Part 49 (2/2)

”Humph! You'd better cast off afore that or you'll be fog bound. It'll be thicker'n dock mud toward sundown, and you'll fetch up in Waptomac 'stead of East Harniss, 'thout you've got a good compa.s.s.”

”Oh, my compa.s.s is all right,” began Issy, and stopped short.

The lobsterman made other attempts at conversation, but they were unproductive. McKay was gazing at the growing fog bank and thinking hard. To doctor an engine may be difficult, but to get lost in a fog--He took the compa.s.s from the gla.s.s-lidded binnacle by the wheel, and carrying it into the little cabin, placed it in the cuddy forward.

It was nearer five than four when the Lady May, her engine barking aggressively, moved out of Denboro Harbor. Mr. Bartlett, the pa.s.senger, had been on time and had fumed and fretted at the delay. But Issy was deliberation itself. He had forgotten his quahaug rake, and the lapse of memory entailed a trip to the blacksmith's. Then the gasoline tank needed filling and the battery had to be overhauled.

”Are you sure you can make it?” queried Sam anxiously. ”It's important, I tell you. Mighty important.”

The skipper snorted in disgust. ”Make it?” he repeated. ”If the Lady May can't make fourteen mile in two hours--let alone two'n a ha'f--then I don't know her. She's one of them boats you read about, she is.”

The Cape makes a wide bend between Denboro and Trumet. The distance between these towns is twenty long, curved miles over the road; by water it is reduced to a straight fourteen. And midway between the two, at the center of the curve, is East Harniss.

The Lady May coughed briskly on. There was no sea, and she sent long, widening ripples from each side of her bow. Bartlett, leaning over the rail, gazed impatiently ahead. Issy, sprawled on the bench by the wheel, was muttering to himself. Occasionally he glanced toward the east. The gray fog bank was now half way to the zenith and approaching rapidly.

The eastern sh.o.r.e had disappeared.

”Is! Hi, Is! What are you doing? Don't kill him before my eyes.”

Issy came out of his trance with a start.

”What--what's that?” he asked. His pa.s.senger was grinning broadly.

”What? Kill who?”

”Why, the big chief, or whoever you had under your knee just then.

You've been rolling your eyes and punching air with your fist for the last five minutes. I was getting scared. You're an unmerciful sinner when you get started, ain't you, Is? Who was the victim that time? 'Man Afraid of Hot Water'? or who?”

The skipper scowled. He shoved the fist into his pocket.

”Naw,” he growled. ”'Twa'n't.”

”So? Not an Indian? Then it must have been a white man. Some fellow after your girl, perhaps. Hey?”

The disconcerted Issy was speechless. His companion's chance shot had scored a bull's-eye. Sam whooped.

”That's it!” he crowed. ”Sure thing! Give it to him, Is! Don't spare him.”

Mr. McKay chokingly admitted that he ”wa'n't goin' to.”

”Ho, ho! That's the stuff! But who's SHE, Is? When are you going to marry her?”

Issy grunted spitefully. ”You ain't married yourself--not yit,” he observed, with concealed sarcasm.

The unsuspecting Bartlett laughed in triumph. ”No,” he said. ”I'm not, that's a fact; but maybe I'm going to be some of these days. It looked pretty dubious for a while, but now it's all right.”

”'Tis, hey? You're sure about that, be you?”

”Guess I am. Great Scott! what's that? Fog?”

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