Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 24

His futile midnight sally would only result in added humiliation.

But what if he kept on? Already more than an hour had pa.s.sed. It would not be many minutes now before the tide would turn. The ebb would cease running out, and the flood would set just as strongly the other way, bearing him in toward Isle au Haut. To row with it would be an easy matter.

Head Harbor before daybreak. Boston or New York the morning after. Two months or more of easy living in the same old way. After that the deluge, _alias_ John P. Whittington.

Isle au Haut or Tarpaulin Island, which should it be? Beads of sweat started on Percy's face as he wrestled out his problem.

Far more was involved than the mere question of going north or south. He had come to the parting of the ways. His whole life hung in the balance.

Floating in that frail skiff on the uneasy swell, he realized that everything depended on the direction in which he swung the prow. His future lay in his oar-blades.

Under the horizon north and west stretched the coast. He closed his eyes and saw a vision of the feverish city life he knew and loved so well--lighted streets thronged with gay crowds, human banks between which flowed rivers of velvet-shod automobiles and clanging cars; hotel lobbies and theaters and restaurants alive with men and women who had never stooped to toil; all the luxury and glare and glitter that wait upon modern wealth. This was what he was fitting himself for. What did it all amount to?

He opened his eyes and came back to the little boat, rocking gently on the undulating swells; to the lonely glory of the peaceful ocean, arched by the starry sky. A light breeze was beginning to blow from the southwest, dispersing the thin silver mist that overhung the water.

Percy glanced at his watch; it was quarter past ten, almost time for the ebb to cease and the flood to begin.

Should he keep on or go back? He must decide quickly. Already his arms were tired, and he was more than two miles north of the island. The longer he delayed his decision the harder would be his pull against the flood if he turned.

Minutes pa.s.sed as he pondered, barely dipping his oars. It was slack tide now and the pea-pod just held her own. Down on the breeze floated a distant, melancholy note, the voice of the whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge, two miles from Isle au Haut. Was it an invitation or a warning?

Slowly at first, then faster, the stern of the boat swung round. The tide had turned. The flood would carry him north with but little effort on his part. Should he let himself go with it?

Percy's indecision vanished. The tide of his own life had turned, like that of the ocean; slow and doubtful though the change had been, the current was at last setting the other way. Grasping the oar-handles tightly, he whirled the head of the pea-pod southward and started again for Tarpaulin Island.

XII

PULLING TOGETHER

The next hour and a half was anything but fun for young Whittington. His mind was set on reaching Camp Spurling before the hands of the alarm-clock came together at midnight. At any cost he must be in his bunk before the others woke.

It was a long, hard row, a battle every second with the tide running against him with untiring strength. It demanded every ounce of energy Percy possessed. His back complained dully. His arms felt as if they would drop off. Time and again he decided that the next stroke must be his last, that he must lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest; but each time he tapped some hitherto unknown reservoir of power within himself, and kept on pulling.

With the stern demand on his physical forces a change was being wrought in his brain. His foolish pride, his false sense of shame at changing his hasty plan to desert, his bitter feeling toward the others, gradually disappeared. Every oar-stroke brought him not only nearer the island, but also nearer a sane, wholesome view of life itself.

His thoughts turned naturally to the group at the camp, this clean, independent, self-respecting crowd, who cared no more for his money than for the pebbles on the beach; who estimated a fellow, not by what he had, but by what he was. After all, that was the real test; Percy could not help acknowledging it.

Saddleback glimmered astern. The whistle south of Roaring Bull was growing fainter. Percy felt encouraged. He turned his head. Yes, Tarpaulin was certainly nearer. Disheartening though the pull was, he had gained perceptibly. But the southwest breeze had stiffened, adding its opposition to that of the tide.

It was now past eleven. He had decided that he must reach the cabin not later than quarter to twelve. Barely half an hour longer! His hands were blistered, his breath came in sobs, but he dragged fiercely at the oars.

At last he was stemming the strong tide-rip off Brimstone Point.

The next ten minutes were worse than all that had gone before. As he surged unevenly backward and forward, the current swung the pea-pod's bow first one way, then the other. Deaf and blind to everything but the work in hand, Percy swayed to and fro. Foot by foot the boat crept round the fringing surf at the base of the bluffs.

Hands seemed to be plucking at her keel, holding her back. It was no use. They were too strong for him. All at once their grasp weakened. He glanced up with swimming eyes. He had pa.s.sed the eddy, and the entrance of the cove was near. A few strokes more and the pea-pod grounded on the beach. It was twenty minutes to twelve!

Percy staggered up to the cabin. All was dark and quiet. Gently lifting the latch, he slipped inside, pulled the door to again, and stood listening. The regular breathing of his sleeping mates rea.s.sured him.

Compelling himself to walk noiselessly to his bunk, he crept under his blanket without even taking off his shoes.

He had been gone three hours; and they had been the most momentous hours of his life.

_Kling-ng-ng-ng-ng ..._

Off went the clock. It was midnight. Muttering drowsily, Filippo slid out of his bunk, checked the alarm, and lighted a lamp. Then he busied himself with his cooking-utensils.

The last thing Percy heard was a spoon clinking against a pan. Dead tired, he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep.

It was eight in the morning before he woke. What had made his arms and back so lame and raised those big blisters on his hands? Percy remembered. He lay for a few minutes, his eyes shut. An unpleasant duty was before him, and he must be sure to do it right.

Aching in every joint, he rolled out at last and stood up stiffly.

Filippo, who was washing the breakfast dishes, turned at the sound. His face was neither hostile nor friendly.

"Your breakfast in oven," said he. "Sit down and I get it."

He set before Percy a plate of smothered cod and a half-dozen hot biscuits. It was more thoughtfulness than Percy had expected.

"Much obliged, Filippo," he said, gratefully.

Filippo made no reply to this acknowledgment; but, as Percy ate, he could feel the young Italian watching him curiously. It was the first time Whittington had ever thanked him, and he did not understand it.

After he had finished eating, Percy took his plate, knife, and fork to the sink.

"Let me wash these, Filippo," he said.

"No," returned the Italian, "I do it."

But a look of surprise crossed his face. What had come over the millionaire's son?

Percy spent the rest of the forenoon on the ledges. At noon he came back to the cabin. He had steeled himself for the task before him, and he was not the fellow to do things half-way. The John P. Whittington in him was coming out.

Everybody else was in camp when he stepped inside. Lane did not look at him at all. Spurling and Stevens nodded coolly. Percy drew a long breath and launched at once into the brief speech he had spent the last three hours dreading.

"Fellows," he stammered, "I've been pretty rotten to all of you. There's no need of wasting any more words about that. Last night I took one of the boats and started to row up to Isle au Haut. But I got to thinking matters over out there on the water, and it changed my mind about a lot of things. So I came back. Jim, I want to apologize to you for what I said last night. I deserved what you gave me, and it's done me good. I want to stay here with you for the rest of the summer--if you're willing. I'll try to do my full share of the work. You can send me off the first time I shirk."

He ceased and awaited the verdict, looking eagerly from one to the other. There was a moment of silence. Surprise was written large on the faces of the three Academy men. Then Spurling stepped forward and held out his hand.

"Percy," said he, with a break in his voice, "I've always thought you had the right stuff in you, if you'd only give yourself half a chance.

For one, I'll be more than pleased to have you stop. What do you say, boys?"

He glanced toward Lane and Stevens.

"Sure!" exclaimed Lane, heartily; and Stevens seconded him.

The boys shook hands all round; and they sat down to the table with good appet.i.tes. Everybody enjoyed the meal.