Partners three

Contents

Chapter Page

I Jack Herrick, Skipper 1

II A Rescue 11

CHAPTER I Jack Herrick, Skipper

The Crystal Spring nosed her way out of Herrick’s Cove, caught the southeasterly breeze on her big sail and moved lazily along past the end of Greenhaven Neck. The Crystal Spring was not built for speed. She was snub-nosed and square-sterned and wide in the beam. The mast was stepped well forward and a short bowsprit made room for a jibsail that was seldom used. Abaft the mast was a small hatch nearly flush with the deck. Amidship was a second hatch, larger than the first. Coiled over it, like a gray snake, was a length of two-inch hose attached at one end to a rusty pump set into the deck. The Crystal Spring was not a beauty, no matter how you looked at her. She was painted black, as to hull, and gray as to deck and hatches. Her mast needed scraping and her patched mainsail was grayer than her deck. On the stem was the inscription ‘ ‘Crystal Spring, Greenhaven.” She sat low in the water and moved sluggishly. To be sure a three-mile breeze isn’t conducive to speed, but even in a gale the Crystal Spring wouldn’t have shown her heels to anything that sailed out of Greenhaven.

With his feet in the shallow cockpit sat the skipper and crew of the Crystal Spring , one arm draped over the long tiller. The skipper and crew was sixteen years of age, had a good-looking weather-tanned face, a sturdy body and was named John Herrick — and called Jack. He had a pair of nice brown eyes, a straight nose well freckled, a fairly wide mouth and a square and rather aggressive chin. Just at present his mouth was puckered up, for Jack was whistling — I almost said a tune. Let’s simply remark that he was whistling and let it go at that, for the fact is that Jack could no more whistle a tune than he could sing one; and if you ever heard him try to sing you’d understand. As he whistled, his gaze roamed from the sail to the shore and thence out to sea. Seaward there was little to look at — only a smudge of smoke like a narrow cloud trailing above the horizon. Shoreward was the end of the Neck and the squat white lighthouse agleam in the sunlight of a late June morning. Behind the lighthouse was the keeper’s little cottage with its weathered roof

JACK HERRICK, SKIPPER and green blinds, and its tiny garden of sweet peas and nasturtiums, making a spot of bright color against the yellow-green of beach-grass and the gray of boulders. The tiller moved a little, the sail flapped for an instant and then filled again and the sloop slowly turned to pass Popple Head and run along close to the granite breakwater, seeking the harbor entrance.

With the breeze behind him Jack found the canvas cap he wore uncomfortable and dropped it into the cockpit, revealing a somewhat touselled head of brown hair. I call Jack’s hair brown for want of a better word. As a matter of fact it was of some indescribable shade between brown and the color of oakum, and, at that, it had lighter streaks in it. I think that nature had intended him to have quite respectable and commonplace brown hair, but as his cap was usually just where it was now — that is, off his head — the sun and the winds and salt spray and the fogs had worked their wills. On the whole, the result, especially when the sun was on it, was rather pleasing. The rest of Jack’s attire was quite simple. A white canvas blouse, clean if not altogether guiltless of stains, covered the upper part of his body and a pair of old gray trousers did for the rest. He wore no shoes, although two brown canvas “sneakers,” in each of which a brown cotton stocking was tucked, reposed in the cockpit.

A man in khaki overalls and a red flannel shirt emerged from the door of the lighthouse and waved a hand. Jack waved back. The man was Captain Horace Tucker, the lighthouse keeper. Captain Horace was a distant relation of Jack’s on his mother’s side, and Jack called him uncle, although the relationship was not really as close as that term implied. The lighthouse fell astern and the long, gray wall of the breakwater stretched away beside him. Jack scrambled to his feet, placed one bare foot on the tiller and craned his head. As the tide was almost at flood he could just see over the top of the breakwater. For a minute he scanned the harbor. Then, with a shake of his head, he jumped back into the cockpit.

“Not much doing today, I guess,” he muttered.

Half-way along the breakwater a man was fishing for perch. Jack headed the sloop further away so as not to interfere with him. As the Crystal Spring drew abreast, however, the fisherman called across.

JACK HERRICK, SKIPPER

* ‘Much obliged, but there wa’n’t no call to do it. I ain’t had nary nibble so far. I cal’ate Friday’s storm’s driv all the fish out to sea.”

“Try down by the beacon,” called Jack. “The water’s deeper there.”

He pointed ahead of him and the fisherman nodded and pulled up his pole and line. Down the shore, beyond the little rocky island called The Lump, a hand-liner was coming in with all sails set.

‘ ‘That’s Desco Benton,” murmured Jack. ' T guess I can sell to him if that plaguey chug-boat don’t get to him first.” He eyed his sail anxiously, eased the sheet a bit and watched for the end of the breakwater with its red beacon light set up on a tripod of timbers, for all the world like a little fat man with three legs. The sunlight shone dazzlingly on the ruby glass as Jack swung the sloop around the end of the granite barrier and across the bar. Before him lay the big round harbor, with Gull Island almost in the center, and innumerable boats lining the fish wharves or anchored in the channels. At the left the old town of Greenhaven ambled away up the hill, its white houses and crooked streets elbowing and jostling each other at every turn. Straight ahead, at the end of the mile-long basin, across what is known as the Neck Marsh, a second cluster of roofs showed where Cove Village lay along the edge of Lobster Cove.

It was a busy scene even at nine o’clock in the morning. Over at the Eastern Halibut Company’s wharves two schooners were unloading; Jack could see the sunlight glinting on the white bellies of the big fish as they were pitched from deck to wharf; on Gull Island, a short distance ahead, Abner Lacy’s Esmeralda , which had been in collision with a steamer trawler off White Face Bar a few days before, was being winched up the railway for repairs; the ring of the mallets on the blocks and the clicking of the windlass came loudly across the quiet water. Half-way between island and Neck the ferryboat was churning its way; Jack could see Captain Trufitt edging along the narrow deck taking fares. On the town side of the harbor a whale-back was unloading coal and the rattle and hum of the hoisting engine beat incessantly across. An Italian salt bark, her battered red hull deep in the water, had berthed in the broad channel and a lighter was sidling

JACK HERRICK, SKIPPER up to her. They would unload until she drew less water and then take her over to one of the wharves. At the Folsom Company’s docks a dozen schooners were fitting for their summer trips to the Banks. Small sailboats and rowboats dotted the blue expanse and just beyond the inner end of Gull Island a neat steam-yacht, resplendent in white paint and mahogany and brass, awaited her turn on the marine railway.

Over on the Neck side they were launching a sloop at Davis’s boat-yard where, hauled up on the shore and covered from the weather with canvas or boards, half a dozen sailing craft of various descriptions awaited their owners’ orders. There was a distinct odor of drying fish in the air — in almost any direction you could catch a glimpse of Ihe “flakes” behind the fish houses — which, mingling with the odors of lumber and pitch and paint from the yards, of seaweed from the shallow beach and of the soft, salty breeze from the ocean, constituted a fragrance that was as much a part of Greenhaven as the granite hill on which it was built. Jack knew that odor well and loved it. He breathed it gratefully now as, guiding the

Crystal Spring toward the broad channel, he saw Desco Benton’s Hetty and Grace rush past him near shore, shortening sail as she went. Jack cast an anxious gaze up the harbor.

“I guess that chug-boat will beat me again,” he muttered, ‘ ‘though I don’t see her anywhere yet. Likely she’s at the landing. Get on, you old sea-crab!”

The latter command was addressed to the Crystal Spring, which, now in the lee of the breakwater, was moving more leisurely than ever. Down the harbor the Hetty and Grace came about into the wind and Jack saw the anchor splash. It would take him ten minutes, maybe, to reach her, for he would have to tack in a moment and stand over toward the shore. And then what he feared and expected happened. Out of the press of boats around the town landing a cat-rigged boat driven by a gasoline motor chugged its way. It was painted buff, with a black strip, and to the bare mast was fixed a white placard with the word “Water” on it in black letters. Straight across to the Hetty and Grace it went and Jack sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

‘ ‘Either I’ll have to rig up an engine or go out

JACK HERRICK, SKIPPER of business,” he muttered. “Well, I'll try the steam-yacht.”

But when, five minutes later, the sloop wallowed up to within hailing distance of the handsome Sea Mist, a man in blue coat and brass buttons informed him shortly that her tanks were full.

“I’ve got the best water around these parts,” persisted Jack, as the Crystal Spring drifted by. 6 It’s spring water right out of the ground this morning.”

The man grinned. “That’s what they all say,” he jeered. “And it all tastes like bilge, too.”

“Mine don’t. Better try some. Let me fill up a tank for you, sir.”

' 'All full, I tell you.” The man turned away, Jack swung the helm over and the Crystal Spring began her day’s cruise in and out of the shipping. It was almost eleven before Jack made his first sale. A Portuguese fisherman bargained a good ten minutes. Then the Crystal Spring was made fast, the hose was lifted to the schooner’s deck and pulled down a forward hatchway and Jack, attaching the long handle to the pump, began his labor. It wasn’t easy work, but Jack’s muscles were used to it, and, as the fisherman had only one butt to fill, it was soon done. Then Jack took his pay, recoiled his hose, cast loose and went on again. What breeze there had been earlier in the day had almost died away and the sloop’s progress was slower than ever. Now and then Jack caught sight of the Morning Star , as the rival water boat was poetically named, chugging its way about the harbor. But even the Morning Star wasn’t doing much business today. At noon Jack made fast to the stern of a lumber schooner near the coal wharf and ate his lunch. It was pleasant enough there in the sun with so much to watch, and the lunch that Aunt Mercy had put up tasted awfully nice, just as it always did, but Jack wished that trade was brisker in his line of business. And just when he was thinking that there was a hail across the basin.

‘ ^Water boat, ahoy!” came a voice.

CHAPTER II A Rescue

Jack jumped to his feet, dropping two of Aunt Mercy’s best doughnuts, and looked about him. The hail came again and Jack saw Desco Benton waving from the Hetty and Grace .

“Right-o !” he called, and quickly cast loose. It took the Crystal Spring almost five minutes to half drift and half sail across to the hand-liner, and all the way Jack wondered what Desco wanted of him. When he was alongside the master of the Hetty and Grace appeared at the rail again.

“Where you been, Jack?” he growled. “I been waitin’ all the mornin’ for you.”

‘ T’m sorry, Desco. I saw the other boat putting out to you and I thought you’d got water.”

‘ Them Portuguese? Oh, I sent ’em off in a hurry. That stuff they pump ain’t water, it’s pizen. One of ’em says to me awhile back, he says, ‘Cap’n, this water’s the finest spring water in Greenhaven.’ ‘Spring water’ says I.

‘Spring water! If it is it's last Spring water!' " And Desco leaned on the rail and laughed hoarsely at his joke. “Where' d they get that stuff, Jack?"

“Right out of the hydrant at the landing," replied Jack with a smile. “I guess it's all right when there isn't a break in the main, but there usually is. Then it's about the color of pea soup. Have a good trip, Desco?"

“Fair to middlin'! I landed 'em down to Boston. Here, give me hold o' that pipe. How you gettin' on, Jack?"

“About the same way — fair to middling," answered Jack as he uncoiled the hose. ‘ ‘There isn't much doing just now. Folsom's boats get their water at the wharves these days. They had a pipe put in. I suppose it's cheaper for them that way."

‘ ‘Huh, I cal'ate it is. An' Folsom never was a man to waste money. Cal'ate that's how he's come by so much on it. I got two butts 'most empty, Jack, and the deck cask, too. Here, Manuel, lug this down to the butts and sing out when you're ready. "

While Jack pumped the master of the Hetty and Grace leaned across the rail and talked. He was a big, broad-shouldered, yellow-bearded Nova Scotian, of thirty-five or thirty-six years, a good sailor and a lucky master. Desco Benton’s luck was proverbial around Greenhaven and it had stood him in good stead many times. “As lucky as Desco Benton” was a common saying among the fishermen. The Hetty and Grace was a small but staunch little knockabout schooner, Essex built, with the lines of a pleasure yacht. Desco owned every plank and nail in her and was immensely proud of her. She could sail, too. That fact had been demonstrated two years before when Dexco had beaten every schooner in the fisherman’s race to Boston Light and back, having his anchor down and all sails snug when his nearest competitor came racing around the breakwater.

“How’s your folks?” he asked presently. “I cal’ate that sister o’ yours is quite grown up by now.”

“Faith’s thirteen, 1 ^uess,” Jack replied as he worked at the long pump handle. ‘ ‘She’s going to high school.”

“I want to know! An’ how about you, Jack? Wasn’t you in high school, too?”

‘ ‘Last year. I had to quit when father died.

Someone had to make some money and it looked like it was up to me.”

“Of course. Well, edication’s a good thing, I cal’ate, though I never had much time for it, but it don’t butter no parsnips, Jack.”

“I’m going back some day, I expect. I want to, anyway. I want to go to college if I can, too. Looks now, though, as if I might be pretty old before that happens.”

1 ‘College, eh? H’m; I had a feller sailin’ with me a couple o’ years back that was a college grad-oo-ate; name o’ Jasper Fitzwilliam. He wan’t no good at all. But I cal’ate there’s a difference in ’em. I caTate that young Folsom’ll have a college edication. I passed him cornin’ in, him an’ another boy. They was in a motorboat about half a mile off The Lump. Seemed to be hove to off there an’ I cal’ate they was fishin’. He’ll be a rich man some day, when his dad dies, eh?”

“I suppose so. He seems a nice chap. He was in my class at high school last year, though I didn’t know him very well. Funny place to fish, off The Lump, Desco. I never heard of anyone catching anything there, did you?”

Desco shook his head as the signal came to

1.5 stop pumping. The sailor crawled up through the hatch with the hose and Desco bade him lug it forward to the small butt lashed by the deck-house. Jack began his labors again. Desco, his gaze fixed on the western sky, where a few white clouds like great bunches of cotton batting were creeping up, pointed with, the stem of his pipe.

‘ 'There’s goin’ to be a thunder squall before long, Jack,” he said. "Better get your slicker out.”

Jack looked and nodded. "It feels like it too,” he answered. "I’d just as lief it didn’t come till I get this old lugger back to the Cove.”

There was a yell from the sailor at the hose and Jack stopped pumping. A few minutes later Desco dropped Jack’s line to the deck of the water boat and Jack, pushing the boom out, took the tiller again and waved good-bye to the master of the Hetty and Grace.

For two hours or more he cruised slowly about the harbor without doing any business. It was almost four o’clock, and the Crystal Spring was ambling along just inside Gull Island, when Jack saw the lighthouse tender push her snub nose around the breakwater and turn sharp into the narrow channel. The tender usually bought water when she visited Greenhaven, and Jack, casting an anxious backward glance in search of the Morning Star, hustled the Crystal Spring all he knew how. The lighthouse tender was already out of sight behind the island, although Jack could see the tips of her masts above the buildings. His first tack took him to the end of the breakwater. Then, as the water boat came around, he saw that the tender already had her mud-hook down. The Morn - ing Star , it seemed, had for once been caught napping, and Jack smiled as he pushed the sloop along. But the smile faded a moment later, for around the farther end of the island sped the Morning Star , her eight horsepower engine puffing away at full speed. Had the Crystal Spring been similarly equipped it might have proved a very pretty race, but as it was the Morning Star had everything her own way. Before Jack had covered half the distance between him and the tender, the Morning Star was alongside the government boat. A moment later lines were passed aboard and the two Lampron brothers were manning the pump. As the Crystal Spring sailed by Tony Lampron grinned across at Jack and shouted, “Where you been some time, eh, Mister?” and his brother Frank waved a hand and laughed. Jack made no sign, but he was angry and disappointed, and at the end of the island he swung the Crystal Spring around and headed up the channel for home. It wasn’t likely that there would be any more business today. And he didn’t much care, anyhow. Besides, the thunder storm that Desco had predicted was almost at hand, and Jack could see by the angry streaky look of the clouds that there would be wind as well as rain. He didn’t care to be caught outside in a blow. The Crystal Spring was staunch enough but she was anything but dry in dirty weather. Jack resolved to get around Popple Head and at least under the lee of the Neck before the storm burst.

To be on the safe side, however, for already the thunder was rumbling, he kicked down the latch of a little locker under the poop and pulled out a yellow oilskin coat and hat. He substituted his shoes and stockings for the oilskins and slammed the locker door shut again just as the sharp detonations of an engine exhaust reached him. A stone-throw to leeward Charley Paige, leaning against the tiller of his little power boat, waved to him and pointed westward. Jack waved back and, nodding his head, luffed the Crystal Spring around through the swell of the fisherman and headed along the breakwater. The breeze had grown flukey and of a sudden a great gray cloud passed over the sun and the ocean darkened to steel color. A clap of thunder broke overhead. A puff of wind came out of the west and the boom went down as the first puff of the squall caught the big sail. Then came a drop of rain and Jack, straddling the tiller, donned his oilskins, buttoning the long coat closely about him, and pulled the sou’easter down over his head. It was evident that he was in for a wetting after all.

The Crystal Spring began to roll as the wind increased, behaving in a most frolicsome, undignified manner. Half-way between the beacon and the lighthouse point the rain began in earnest, slanting out of the west and pelting at Jack’s back vindictively. There was quite a sea by now, although the rain flattened the surface somewhat and the squall blew the tops of the waves into spume. Jack, finding himself in for it, began to whistle tunelessly, leaning against the tiller and peering out from under the brim of his sou’easter. It was too thick to see very far ahead and it behooved him to be watchful, since a fisherman might be beating his way in around Popple Head. But he sighted nothing and the lighthouse was abeam and he brought the sloop’s blunt nose around. In another minute he would be in the lee of the shore and well out of some nasty weather. The thunder still crashed at intervals and now and then the dun clouds were rent asunder by the livid flashes of lightning. The lighthouse dropped astern and the Crystal Spring , with a final impatient roll, settled back on an evener keel. And at that moment, following a crash of thunder, Jack heard a faint hail.

He shaded his eyes with his hand and peered shoreward. But as far as he could see there was no one in sight. He had about reached the conclusion that he had been mistaken when the hail came again, a mere atom of sound above the rush of rain and sea and the creaking complaint of the sloop’s timbers. Jack turned seaward and strained his eyes through the murk. At first only a blank gray wall of mist rewarded him, but as his gaze accustomed itself to the task, suddenly a darker blur, something neither rain nor sea, came to his vision for a moment and then was lost again. Half doubting, Jack hauled on the sheet and jammed the helm to starboard. The Crystal Spring came about with a resentful lunge that sent the water in her big tank swashing noisily from side to side. With his eyes fixed ahead Jack gave the sloop all she could carry and in a moment the squall caught her again as she passed out of the lee of the land and dipped the end of the long boom in the racing sea. Again came the hail, clearer this time, and seemingly from off the port bow.

Jack moved the tiller a little, peering out from under the sail. And then, almost ahead, a small boat jumped into view, a tiny craft with two figures huddled in her. Jack shouted a response and kept on, and as the Crystal Spring staggered past the smaller craft he saw that the latter was a motor boat, perhaps not over eighteen feet long, apparently broken down. In another moment she was lost to sight. It was no easy matter to bring the water boat’s head into the wind and fully five minutes passed before Jack, allowing for the drift, sighted the launch again. Then, steadying the Crystal

(Chapter 2)

Spring as best he could, he bore up to the disabled boat and made a trumpet of his hands.

“Stand by to catch a rope!” he shouted. There was a faint response from the launch and Jack, seizing a coil of half-inch rope from the locker, snagged the tiller with his knee and got ready to throw. The sloop wallowed up to within a dozen feet of the launch and with a sweep of his arm sent the coil hurtling across the water. It was a lucky throw and as the Crystal Spring went by Jack saw one of the occupants seize the rope.

“Make fast to the bow cleat,” he shouted back, ' 'and haul in!”

A figure moved cautiously along the pit of the tossing launch, crawled to the deck and with fumbling fingers tied the line to the cleat. The launch had been drifting stern foremost and now Jack brought the Crystal Spring around so that the launch might come up under her lee. Aboard the latter they were hauling valiantly and in a minute the little motor boat was alongside and the occupants were climbing aboard the sloop. They were sorry-looking mariners. Both appeared to be boys of about Jack’s age. Neither wore oilskins and their blue serge suits were soaked through and through. One of the boys had lost his cap and his hair was plastered tightly to his head.

‘ 'Bring that slack with you,” Jack directed, “and make the line fast to that cleat there. That’s the ticket. Now then, I’ll have you ashore in a minute or two, but you’ll find a couple of blankets in the bunk for’ard if you want them. Open that for’ard hatch and you’ll see them.”

But the boys shook their heads as they sank to the cockpit. “We can’t get — any wetter,” said one. “We’re terribly much obliged — to you for — c ‘He paused, and then, ‘ ‘Why, it’s Jack Herrick, isn’t it?” he exclaimed.

Jack nodded as he gazed ahead in search of the Cove.

‘ ‘That’s me. And you’re Harry Folsom. Catch any fish?”

CHAPTER III A Pair of Amateur Salts

A quarter of an hour later the three boys were sitting about the “air-tight ” stove in the front room of the little, white, clap-boarded, greenshuttered house that was Jack’s home. They had left the Crystal Spring safely moored in the Cove, with the motor boat swinging astern, dropped into the little dory and paddled ashore. From the little beach up to the Herrick house was but a few yards, and in a trice they were inside, listening to the surprised ejaculations of Aunt Mercy and dripping water onto the immaculate waxed floor of the “passage.” Aunt Mercy Fuller was Jack’s mother’s sister, and ever since Mrs. Herrick had died, when Jack was only four years old, the sharp-voiced, kindhearted little woman had kept house at the Cove. After the death of Jack’s father, only a year ago, Aunt Mercy’s presence was more indispensible than ever, for Jack’s sister, Faith, was only thirteen, and so, still in school. All of Jack’s dry clothing had been requisitioned and the drafts in the stove opened wide, and now, none the worse for their wetting, the two visitors were recounting their adventures to the household.

Harry Folsom was nearly Jack’s age, being some three months younger. He was like Jack in many ways, for which the fact that each came of an old Greenhaven family was perhaps accountable. Harry’s hair was of quite an ordinary shade of dark brown and his face was not tanned and seasoned by sun and weather. And his eyes were gray instead of brown. But dissimilarity seemed to end there. He was much like Jack in build and weight and he had the same easy, careless swing from the hips when he walked, and the same way of looking straightly and unwinkingly when he talked. Harry’s father was Josiah Folsom, the head of the big fish company of Greenhaven, and a man of much wealth. He and Jack had been together at high school the year before, but last fall Jack had left school to sail the Crystal Spring and Harry, or Hal, as he was called, had entered Norwalk Hall, the big preparatory school some thirty miles distant and just over the line into New Hampshire.

His companion Hal had introduced as Beaman Mansfield. Harry called him Bee and so we might as well do the same. Bee was visiting Harry, it seemed, having arrived with him in Greenhaven only the evening before. They were roommates at school and evidently great chums. Beaman Mansfield was fifteen years of age, slight, tall, black of hair and eye, and almost sallow as to complexion. As Harry narrated their exploits Bee interpolated remarks which, if they were not especially informative, seldom failed to amuse.

“You see,” said Harry, “that launch is a new one. Dad got it for me a week ago and I never saw it until yesterday. This morning we thought it would be a good plan to go for a sail in her. So we filled her tank with gasoline and started out. I’d never run a motor boat before, but Bee said he knew something about the things — ”

“I know a heap more now,” observed Bee, gravely.

‘So we started. She went finely for about ten minutes and we were down off The Lump. Then she stopped. I told Bee to get busy and find out what the trouble was and he monkeyed around with a wrench and a screw-driver for almost half an hour.”