand, which the other took carelessly.
“Can’t say I do,” was the reply.
“Well, I know you, just the same,” continued Captain Bill. “You’re name’s Jenkins, if I’m not mistaken. The fact is, Jenkins, you may not remember it, but you did a little business for me once in your line up in Baltimore, and I may say, I never did see such good fellows as you shipped down to me – every one of them good for dredging and willing enough to work, when they got used to the business.”
Artie Jenkins’s manner became more friendly. It was not his fortune to meet, usually, with a captain who had a good word of this kind to say to him. He smiled affably.
“Well, I try to suit my clients, the captains, as best I can, and be fair and square with them,” he said. “But I can’t say as I remember you.”
“It was some time ago that we did business,” explained Captain Bill. He made an inward comment, also, that it was a bargain he had never forgotten, in which three men already ill had been shipped down to him by the clever Mr. Jenkins, causing him a total loss of thirty dollars, besides the trouble of getting rid of the men again, before they all died aboard.
“See here, Jenkins,” he went on, “I’m right glad I fell in with you. Here’s a chance for you to turn a dollar down here. I need a man. Can you get him for me?”
Artie Jenkins’s eyes lighted up with cunning; then an expression of doubt overcast his face.
“I sort of hate to do it down here,” he said. “They all know me, and most of ’em know what the dredgers are like. I might do something if a stranger happened along, but that isn’t very likely this time of year. Still, I’ll be on the lookout; something might turn up. You’re down at Sotterly, eh? Be there till to-morrow noon? All right, I’ll look around, anyway. If I do anything I’ll be down. Will fix you, anyway, soon as I get back to Baltimore. Good day.”
“Good day,” responded Captain Bill.
Watching until he saw Artie Jenkins turn off on the road and disappear, Captain Bill returned to the store, and beckoned to Sam Black. The sailor came forward.
“Did you see that young chap I was talking to?” inquired Captain Bill.
Sam Black nodded. “The little dude,” he said, contemptuously.
“Did he get a look at you, think?” asked Captain Bill.
“Why, no, he didn’t see me, I reckon,” said the sailor, with surprise.
“Good!” exclaimed Captain Black. “Pick up that sack and come on. I’ll tell you what I want, on the way.”
Sam Black shouldered the sack, and they started back in the direction of the shore.
“That little rascal, Artie Jenkins, is the meanest crimp in Baltimore!” exclaimed Captain Bill. “Fools us, right along,” he added, with virtuous indignation. “What’s the use of crimping a man as won’t be any good when he’s down the bay? That’s what I want to know. He does it right along. I say as how it’s a shame to knock a man out and use him like they do, unless he’s going to be some good to us, when we get him. That’s why Ham Haley and I have got it in for Artie Jenkins.”
“Now,” continued Captain Bill, “I’m going to send you back there again, to ship with him aboard my bug-eye. Do you understand? He’ll come down with you here to-night, and we’ll attend to the rest. You don’t know anything about me nor my dredger – understand?”
Sam Black grinned.
“I’ll fix him,” he said. “I’m against all crimps.”
It was three o’clock when captain and man went aboard the dredger at Sotterly. A half-hour later, there emerged from the cabin an individual resembling Sam Black only in face and form; he was dressed in “shore” clothes, furnished from the captain’s own supply. Save for a bit of a roll in his gait, he might have passed for a farmhand. He went rapidly, with long strides, up the road he had come shortly before.
At five o’clock that afternoon, Artie Jenkins stepped from a dooryard in the town and walked slowly down the road in the direction of the store. He toyed with a lighted cigarette, and seemed thinking, deeply.
“I’m afraid I can’t make it,” he murmured. “My own town, too. Still business is business – there’s Tom Carver – no, I couldn’t get him. Hang the luck – ”
He was interrupted, unexpectedly. A man suddenly appeared from the side of the road, and waited for him to come up. It was dusk, but Artie Jenkins perceived that the man was a stranger in the town. He noted his appearance. Could this be a stroke of luck?
“What might the name of this place be?” inquired the stranger.
“Hollywood,” replied Artie Jenkins. “Never ’round these parts before?”
“No,” said the man. “I come from up yonder, Hillville. Lost my job on a farm there. Nothing doing now. Know of anyone that would like a good man to work around a place?”
Artie Jenkins puffed at his cigarette, while his sallow cheeks, unhealthy and pale, showed a tinge of colour. He turned to the man and put a hand on his shoulder, patronizingly.
“Well, if you’re not in luck!” he cried. “You hit on the one man in all Hollywood that can help you out. There isn’t a job in town for a farm hand now, but I can get you a nice, easy berth on an oysterman for the rest of the season. Ever on one?”
“Never was off land but once on a steamer,” replied the man. “Always thought as how I’d like to go a voyage, too. Kind of hard work, though, isn’t it?”
“A sight easier than farming,” answered Artie Jenkins. “Easiest in the world, if you get the right captain. Funny how you happened along. Why, it wasn’t but a few hours ago that I met a captain I know, that wanted a man. He’ll pay twenty-five a month, and everyone says Captain Bill feeds his men like aldermen. Fresh meats and vegetables and a bit extra on Sundays and holidays.”
“He does that, eh, this ere Cap’n Bill you speaks of?” said the stranger.
“That’s his reputation,” assured Artie Jenkins.
The man turned his head away, to hide a grin.
“I guess I’ll try it,” he said, “if you’ll go along and fix it up for me.”
“Sure,” said Artie Jenkins. “I like to oblige a man when I see he’s in hard luck. You wait down there at the store for me, till I get my big coat. I’ll be along soon. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Sam Black,” replied the stranger.
Sam Black, seating himself discreetly outside the store, on a step, not to be observed from within, allowed his grin to expand and give vent in a hoarse guffaw, as Artie Jenkins was lost to view.
“Reckon I’ll like them extras on Sundays and holidays,” he muttered, and roared again. “And p’raps somebody else will like ’em too – if he gets ’em.”
Half an hour later, Artie Jenkins and his prize went along down the road in the dark of early nightfall, in the direction of Sotterly landing. It was nearly eight o’clock when they arrived at the shore of a cove some distance across from the wharf, and made out the masts and hull of the bug-eye. It lay a little off from shore, with a lantern in the fore-shrouds.
Artie Jenkins put his fingers to his lips and gave forth several shrill whistles. The figure of a man presently appeared, in the light that gleamed from the cabin, and stepped on deck.
