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THE LITTLE FELLOW SMILED IN THE WEATHER-BEATEN FACE.
[See page 15.

DORYMATES

A TALE OF THE FISHING BANKS

By KIRK MUNROE

AUTHOR OF

“WAKULLA” “FLAMINGO FEATHER” “DERRICK STERLING” ETC.

Illustrated

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

1903

Copyright, 1889, by Harper & Brothers.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Do you carry a dory, captain?

Do you carry a dory on your deck?

Manned by two bold fishermen,

To save a life or board a wreck.

Landsmen cry, “Man the life-boat!” captain,

“Man the life-boat off our coast!”

But, captain, man the dory,

The fisherman’s glory,

The Banker’s pride and boast.

By the B. H. M.

DORYMATES:

A STORY OF THE FISHING BANKS.

CHAPTER I.
A WAIF OF THE SEA.

The fog had lifted, and a few stars were to be seen twinkling feebly; but the wind was very light, and what there was of it was dead ahead. There was a heavy swell rolling in from the eastward, but no sea running. The Gloucester fishing schooner Sea Robin was homeward bound from the Newfoundland Banks, and as she slowly climbed each glassy incline of black water, and then slid down into the windless hollow beyond, she seemed to be making no progress whatever on her course.

Although the Sea Robin had been out for more than four months, and had seen vessel after vessel of the fleet leave the Banks before she did and sail for home with full fares, not half the salt in her pens was used up, and she was returning with the smallest catch of the season. In spite of the fact that provisions were running low on board the schooner, her captain, Almon McCloud, would not have given up and left the Banks yet, had not a recent gale swept away his dories, and caused the loss of his new four-hundred-fathom cable.

Under these circumstances the crew of the schooner were very low-spirited, and there was none of the larking and fun among them that is usually to be noticed in a homeward-bound Banker. The men wondered as to the “Jonah” who had caused all their ill-luck. Finally they whispered among themselves that it must be the skipper. They now remembered that he had been unfortunate in more than one undertaking during the past year or two, and all were agreed that it would be wise not to sail with him again. This decision had been unanimously reached a few days before the one on which this story opens; and when, shortly before daybreak, there came a loud pounding on the cabin hatch, and a request that the captain should come on deck, one of the watch below turned restlessly in his bunk, and growled out,

“I expect we are in for another bit of the skipper’s tough luck.”

Reaching the deck, Captain McCloud found the two men on watch gazing earnestly at a dull red glow that lighted the distant horizon behind them.

“Looks like there was suthin afire back there, skipper,” said the man at the wheel.

The captain waited until the schooner rose on top of a swell, and then, after a long look at the light, gave the order to put her about and run for it.

There was some grumbling among the crew at this, for they were tired and sick of the trip. They wanted to get home and have it over with, and this running back over the course they had just come seemed to promise a long and vexatious delay. However, lucky or unlucky, their skipper had proved himself to be the captain of his vessel in every sense of the word more times than one, and they dared not question his action loudly enough for him to hear them.

For nearly an hour longer the light glowed steadily, then it expanded into a sudden wonderful brightness, and the next instant had disappeared entirely.

Three hours later, just as the sun was rising in all its sea-born glory, the Sea Robin sailed slowly through a mass of charred timbers and other floating remains of what evidently had been a large vessel. There were no boats to be seen, nor was anything discovered by which her name or character could be identified. For some time the schooner cruised back and forth through the wreckage in a fruitless search for survivors of the catastrophe. As they were about to give it up, and Captain McCloud had begun to issue the order to head her away again on her course towards home, he all at once held up his hand to command silence, and listened.

It was certainly the cry of an infant that came clear and loud across the water. The crew looked at each other in amazement, not unmixed with fear. There was no boat to be seen, no sign of life; and yet there it came again, louder and more distinct than before; the vigorous cry of a healthy baby who has just waked up and is hungry. The wind had died out entirely, the water was oily in its unruffled smoothness, and only the long swell remained.

Once more the cry was heard, and now it seemed so close at hand that several of the men trembled and turned pale. There was still nothing to be seen, save on the crest of the swell above them an apparently empty cask maintaining an upright position in the water, and showing a third of its length above it.

“That’s the life-boat!” shouted Captain McCloud. “There’s where the music comes from, men. Oh for the use of a dory for just five minutes!”

Having no boat, they could only watch the cask as it came slowly nearer and nearer, and several of the men prepared to jump overboard and swim for it in case it should drift past them. At last, when it was about thirty feet away, the skipper, making a skilful cast, settled the bight of a light line over the strange craft. Then he carefully drew it towards the schooner, over the low rail of which a couple of the crew were hanging, waiting with out-stretched arms to grasp it.

A minute later the cask stood on the schooner’s deck, and Captain McCloud was lifting tenderly from it a sturdy, well-grown baby boy, apparently about two years old. The little fellow smiled in the weather-beaten face, and stretched out his arms eagerly as the rough fisherman bent down towards him. At the same instant there came a fluttering of sails overhead, with a rattling of blocks, and one of the crew sang out as he sprang to the wheel, “Here’s a breeze! and it’s fair for home!”

“The baby’s brought it!” shouted another. “Hurrah for the baby!”

The shout was eagerly taken up by the crew; three hearty cheers were given for the baby, and three more for the breeze he had brought with him. Then, springing to sheets and halyards with more enthusiasm than they had shown before on the whole cruise, the active fellows quickly had the Sea Robin under a cloud of light canvas, and humming merrily along towards Gloucester.

They now found time to look at their baby, who, held in the skipper’s arms while he gave the necessary orders for working the schooner, contentedly sucked his thumb and gazed calmly about with the air of being perfectly at home. He was a beautiful child, with great blue eyes and yellow hair that curled in tiny ringlets all over his head. He was plainly dressed; but all that he wore was made of the finest material. Altogether he was so dainty a little specimen of humanity that he seemed like a pink and white rose-bud amid the rough men who surrounded him. He gazed at them for a minute or two with a smile, as though he would say that he was most happy to make their acquaintance, and was not in the least embarrassed by their stares. Then he turned to the skipper, and began to cry in exactly the tone with which he had announced his presence in the floating cask.

“Hello!” exclaimed the skipper, who, though married, had no children of his own, and had never held a baby before in his life, “what’s up now? Here, ‘doctor,’ you’ve had some experience in this line, I believe; cast your weather eye over this way and tell us the meaning of the squall.”

The cook, or “doctor,” as he is almost always called on board the fishing schooners, and, in fact, on most vessels, was a short, thick-set Portuguese, almost as dark as an Indian, but the very picture of good-nature. He now stepped up behind the skipper so as to have a good view of the baby, whose face, which rested on the skipper’s shoulder, was turned away from the crew, who stood looking at him in a helplessly bewildered way.

At the “doctor’s” sudden appearance the baby stopped crying, began again to suck his thumb, and, with great, wide-open eyes, stared solemnly at the grinning figure to whom it was thus introduced.

“Him hongry, skip,” announced the “doctor.” “Me fix him, pret quicka, bimeby, right off. Got one lit tin cow lef. You fetcha him down.”

The “doctor,” who was named Mateo, declared afterwards that the moment he looked into the baby’s face the little one had winked at him, as much as to say, “You know what I want, old chap, now go ahead and get it.”

By his “lit tin cow” he meant a can of condensed milk, and, as the only man on board who knew how to feed a baby, he had suddenly become the most important person among all the crew. Obeying his order, the skipper, with the new arrival in his arms, followed him down into the fore hold. The rest of the crew also attempted to crowd down into the narrow space to witness the novel sight of a baby at breakfast, but old Mateo quickly ordered them on deck, saying that the little stranger was big enough to occupy all the room there was to spare.

Then he bustled around in a hurry. He got out and opened the one remaining can of milk, and mixed a small portion of its contents with some warm water in a cup. The baby watched his every movement in silence, but with such a wise look that both the men felt he knew exactly what was going on. Now came the anxious moment--would he take the milk? Had he learned how to drink? The anxiety was quickly ended. He had learned to drink, and quickly emptied the proffered cup of every drop of its contents with an eagerness that showed how hungry he was. A ship biscuit, broken into small bits and soaked until soft in another cup of the warm milk, proved equally acceptable. When the members of the crew heard that the baby not only took kindly to the tin cow’s milk, but had eaten hard-tack, they were highly delighted. They declared that he was a natural born sailor, and would make a fisherman yet.

After his breakfast the baby was laid in the skipper’s own bunk in the cabin, where, warmly covered, and rocked by the motion of the schooner, he quickly fell asleep.

On deck the men conversed in low tones for fear of disturbing him. Their sole topic was the child’s miraculous preservation and rescue, first from the burning vessel and then from the sea. The cask in which he had floated to them was carefully examined and pronounced to be of foreign make. It had evidently been prepared hastily to serve the novel purpose of a life-boat, but the preparation had been made with skill. In the bottom was a quantity of scrap-iron, that had served as ballast and caused it to float on end instead of on its side. On top of this were, tightly wedged, two large empty tin cans, square, and having screw tops; while above these was a pillow, in which the baby, wrapped in a thick woollen shawl, had been laid. There was nothing else. Here was the baby, and here the cask in which he had been saved; there, far behind them, was the charred wreckage, and on the sky the night before had shone the red glow from the burning vessel. Where she was from, and where bound, whether or not others besides this helpless babe had been spared her awful fate, what was her name and what her nationality, were among the countless mysteries of the ocean that might never be cleared up.

There was little satisfaction to be gained by the discussion of these things; but the baby was a reality, and a novelty such as none of them had ever before seen on board a fishing schooner. Of him they talked incessantly during the three days’ homeward run. What they should call him perplexed them sadly for a time. The names suggested and rejected would have added several pages to a city directory. Finally this most important question was decided by the skipper, who said, “He brought a fair breeze with him that’s held by us ever since, and is giving us one of the quickest runs home ever made from the Banks. He’s as bright and cheery and refreshing as a breeze himself, and I propose that we call him ‘Breeze.’ It’s a name that might belong to almost any nationality, and yet give offence to none. As to a second name, for want of a better, and if he don’t discover the one he’s rightly entitled to, why, I’ll give him mine. What’s more, I’ll adopt him if his own folks don’t turn up; that is, if my old woman is agreeable, and I ain’t much afraid but what she will be.”

So the little waif of the sea became, and was known from that day forth as, Breeze McCloud--a name that was destined to become connected with as many exciting adventures and hair-breadth escapes as any ever signed to the shipping papers of a Gloucester fishing schooner.

The breeze that hurried the Sea Robin along was none too fair nor too strong; for the supply of milk furnished by the “doctor’s” tin cow was completely exhausted before they reached home. If they had not got in just as they did, the baby would have suffered from hunger, and the whole crew would have suffered with him. As it was, they passed Thatcher’s Island while he was drinking the last of the milk. Before he was again hungry, with everything set and drawing, and decorated with every flag and bit of bunting that could be found on board, the saucy Sea Robin had rounded Eastern Point and was sailing merrily up Gloucester harbor.

A crowd of people had assembled on the wharf to witness her arrival, and learn the cause of her decorations. As she neared it one of them called out,

“What is it, skipper? You’ve got your flags up as if you thought you was High-line[^[A]] of the fleet; but the old Robin don’t look to be very deep. What have you got?”

“We do claim to be High-line,” shouted back the skipper. “And here’s what we’ve got to prove it.” With this he held the baby high above his head so that all might see it, and added, “If any Grand Banker has brought in a better fare than that this season, I want to see it; that’s all.”

So Breeze McCloud entered Gloucester harbor, and never had any stranger been received with greater enthusiasm. The news of his arrival spread like wildfire, and it seemed as though half the population of the city had crowded down to the wharf to see him before Captain McCloud could get ready to leave the schooner. Then, with the baby in his arms, he stepped into the long seine-boat that, pulled by half a dozen lusty fellows, was waiting to take him across the harbor to the foot of the hill upon which his modest cottage was perched.

After many days of anxiety--for the Sea Robin was long overdue--the captain’s wife, who had watched his schooner sail up the harbor with flags flying, now awaited him in a fever of impatience. She had waited at home because she could not bear to meet him before strangers, so she had heard nothing of what he was bringing her. When at last she saw him coming up the hill, accompanied by an ever-increasing throng of men, women, and children, she was greatly perplexed to know what to make of the sight, and hurried down to the little front gate, where she waited for an explanation.

“Why! whose child can the man have picked up?” she said to herself, as her husband drew near enough for her to see what it was he held in his arms.

“The old Robin’s High-line this season, Dolly,” cried Captain McCloud as he reached the gate, “and I’ve brought you my share of the catch.”

“You don’t mean that baby, Almon!” exclaimed the bewildered woman.

“Yes, I do mean this very blessed baby! He’s a waif of the sea, without father, mother, or home, that anybody knows of; and if you say the word, we’ll give him all three.” With this he held the baby towards her.

She hesitated a moment, but the baby did not. With a happy little crow he at once stretched out his arms to her, and said, “Mamma!”

It was enough. All the mother-love within her responded to this cry, and the next moment the little one was hugged tightly to her bosom.

Turning to those who had accompanied him, Captain McCloud said, “That settles it, neighbors! I hadn’t much doubt of it before; now I know I am acting rightly; and here, before you all, I solemnly adopt this baby boy, Breeze McCloud, as my son, and promise, with God’s help, to be a father to him in deed as well as in name.”

On board the Sea Robin none of the rough nurses, not even the baby-wise Mateo, had dared undress the little one so strangely given into their charge, for fear they would not be able to dress him again. Thus, when he was delivered to Mrs. McCloud, it was evident that, next to food, his greatest needs were a bath and some clean clothes. These last his adopted mother borrowed from a neighbor who had children of all ages and sizes.

When the baby was undressed it was discovered that a slender gold chain was clasped about his neck. Attached to it was a golden ball covered with a tracery of unique and elaborate engraving. It was apparently hollow; but nobody was able to open it, nor could they discover any joint on its surface, so skilful was the workmanship that had created it. Finally, declaring that it was merely an ornament and not meant to be opened, Mrs. McCloud put it carefully away in a sandal-wood box, among her own little hoard of treasures.

In that box the golden ball lay for years, almost unnoticed, but ever guarding jealously the secret that some day should exert such a wonderful influence over the fortunes of the baby from whose neck it had been taken.

CHAPTER II.
ON BOARD THE “CURLEW.”

Fifteen years seems a long time, and yet when they are happy years how quickly they pass! They had been happy to Breeze McCloud; happy and busy years. No boy in Gloucester had a pleasanter home or more loving parents than he, though he was but an adopted son. He rarely thought of this, though, for Captain McCloud had, from the very first, been a true father, and the captain’s wife a loving mother to him. No other children had come to them since they had taken him into their hearts and home, and he was their pride and delight. He had grown to be a tall, handsome fellow, interested in his studies, and a bright scholar, but always impatient for the time to come when he should go out into the world and win from it his own livelihood.

Whenever Captain McCloud was at home the boy was his constant companion, and from him Breeze eagerly learned the rudiments of a sailor’s art. He delighted in being called his father’s “dorymate,” and was very proud of being able to swim, and to row and sail his own dory, before he was twelve years old.

Being so much in his father’s company, and listening to the conversations between him and other men, gave Breeze many ideas beyond the comprehension of most boys of his age. He sometimes wore a grave and thoughtful air, and often said wise things that sounded oddly enough in one so young.

The boy’s curly head was a familiar sight on board most of the fishing schooners that were constantly coming into or going out of the port. Here he was perfectly happy while listening to some tale of adventure on the Banks or more distant fishing grounds, perhaps told by its hero on the breezy deck or in the snug cabin of the very craft on which it had all happened.

At last the time had come for him to set forth in quest of similar adventures, and to do his share towards maintaining the home that had been such a safe and pleasant one to him. There was sorrow in it now, and there might soon be want. The Sea Robin had been gone six months, and no word had been received from her since the day she sailed out beyond Eastern Point, and vanished in the red glory of the rising sun.

Only in the hearts of his wife and adopted son did the faintest hope remain that the Robin’s captain was still alive. To all others he was as dead, and a new breadwinner was needed in his place.

“I must go now, mother,” said Breeze. “I’m large and strong for my age, and if they’ll take me I am sure I can do a man’s work and earn a man’s wages.”

“Oh, Breeze, my dear boy! my comfort! Is there not something else you can do? A clerkship would pay just as well, and there would be none of the horrible danger.”

“Don’t, mother! don’t urge it! It makes me heart-sick to think of a desk, or of being shut up all day in a store. I should never be good for anything, you know I wouldn’t, mother dear, trying to do work that I had no heart in.”

“But, Breeze--”

“But, mother! Please don’t think any more about a clerkship. Give me your consent and your blessing, and let me follow father’s calling and gain a living from the sea, as he has done. I came to you from the sea, you know,” he continued, with a winning smile, and patting her thin cheeks. “It was kind to me then, and it always will be, I am sure.”

After many talks of this kind Breeze carried his point. Then, one evening in March, there was no prouder boy in town than he, when he was able to announce to his mother that he had shipped for a mackerelling trip to the southward, on the schooner Curlew.

The vessel was already taking in her ice and stores, and would haul out into the stream the next morning, ready to start. Breeze was to go over to town the first thing after breakfast, and buy the oil-skin suit, rubber boots, and woollen cap that, besides the canvas bag of heavy clothing he would take from home, would form his outfit. These he would send aboard the schooner. Then he would come home again and say good-by if there was time--but perhaps there would not be, and so they had better make the most of this evening.

They did make the most of it, and until after ten o’clock, Breeze and his mother sat hand in hand, and talked, she sadly and tearfully, he bravely and hopefully.

The next morning, just before he left, his mother called him into her room, saying, “I have one more thing to give you, Breeze. It is something that should be the most precious thing in the world to you, and I want you to wear it always.” With this she took from the sandalwood box, that had kept it safely all these years, the slender chain and golden ball that had hung around his baby neck when she first held him in her arms.

Breeze was inclined to laugh at the idea of wearing a gold chain and a locket around his neck; but his mother was so in earnest in her desire that he should, that he promised to do as she wished.

“I CAME TO YOU FROM THE SEA,” HE SAID, PATTING HER THIN CHEEKS.

“It was, doubtless, your own mother first placed it there, and I have a strong feeling that it will, somehow or other, have much to do with your future safety and happiness,” she said. “See, I have made a little pocket in the breast of each of your flannel shirts to hold it,” she added, as she clasped the chain about his neck and kissed him.

“Own mother, or not own mother, no boy ever had a better, or sweeter, or dearer, or more loving mother than you have been to me,” cried Breeze, throwing his arms about her neck, “and I would not exchange you for any other in the world, not even if she was a queen.”

Now that the time to go had really come, the boy found it a very hard thing to part from his home. After he had kissed his mother good-by, and started down the hill, with his canvas bag on his shoulder, he dared not look back, though he knew she was standing in front of the little cottage watching him.

He had barely time in town to make his few purchases before the Curlew should sail; for wind and tide were both favorable, and her skipper was impatient to take advantage of them and get started. His hurry was owing to the fact that several other schooners were getting ready for trips to the same waters. He was anxious to be the first on the ground, and, if possible, carry the first fresh mackerel of the season into New York.

Although everybody has seen and eaten mackerel either fresh or salted, and though they are caught in immense numbers off the Atlantic coast of the United States every year, there is but little really known about them. Where they come from and where they go to are still unsolved mysteries. Every spring, between the middle of March and the middle of April, they appear in great shoals in the waters just north of Cape Hatteras. At this time they are very thin, and hardly fit for food; but on the coast feeding-grounds they rapidly improve, until in the early summer, when they have worked their way northward to New England waters, they are in prime condition. They generally run as far north as the Gulf of St. Lawrence, from which, in the fall, they suddenly disappear, to be seen no more until the following spring.

All through the summer, but especially at the very first of the season, those that are caught near a port are packed in ice and carried in to the market fresh. The greater part of the year’s catch is, however, salted in barrels on board the schooners, and afterwards repacked on shore, in kits or boxes, marked according to the size and quality of the fish they contain, Nos. 1, 2, 3, or 4, and sent all over the world.

The cruise on which Breeze McCloud was about to start was to be made in search of the very first mackerel of the season, and the Curlew’s destination was therefore the waters off the Delaware coast, or between there and Cape Hatteras.

By ten o’clock everything was in readiness for the start. The skipper had come on board, and all hands were hard at work, making sail or breaking out and getting up the heavy anchor. Then it was “up jib and away.” As the lively craft slipped swiftly down the harbor, Breeze found time for one long last look at his home. At the cottage door he could just make out a waving handkerchief, that told him he was being watched and remembered.

Once outside, all hands were kept busy for a couple of hours, setting light sails, coiling lines, stowing odds and ends, and making everything snug. The course they were heading would carry them just clear of Cape Cod; and before a spanking breeze, under a press of canvas, the Curlew tore along as though sailing an ocean race that she was bound to win. Almost any fishing vessel but a mackereller going out at this stormy season would have left both top-masts and her jib-boom at home, being content with the safest of working sails. To the early mackerel catcher, however, every minute gained may mean many extra dollars in pocket; so his craft sails in racing trim, and carries her canvas to the extreme of recklessness.

Like all fishing schooners, the Curlew had a forecastle, in which several of the crew slept, and in which were also the cook-stove and mess-table. Back of it was the pantry and store-room, in which were ten fresh-water tanks. Still farther aft was the hold, divided into pens by partitions of rough boards. These were now filled with cakes of ice, but later would be used for fish. Abaft the hold was the cabin, in which the skipper and five of the crew found sleeping accommodations. It was neatly finished in ash, and running along three sides of it was a broad transom that served as a seat or lounging-place. The only furniture was a small coal-stove, securely fastened in the middle of the floor. On the walls hung a clock, a barometer, and a thermometer. A few charts were stowed overhead in a rack, and, flung around in the bunks or on the transom, were a number of paper-covered novels.

The business of fishing is conducted upon the system of shares. That is, half the value of the catch, after outfitting expenses have been deducted, goes to the owners of the vessel, and half to the crew. Although the skipper and cook are not required to take part in the actual business of fishing, each of them receives a full share. The skipper gets, in addition, four per cent. of the value of the catch, and the cook has regular wages.

The living on board a fishing schooner is generally superior to that on almost any other craft. It consists of fresh meat, whenever it can be obtained, fresh fish, vegetables, dried fruit, soft bread, cakes and pies, eggs, condensed milk, and always tea and coffee, hot, strong, and in abundance.

The Curlew was manned by a picked crew of twelve men, including the skipper and cook. They were young, strong, and active, and, except Breeze, all were skilful fishermen. He had been considered very fortunate in obtaining a berth at a time of year when there are so many good men anxious to ship. That he had done so was largely owing to the friendship existing between the skipper, Captain Ezra Coffin, and his adopted father.

When he had consented to ship the boy for this trip, the skipper said,

“It’s a hard life, Breeze, and one full of chances. Every man aboard may have a hundred dollars to his credit before the week is out, and then again we may cruise for a month and not make enough to pay for our ice. You are only a boy, but you will have to do a man’s work, and hard work at that. There are perils of all kinds waiting on every minute of the night and day, and they’ll come when you least expect them. I’d rather a boy of mine would saw wood for a living on land than to try and make it by fishing. Besides all this, as you are a green hand, I can only offer you half a share for this trip. Still, if you are bound to come, I’m glad to have you, both for your own sake and for that of my old dorymate, Almon McCloud. So bring along your dunnage, lad, and may good-luck come with you!”

Breeze had answered, “I know it won’t be all plain sailing, sir, and that I’ve got a lot to learn before I can be called an A 1 hand. Still, hard and dangerous as you say the business is, I’d rather try and make a living at it than at anything else I know of, and I am much obliged to you for giving me a chance.”

Soon after leaving port, the skipper called all hands aft to draw for bunks and to “thumb the hat.” The bunks had numbers chalked on them, and now the skipper held in his hand as many small sticks as there were men in the crew. Each stick had notches cut in it corresponding to the numbers of the bunks, and one by one the crew stepped up and drew them from the skipper’s hand. Thus the sleeping quarters were distributed with perfect fairness, and there was no chance for grumbling. Breeze was lucky enough to draw one of the wide bunks in the cabin, and at once hastened to stow his possessions in it.

When all the berths had been thus distributed, the crew again gathered aft, and each man placed a thumb on the rim of an old straw hat that had been laid on top of the cabin. The skipper turned his back to them, one of the men named a number, and, without looking to see whose it was, the skipper touched one of the thumbs. Then he counted around until the number mentioned was reached. The man at whose thumb he stopped was to stand first watch and trick at the wheel, the next man on his right the second, and so on. There would be two men on watch in bad weather, but one is generally considered sufficient when it is fine.

With the parting injunction to “mind, now, and remember who you are to call,” the skipper went below. As eight bells, or twelve o’clock, was struck, the man who had first watch took the wheel, gave a glance at the compass, another at the sails, and the regular routine of duty was begun.

Now dinner was announced, and after the skipper was seated, the half of the crew that reached the mess-table and secured seats were entitled to eat at “first table” during the trip. The others had to be content to eat at “second table.” Breeze was not posted as to this, and consequently was among those who got left when the rush took place. Afterwards, this seemingly trifling circumstance proved to be of the most vital importance to him, as we shall see.

The cruise thus fairly begun was continued without incident until the Curlew reached the fishing grounds off the Virginia capes. Then, under easy sail, she stood off and on, with a man constantly at the mast-head, scanning the surface of the water in the hope of seeing mackerel. The great seine-boat was got overboard, and with the seine in it, was towed behind the schooner, ready for instant use.

At length, after four tedious days of this work, the impatient crew were brought tumbling on deck in a hurry one fine morning by the welcome cry of “There they school; half a mile away, off the weather bow!”

CHAPTER III.
THE HAULING OF THE SEINE.

In less than five minutes after the first cry announcing the appearance of the eagerly expected fish, the great thirty-foot, double-ended seine-boat, rowed by eight men, had left the schooner and started in the direction of the school. In its stern, with his hand on the long steering oar, stood the seine-master, directing the course of the boat and keeping a sharp lookout ahead. Pulling after them as fast as he could was Breeze McCloud, in the single dory that the Curlew carried. The schooner, left in charge of the skipper and cook, was thrown up into the wind, and was held as nearly stationary as possible until it could be seen where she would be wanted.

“Come, stretch yourselves, lads! stretch yourselves! Let’s see who’ll break the first oar! Those other fellows are just humping themselves. It’s Yankee against Yankee this time, and you’ve got a tough lot to beat,” shouted the seine-master.

He would, of course, have been very sorry to have an oar broken, but he had such confidence that the men could do no more than bend the tough ash blades, no matter how hard they tugged, that he was perfectly willing they should try. By the “other fellows” he meant the crew of another fishing schooner, which daylight of that morning had disclosed not far from them, and which had evidently discovered mackerel about the same time they had. They, too, were out in their seine-boat, and doubtless looked forward with as great confidence as did the men from the Curlew to taking the first fare of the season into New York.

“Easy, lads, easy now!” ordered the seine-master, in a tone of suppressed excitement; “here’s our school.” Now he tossed overboard a small keg, or buoy, to which was attached one end of the upper, or cork line of the great net. Near this Breeze was to wait in his dory. Then, bending to their oars, the boat’s crew began to pull, with lusty strokes, in a great circle around the school of fish that was rippling the water close beside them. Swimming in a dense body close to the surface, often throwing themselves clear of the water, with their steely blue sides flashing in the morning light, the mackerel were darting madly hither and thither. At one instant the whole school, moved by some mysterious impulse, would make a simultaneous dash in one direction, and the next it would as suddenly rush back again. In the cool dim depths beneath them, dog-fish, sharks, and other hungry sea pirates were breakfasting off the newly arrived strangers, and devouring them by the score. In the air above them circled and swooped great fishing hawks, anxious to make a meal off of fresh mackerel. Now to these enemies was added man, the most cruel and greatly to be dreaded of all. No wonder the poor fish were frightened and undecided as to the direction of their flight from so many imminent dangers.

Meantime the great net, a quarter of a mile long, had been skilfully drawn completely around them. Breeze, in his dory, obeying previously given instructions, carried the buoy that had first been thrown overboard to the seine-boat, in which the other end of the cork-line was still held and made fast. The circle was now perfect, and the fish were surrounded by a wall of fine but stout twine. Their only chance of escape lay at the bottom of the net, and in another minute this opening would also be closed against them.

While the upper edge of the seine was floated by means of numerous large corks attached to the rope that ran along its entire length, its lower edge was sunk and held straight down by an equal number of leaden rings. Through these ran a second stout line, known as the “purse rope,” an end of which remained in the boat. By pulling on this all the leaden rings could be drawn close together, and as the net was now in the form of a circle, its lower edge would form a purse in which there would be no opening for escape.

Hauling on this rope and “pursing” the seine is the hardest part of the entire job, and takes the united efforts of the seine-boat’s crew. It is also a most exciting operation, for if it is successfully accomplished the fish are caught and an ample reward for all the previous toil is almost certain. If, on the other hand, the fish take alarm at the last moment and dart downward through the still open bottom of the net, all the hard work goes for nothing and must be done over again, perhaps many times before a successful haul is made.

Such was the case in this instance. Success was almost within reach of the Curlew’s crew, when suddenly the entire school of fish, upon which they were building such high hopes, dropped out of sight like so many leaden plummets, and were gone. They had evidently decided that there were more chances for life among the sharks and dog-fish than within the power of their human enemies, and had wisely seized their last chance of escape from them.

It was a bitter disappointment, and it was made the keener by the sight of certain movements on board the rival schooner that indicated a successful pursing of their seine and a heavy catch of fish. Slowly, and with much grumbling over their hard luck, the Curlew’s men gathered in their net and empty seine. They piled it up carefully, rings forward and corks aft, in the after-part of their boat, ready for the next time. Then they listlessly pulled towards their schooner, which was lying near by, and on board which breakfast awaited them.

The Curlew sailed close to the other schooner in order to learn her luck, and witness the lively scene about her. The stranger’s seine had enclosed an enormous school of fish, which was estimated at nearly, if not quite, five hundred barrels. One end of it had been got on board the schooner, and the dipping out of the fish was about to begin. They were greatly frightened, and rushed from side to side with such violence that many of them were crushed to death. All at once they sank, and their weight was so great as to draw one gunwale of the heavy seine-boat under the water, although eight men were perched on the opposite side to counterbalance it.

When a crew find a greater quantity of fish on their hands than they can take care of, as was the case now, it is customary, if there is another vessel within hail, to give her the surplus rather than to throw it away. Having often done this himself, Captain Coffin did not hesitate, as the two schooners drew close together, to hail the other skipper and ask if he had any fish to give away.

“No, I haven’t,” was the surly answer. “If you want fish go and catch ’em.”

“All right,” answered Captain Coffin, somewhat provoked, but still good-naturedly; “we’re the lads can just do that, and we’ll beat you into New York yet.”

“Looks like it now, doesn’t it?” shouted the other, scornfully. “If you do, though, it won’t be because I helped you. I’d rather lose every fish I’ve got alongside here than to give you one of them.”

These words were hardly out of his mouth when the captured fish darted violently towards the bottom of the net, and the seine-boat was nearly capsized, as has been related. Its crew hurriedly scrambled to the upper side. Suddenly the boat righted, so quickly that the whole eight men were flung overboard, and found themselves floundering in the cold water.

The situation was startling as well as comical, though the explanation of what had happened was very simple. The frightened fish, in their downward rush, had torn a great hole in the net, which was an old one, and through it they had instantly darted to depths of safety. The seine, being thus relieved of its burden, no longer pulled the boat down, and it at once yielded to the weight of the men on its upper gunwale.

Under ordinary circumstances this mishap would have excited the sympathy of those on board the Curlew. Now, on account of the uncivil reply of the rival skipper to their captain, they were inclined to rejoice at what had happened, and they roared with laughter at the rueful faces of the dripping men as they scrambled back into their boat.

To Breeze the whole affair presented itself in such a comical aspect that he laughed louder and longer than any of the others, though in a perfectly good-humored way, and without a trace of an unkind feeling towards those who had been so unfortunate. His mirth was, however, deemed peculiarly irritating by one of the rival crew, a young man with an ugly face that bore unmistakable traces of dissipation. He shook his fist at Breeze and called out,

“Never you mind, young feller, I’ll not forget you! And maybe I’ll find a chance to make you laugh out of the other side of your mouth some day.”

This speech sobered Breeze at once, though at first he looked around in a bewildered way, thinking it could not possibly be meant for him. When he realized that it was he shouted back,

“Seems to me I wouldn’t feel so bad about it if I was you. I wasn’t laughing at you, anyway. I was laughing to think how surprised those mackerel must have been when you went diving down after them, trying to catch ’em in your hands.”

This raised another shout of laughter from the Curlew men, but the young man towards whom it was directed only shook his fist again at Breeze, and turned away without a word, going below to find some dry clothes.

Breeze saw that he had unwittingly made for himself an enemy in this stranger, and for a time the knowledge caused him real distress. He was a warm-hearted boy, preferring friendships to enmities, and would at any time sacrifice his own pleasure or comfort to win the former and overcome the latter. At the same time, he was not sorry that he had asserted his own independence and answered back as he had. The incident soon passed from his mind, however, in the rush of more stirring events, and it was some time before he was again reminded of it.

Captain Coffin was much puzzled to account for the surliness of the rival skipper until the Curlew passed astern of the other schooner, so that her name, Roxy B., and her hailing port could be read. Then it flashed across him that this was the Rockhaven craft that was thought to be so fast, but which he had beaten in a fair race on a run into Boston the summer before.

“SEEMS TO ME I WOULDN’T FEEL SO BAD ABOUT IT IF I WAS YOU.”

To bear ill-will for such a cause certainly showed a small and mean mind, and Captain Coffin said he was very glad the other had refused to let him have any fish, for he should hate to be under obligations to such a man.

The Curlew had not gone more than a mile from the Roxy B. when the fish of which she was in search began to rise to the surface on all sides of her. The seine-boat was quickly sent out, while Breeze, in his dory, followed it as before. This time a school was successfully surrounded, and the net was pursed without a mishap. A flag hoisted on an oar in the boat was the signal to the schooner that they had made a large haul and needed her assistance. She was soon brought alongside of the pursed seine with its burden of glittering fish, and from it a long-handled scoop-net, worked with a tackle, was dipping them, a half-barrelful at a time, and transferring them to her deck.

The catch was about one hundred and fifty barrels of mackerel that were of a prime quality as to size, but so thin that they would have been unfit to split and salt. The afternoon was drawing to a close before they were all got on board and the seine was properly stowed in its boat; but there was no rest for the tired crew yet a while. Sail was made on the schooner, and she was headed for Sandy Hook, nearly three hundred miles away. Then all hands, except the cook and the man at the wheel, turned to and began “gibbing” and packing the fish.

Mackerel are so delicate that they die almost as soon as they touch a deck, and will quickly spoil if not cared for at once. So there was no time to lose, and the whole catch must be “gibbed,” or cleaned, and packed in ice before sleep could be thought of.

In “gibbing” a mackerel the gills are plucked out, and with them come the entrails. This operation was performed with marvellous rapidity by the skilled workers of the crew, the refuse matter was tossed into square wooden boxes known as “gib-tubs,” and the cleaned fish were thrown into bushel baskets.

Down in the hold the blocks of ice were removed from a pen, and reduced to small bits by heavy sharp-pointed “slicers.” A layer of this broken ice was shovelled over the bottom of the empty pen, and above it was spread a basket of fish. Then came another layer of ice, then more fish, and so on until the pen was full, when another was emptied and filled in the same manner. It was long after midnight before the crew of the Curlew knocked off work, with the last of their fish safely packed away; but, tired as they were, they were also highly elated by their success, and by the prospect of being the first mackereller of the season into New York.

The next day, spent in running up the coast with a brisk westerly breeze, was one of the happiest that can come to the in-shore fisherman. Everybody was in the best of humor, from the knowledge that they had, stowed beneath their hatches, a fair-sized catch of the very earliest mackerel of the season. They knew these would bring an extra price, and pay each of them at least twice as much as they would make under more ordinary circumstances. There was little to do except stand watch and clean ship; so that most of the day was devoted to the spinning of yarns in the forecastle, and the singing of songs to a banjo accompaniment in the cabin. The cook made them a great dish of Joe-floggers (peculiar pancakes stuffed with plums) for breakfast, and a gorgeous plum-duff for dinner. Upon the whole, Breeze enjoyed the day so thoroughly that he wondered how anybody could complain of the hardships of a fisherman’s life, or think it anything but fascinating.

They passed the double Highland lights, and rounding Sandy Hook, stood up New York Bay some time during the following night; the next morning, by daylight, they were snugly moored in the Fulton Market slip, among scores of other fishing vessels, none of which had on board a single mackerel. Theirs was the first catch of the season, and before breakfast-time it had been sold in bulk for three thousand dollars. Of this, after expenses were deducted, each full share amounted to ninety-two dollars, while the half share credited to Breeze was forty-six dollars. This seemed to him a large sum of money to have been earned in a week, only one day and night of which had been devoted to real hard work. He at once wrote to his mother telling her the good news, and as he did so he felt that he had become, if not an important member of society, at least a very wealthy one.

In the afternoon he took a short walk through the lower part of the great city, but became so bewildered by the noise, bustle, and crowds of people that he dared not go very far for fear of getting lost. On one of the downtown streets that he did visit he was attracted by the sight of a jeweller’s window. This reminded him of what his mother had said, that if anybody could open the golden ball that hung from the chain around his neck it would be a city jeweller.

Entering the store, he stepped up to an elderly gentleman who stood behind a desk, and unclasping the chain, handed it and the ball to him, saying, “I don’t know whether this ball will open or not; can you tell me, sir?”

The jeweller examined the trinket carefully, and seemed particularly interested in the unique tracery with which it was ornamented. For several minutes he did not speak; then he asked, abruptly, “Where did you get this?”

Breeze told him in a few words all that he knew of its history as well as his own.

“H’m,” said the jeweller. “You wait here a moment, while I show this to my partner.”

He was gone so long that Breeze began to grow uneasy, and had just about made up his mind to go in search of him, when he returned. He was accompanied by a low-browed, swarthy individual, who, when Breeze was pointed out, stepped up to him and said,

“This trinket, that you have brought in, is quite a novelty in our line, and I should like to buy it of you. It is a puzzle-charm of East Indian make. Unless one knows the secret of its construction, it cannot possibly be opened except by an accident that might not happen in ten thousand times of trying. I learned my trade in Calcutta, and am probably the only man in New York City to-day who can open this little ball. You see that I can do it.”

Here he showed Breeze the ball open, but did not let him see its contents. Then turning his back for an instant, he again displayed it closed as before.

“What will you take for it?” he asked.

“It’s not for sale,” answered Breeze, “but I am willing to pay for learning the trick of how to open it, for I am curious to know what it contains.”

“That information is not for sale either, nor will I tell you what the ball contains,” said the jeweller. “Moreover, if you will not sell it to me, or show me some proof that you are its rightful owner, I shall keep it until I can place it in the hands of the police, for it is my belief that you have stolen it.”

CHAPTER IV.
A SUDDEN DISASTER.

The jeweller’s accusation was so unexpected and startling to Breeze that he flushed hotly, and for a moment found no words to answer it. Then he demanded, indignantly,

“How dare you say such a thing? Give me back my property instantly, or I shall be the one to call in the police!”

“Certainly, my young friend, certainly, when you produce the proof that it is yours,” replied the man, dropping the trinket into a drawer, of which he turned the lock.

There was no element of decision lacking in Breeze’s character; he was quick to act in emergencies, and without another word he stepped to the door. A small boy was passing.

“Sonny,” said Breeze, “run quick and bring a policeman. If he is here within five minutes I will give you five cents.”

The boy, keenly alive to a situation that promised so much excitement as this, started off on a run. Breeze remained standing where he could survey the whole interior of the store, and could especially keep an eye on the drawer in which lay his property.

The men inside watched him closely. They had seen him despatch the boy on some errand, but had not overheard what he said, and did not know what it was. Now the one who had opened the ball approached him and said,

“Why don’t you go for your proofs? You had better hurry, as we shall close up soon, and then we could not look at them until to-morrow.”

“I have sent for them,” answered Breeze, simply.

“Oh,” said the man, somewhat disconcerted. “Well, of course, if they come in time, and are satisfactory, you shall have your charm back, and an apology into the bargain.”

“Here comes one of them now,” replied Breeze, as he handed a five-cent piece to a breathless small boy, who came running up just in front of a big policeman.

"THAT GENTLEMAN THERE REFUSES TO RETURN A GOLD BALL AND CHAIN THAT I HANDED HIM FOR EXAMINATION."

To this officer Breeze said, “That gentleman there,” pointing to the dark-skinned jeweller, “refuses to return a gold ball and chain that I handed him for examination. He says he thinks I stole them, and he has locked them up in a drawer. I think I can bring one of the best-known men in New York to vouch for my honesty; but it may be some time before I can find him. Now, I want to know if you will take this trinket, as the gentleman calls it, and keep it for me until I return?”

“Why not just as well leave it where it is?” interrupted the jeweller, eagerly. “It will be perfectly safe here, as this officer knows.”

“No,” said Breeze, “that will not do. You must give it to the officer at once, or else I shall go to the police-station, and enter a complaint against you for stealing.”

The partners whispered together for a minute. Evidently the bold stand taken by the lad, and his prompt action, had made a decided impression upon them.

Before they could reach a decision as to what they should do, the officer spoke up and said,

“The young man is right. If there is any stolen property in the question, the proper place for it is in the station-house. So, if you will just hand over this article, whatever it is, I will take it there.”

There was no appeal from this decision. The locket was reluctantly given up to the officer, who took both it and Breeze to the station-house near by. Here the sergeant in charge listened attentively to all that he had to say, as well as to the story Breeze had to tell.

“Go with him,” he said, finally, to the officer, “down to the schooner, and see what sort of a character his captain gives him. Then bring him back here.”

With this he placed the golden ball and chain in a drawer of his own desk, and again turned to his writing.

Breeze and the officer found Captain Coffin talking to the gentleman to whom he had sold his cargo of fish that morning. He happened to be not only a prominent business man, but an active local politician, and was the very person whom Breeze had in his mind when he had offered to bring a well-known citizen to establish his character.

Begging their pardon for the interruption, Breeze told his story to Captain Coffin, and the politician also listened to it.

When the story was finished, the latter, turning to the captain, said, “Can you vouch for this lad’s honesty, skipper?”

“Certainly I can, as I would for my own,” was the answer. “I have known him from his babyhood, and, moreover, I have often heard this golden ball spoken of by his adopted father, though I have never seen it.”

“Then,” said the other, “supposing we step up to the police-station, and have it returned to him. It is one of the most curious cases I ever heard of, and I am interested to see that the boy comes out of it all right.”

Within ten minutes the sergeant had been satisfied that Breeze was the rightful owner of the locket, had returned it to him, and he had again clasped its chain about his neck. He was very happy in thus regaining possession of it, and very thankful to those who had so promptly assisted him. When Captain Coffin proposed that they should now go to the jeweller’s shop and get him to again open the ball, Breeze begged him not to think of such a thing. “I don’t want that man ever to get it into his possession,” he said, “and I don’t believe he’d open it for us anyway, now.”

“I guess the boy is about right,” remarked the politician, thoughtfully. “That fellow has evidently some strong reason for wishing to obtain the trinket, and if he got hold of it again he might change it for another that looked just like it, and we never be the wiser.”

This was just what Breeze had thought of when he had refused to leave the jeweller’s shop and go in search of proofs of his ownership of the locket, and he was greatly pleased at this evidence that he had acted wisely.

That night the Curlew sailed out of New York Bay, and was once more headed to the southward in search of the early mackerel. The following day was clear and bright, but very cold for that season of the year. There were only a few clouds to be seen; but the sky was coppery in color, and the wind, which was still off-shore, was fitful and baffling. At supper-time, about an hour before sunset, the man at the wheel, who happened to be one of those who ate at the first table, said,

“Here, McCloud, you belong to second mess; take the wheel while I eat supper, will you?”

“Certainly I will,” answered Breeze, cheerfully. “What’s the course?”

“South by west, half west, an open sea, a favoring wind, and no odds asked or given,” was the laughing response, as the man hurried forward.

Captain Coffin was impatient to get back among the mackerel, and so the schooner was running under all the sail she could carry, including a jib-topsail and a huge main-staysail.

Somewhat to his surprise, Breeze now found himself the sole occupant of the deck. The skipper and half the crew were eating their supper in the forecastle, while the others were in the cabin, sleeping, reading, and keeping warm. On account of the cold, they had drawn the slide over the companion-way.

It was the first time the young sailor had been left in sole charge of the vessel, and he realized the responsibility of his position. Still, owing to his father’s teachings and careful training, he felt quite competent to manage her, so long as no especial danger threatened. He also comforted himself with the thought that there was not the slightest chance of anything happening in the short time before he should be relieved.

While thus thinking, and at the same time keeping a sharp watch of the sails, the compass, and the dog-vane that, fluttering from the mainmast-head, denoted the direction of the wind, he was startled by a curious humming sound in the air above him. It was a weird, uncanny sound, unlike anything he had ever before heard, and it filled him with a strange fear. He was just about to call the men in the cabin, when suddenly there came a roar and a shriek above his head. Then the little circular tornado, directly in whose track the unfortunate Curlew happened to be, struck her such a terrible blow that she was powerless to resist it. In an instant she was knocked down and thrown on her beam ends. The white sails, that had soared aloft so gracefully, and offered so tempting a mark for the spinning whirlwind, now lay flat in the water, heavily soaking and holding the schooner down.

Breeze had spun the wheel with all his might, and thrown the helm hard down, in the hope of bringing her up into the wind; but the blow had been too sudden and too heavy. The rudder no longer controlled her, and she lay as helpless as though waterlogged, held down by that terrible dragging weight of top-hamper.

As she went over, one man had struggled up from the forecastle and been instantly buried in the sea beneath the heavy canvas of the foresail. Breeze knew that the reason no more came was that a torrent of water was rushing with resistless force through the narrow opening. Beneath him he could hear the smothered cries and struggles of the prisoners in the cabin. In a few minutes more the vessel would sink, and all within her would be miserably drowned. Their only hope was in him. What could he do? What could he do?

Standing on the weather side of the wheel when the schooner was struck, he had saved himself from going overboard by clinging to it. Now he scrambled to the upper side of the house, and holding on to the weather-rail, began to hack desperately at the lanyards of the main rigging with his sheath-knife. If only the masts would break off and relieve the vessel of that awful weight of soaked canvas, she might right herself.

One after another the lanyards snap like strained harpstrings. There! the rigging has gone and the mast cracks. Now for the fore rigging! How he reached it the boy never knew; in fact he afterwards had very little recollection of what he did amid the terrible excitement of those two minutes; but he did reach and cut it.

Then there came a rending of wood as the tough masts broke off. Then slowly, very slowly, the vessel righted herself, and once more rode on an even keel, though half full of water, and as sad a looking wreck as ever floated.

As she righted, the after companion-way was burst open by the mighty effort of those beneath the slide, and they rushed out gasping for breath and with glaring eyes. They had been very nearly suffocated by steam and gas generated by the water pouring down the funnel on the glowing coals in the cabin stove.

From the forecastle also emerged, one by one, the half-drowned figures of those who had been imprisoned in it. But for the prompt action of the brave boy on deck, they would never have left its flooded recesses. One of their number was missing, and he was the man whose place at the wheel Breeze had taken, and who had forced his way out as the vessel capsized, only to be drowned beneath the canvas of the foresail. He would be sincerely mourned later, but there was no time to think of him now. The others were still in too imminent peril of losing their own lives.

As the stricken craft rolled like a log in the sea-way, she pounded heavily against the masts and spars, which, still attached to her by the lee rigging and head-stays, floated close alongside. The danger that her planking might thus be crushed in was so great that, in spite of his own wretched condition, Captain Coffin saw it the moment he gained the deck. Calling upon the others to follow his example, he drew his knife and began to cut away the tangle of cordage that bound the vessel to this new enemy.

When it was finally cleared, the seine-boat, which was still dragging astern, was pulled up, and half the crew went in it to tow the mass of spars and canvas clear of the schooner, and save such of the sails as they could. The rest began to labor at the pumps, and to rig a jury-mast on which they might spread such sail as would carry her into port. The main-mast had snapped off so close to the deck as to leave nothing to which they might fasten a jury-spar; but of the foremast a stump some six feet high remained, and with this they hoped to accomplish their purpose.

While the skipper, Breeze, and two others were thus engaged, those at the pumps suddenly called out that the water was gaining on them, and that the vessel was about to founder.

It was only too true; the stanch little schooner had evidently made her last voyage, and would never again sail into Gloucester harbor. In fact, the water was gaining so rapidly that it was within a foot or two of her deck, and there was no time to lose in leaving her. Those in the seine-boat were fortunately within easy hail, and dropping their work, they quickly had it alongside.

There was no need of seeking an explanation of the rapid inflow of water. It was only too plain that gaping seams had been opened by the great strain of her masts and sails while the schooner lay on her beam ends. It was more than probable, also, that butts had been started here and there by the jagged ends of the heavy spars as they lay in the water pounding and grinding against her sides.

Nothing could be saved. There was barely time for all hands to tumble into the seine-boat and pull it to a safe distance from the fast-sinking vessel. Then they lay on their oars and watched her. She seemed like some live thing, aware of the fate about to overtake her, and struggling pitifully against it. The swash of the water in her cabin sounded like sobs, and the faces of the men who watched her, usually so bright and merry, were as sad as though they watched at the bedside of a dying friend.

The sun was setting red and angry in a mass of black clouds that came rolling up out of the west as she took the final plunge, and diving bows first, disappeared forever, leaving her crew silent, motionless, and awe-stricken at the catastrophe that had thus overtaken them.

The skipper was the first to break the silence, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness he said, “Well, boys, the old Curlew has gone where all good crafts go, sooner or later, and we must be thankful she hasn’t taken us along with her. I honestly believe we should all have shared her fate, and that of poor Rod Mason, if it had not been for this brave lad and the quick wit that taught him to do exactly the right thing at the right moment. I have not the slightest doubt that we owe our lives to Breeze McCloud, and right here I want to thank him, and to pay my respects to the memory of the brave man who brought him up to act as a true sailor should in such an emergency.”

These were grateful words to poor Breeze, who was feeling the loss of his shipmate, and of the schooner, more keenly than any of his companions, and fearing that perhaps they would blame him for what had happened. He had given Captain Coffin a hurried account of the disaster, and of how he had cut away the masts; but the skipper had found no time then to say what he thought of the course the boy had pursued.

Now, one by one, the men reached forward to shake hands with him, and had it not been for the thought of the drowned man, he would, in spite of their miserable situation, have felt as light-hearted as though already in port.

There were neither water nor provisions in the boat, they had no mast, sail, nor compass. Most of them were wet through, and already chilled to the bone by the cold wind, which was rising, and promised to freshen into a gale before midnight. Breeze was the only one who was dry and had his oil-skins on, and but for his hunger he would have been comparatively comfortable.

They stopped near the floating wreckage of spars and sails long enough to obtain the schooner’s main-topsail, and the foregaff which they hoped to rig up as a mast in the boat. They also cut away a small lot of the lighter cordage. Then they headed their craft to the westward, and started to pull for the distant land. The skipper said they were not more than fifty miles from the coast, and if the sea did not get too rough, they ought to make it by noon of the next day.

They were divided into two watches, and while half of them rowed, the rest huddled together as close as possible in the bottom of the boat for warmth.

It was nearly midnight, the wind was blowing a gale dead against them, and they seemed to be making no progress whatever. Breeze, unable to sleep, was sitting up gazing out into the blackness behind them. Suddenly, as the boat rose on the crest of a great wave, he sprang to his feet and cried, “A light! I see a light!”

CHAPTER V.
SAVED BY ELECTRICITY.

The joyful cry of a light at once put new life and hope into the hearts of the hungry, drenched, and shivering occupants of the seine-boat. Those who had huddled together under the wet canvas of the top-sail in the vain effort to keep warm, as well as those who were pulling hopelessly and wearily at the oars, gazed eagerly in the direction indicated by Breeze. Yes, there it was, faint and yellow in the distance, apparently that of some vessel approaching them from the southward. They could see it as their boat rose on the crests of the great billows, though it was lost again when they sank into the black hollows between them.

Soon they were able to distinguish a second yellow light, lower than the other, and by the position of these they knew that the approaching vessel was a steamer, and a large one at that. Then her red and green side-lights came into view. They watched anxiously to see which of these would disappear first, in order to determine on which side of them she was going to pass. If the red light should be lost to view, then they would know she was passing to windward of them. In that case there would not be the slightest chance of any cries they could utter reaching her, and she would go on her way unconscious of their presence. If the green light should disappear, it would be a sign that she was about to pass to leeward. In that case there was a possibility that their shouts, borne down the gale, might attract the attention of the watch on her deck. Still, she might not stop even then, and it was an almost unheard-of thing for a boat to be picked up at sea in the darkness of midnight, amid the noise and tumult of a gale. They fully understood their position, but, slight as their chance was, they watched for it hopefully.

All at once, as they were lifted from a deep, watery hollow, and looked for the lights, they gave utterance to exclamations of dismay. They could still see the green light and the two yellow lights, but the red one was no longer visible.

“’Tain’t no use. She’s going to windward of us;” muttered one of the men, at once giving up all hope, and again lying down in the bottom of the boat. “Luck’s against us, and we might as well reckon on help from the old Curlew as from that craft.”

Most of the others evidently thought as he did, and they turned their eyes resolutely away from the lights, as though determined to be no longer tantalized by them. But Breeze could not give up so easily, and he still watched the lights whenever a lifting wave afforded him an opportunity of seeing them.

What! Can it be? Or are his eyes deceiving him? No. It certainly is the red light again, now much more distinct than before. The steamer has altered her course and is heading directly for them. The men are filled with new life at the boy’s exultant cry announcing his discovery. They spring up and gaze incredulously. It is true, and both lights are now to be plainly seen, not more than half a mile away and bearing directly towards them. Now they fear that she may run them down, and begin to pull to windward, so as to give her a clear berth. At last she is close upon them, and the green light disappears, while the red shows clear and steady.

“Now for a shout, men! All together as I give the word. One! two! three!” commands the skipper.

It is a wild, desperate cry that startles the lookout on the forward deck of the steamer from the half reverie into which he has fallen.

Again it comes to his ears, and again, borne on the wings of the gale across the angry waters; and now it is heard by the steamer’s captain, who has not left the pilot-house that night.

A gong clangs down among the engines, and a hoarse order is shouted to the engineer through the speaking-tube. The great screw under the steamer’s stern stops for a moment, and then churns the water violently as its motion is reversed and it revolves rapidly backward.

“See if you can pick them up with the electric,” is the captain’s order to the second officer, who has just appeared on deck. At the same instant a dazzling flash of white light darts forth from the steamer’s bow, and cuts a gleaming path-way between two solid walls of blackness above the raging waters.

The second officer seizes the handles at the back of the great lamp, and the broad band of light is slowly swept round to the direction from which the cries have come. In another moment it flashes full in the white faces of Breeze McCloud and his companions, sitting in their seine-boat not more than a hundred yards away. The wonderful eye of the search-light has discovered them, and they cover theirs with their hands, or turn away from the unbearable radiance.

“Pull under our lee,” shouts the captain of the steamer through a speaking-trumpet, “and we’ll try and get you aboard.”

It was a difficult task, for the ship rolled so deeply that it would have been unsafe to open her side-ports, and they must be taken aboard over the rail. As the seine-boat lay alongside, it was at one moment on a level with the steamer’s deck, and the next so far below it that her wet side rose like a black wall high above them. Nothing could be done until she was turned, so as to lie head to the wind. Then, one by one, the wrecked men caught the ropes flung to them, fastened them under their arms, and were hauled up to the steamer’s deck, where they were received and pulled on board by the stout arms eagerly out-stretched to aid them. Some of them were buried beneath the huge waves that sprang after them as though furious at being thus robbed of their expected prey and still determined to clutch it. Others were bruised by being swung violently against the iron side of the steamer. At last all of them were safely rescued, and, with the seine-boat towing by a long line astern, the great steamer was again headed on her course.

Was there ever anything so delicious as the hot coffee at once served to them, or so welcome as the plentiful meal that awaited them in the steamer’s mess-room, after they had got into the dry clothes furnished by her crew? Breeze did not think there was. And when, soon afterwards, he found himself in a comfortable bunk, under warm blankets, and dropping to sleep, he felt that he was one of the most fortunate and marvellously cared for boys in the world.

IN ANOTHER MOMENT IT FLASHES FULL IN THE WHITE FACES OF BREEZE McCLOUD AND HIS COMPANIONS.

The steamer that thus furnished the weary fishermen with shelter, safety, and all the comforts of a sailor’s life was one of a line plying between Boston and a southern city, from which she was now bound. Her captain was one of those noble sailors who are never so happy as when rescuing other toilers of the sea from its perils. He told Captain Coffin that, without any definite reason, he had felt impelled to alter his ship’s course half a point to the eastward shortly before their cries had been heard. It was this change of direction that had brought the red light once more into view.

Before morning the gale had so increased in fury that it was not probable their light craft could have lived through it had they not been picked up when they were. As it was, the seine-boat, while towing behind the steamer, was struck soon after daylight by a great sea that capsized it. The next crushed it like an egg-shell, and the broken wreck was cut adrift.

Twenty-four hours later they entered Boston harbor, and the crew of the lost Curlew, after expressing their heart-felt thanks to the captain, passengers, and crew of the steamer, who had done everything in their power to make them comfortable, left her. They made their way at once to the market slip devoted to the use of fishing vessels, where they were sure of finding friends and fellow-townsmen.

While walking slowly along the wharf, and looking wistfully over the many fishing vessels crowded into the basin, in search of a familiar face, Breeze was slapped on the shoulder, and a well-known voice exclaimed,

“Vy, Breeza, ma boy! how you vas? Vere you come from, eh?”

Turning, he saw the smiling face of old Mateo, the Portuguese cook who, on board the Sea Robin, had fed him with milk from the “lit tin cow” when he was a baby. The old cook had always retained a warm affection for the boy whom he had thus cared for in his helplessness, and had never returned to Gloucester without visiting him and bringing him some present. Now to see him seemed to Breeze almost like a glimpse of home.

Mateo, who, in spite of his years, was still hale and hearty, and one of the best cooks to be found in the fishing fleet, would listen to nothing where they stood. He insisted upon dragging Breeze aboard a new and handsome schooner named the Albatross, in which he had shipped for a cruise to the George’s. She had left Gloucester the day before, and run up to Boston, where her skipper had some business to attend to. Now she was to sail again within an hour.

Pulling his young friend down into the forecastle, and seating him before the mess-table, Mateo exclaimed, “Vell, Breeza, you hongry, eh?”

To him eating was the most important business of life, and until Breeze had assured him that he had just finished one breakfast, and had no room for another mouthful, he would listen to nothing else. His mind being set at rest on this point, Mateo asked,

“Vell, you not hongry, ma boy, ver is ze C’loo?”

“Gone to the bottom,” answered Breeze, “and poor Rod Mason has gone with her.”

“Vat you say? ze C’loo loss, and Rod Mason drowned? Oh, ze holy feesh! an his bruzzer Bill here, on ze ’Batross!”

It was indeed so; the only brother of the drowned man had shipped in the Albatross the day before. When he heard the sad news brought by Breeze, he declared he must return at once to Gloucester, and make arrangements for the future of his brother’s family. He would not even wait for the skipper’s return, but, collecting his dunnage, hurried away to catch the first train for home.

The rest of the crew, most of whom knew him, were intensely interested in what Breeze had to tell them of the loss of the Curlew and the rescue of her crew. They were still plying him with questions when the skipper of the Albatross returned. He, like Mateo, had been one of the Sea Robin’s crew upon the memorable occasion when Breeze had come to her, and now he gave the lad a hearty welcome. When he learned of William Mason’s desertion he was somewhat annoyed, but in a moment his face cleared and he said,

“Why won’t you come with us in his place, Breeze? You shall go as an A1 hand, have a full share of the catch, and we are not likely to be out more than a couple of weeks anyhow. She’s a good vessel, and you are always such a lucky chap that you’ll be more than welcome aboard of her.”

“Yes, Breeza, come ’long,” urged the cook. “Ole Mateo feeda you till you git fat like dog-feesh. Joe-flog, sea-pie, hatch, plenty good t’ings.”

Breeze laughed at the earnestness of the old man and the inducements he held out, but said, “If I only could go home and see mother for a little while first, I’d go in a minute. I’d have to get a new outfit too; the only thing I saved from the Curlew is this oil suit.”

“We’ll wait an hour for you to write to your mother and tell her just how things stand. That’ll give you time to get an outfit in, too. I guess you’d better come along,” urged the skipper.

“Outfeet!” cried Mateo, eagerly. “Vat you want? Peajack, boota, gole vatch an’ chain, eberyting vat you vill hab me getta him.”

So it was finally settled, and an hour later, having written a loving letter home, and been provided, through the old cook’s generosity, with an outfit of clothes quite as good as the one he had lost, Breeze found himself sailing out of Boston harbor in the good schooner Albatross, bound for the George’s Bank. Certainly, nothing had been further from his mind than this, when he had entered the same harbor a few hours before; but he was rapidly learning that nothing is so likely to happen in this life as those things we least expect.

St. George’s Bank, which furnishes the finest cod and halibut found on the American coast, lies about ninety-five miles due east from Highland light on Cape Cod. Its waters are fished all through the year by a large fleet of vessels from New England ports, but its supply continues apparently undiminished. It lies in a dangerous part of the ocean, for it is swept by the current of the Gulf Stream, is subject to fearful storms and dense fogs, and is crossed by all the transatlantic lines of steamers.

Although it is so near at hand, and though fishing was one of the earliest industries followed by the New England settlers, it was not until about 1836 that trips to George’s became a regular feature of the business. The bank was known to exist, and fish were known to be plenty on it, long before, but the fishermen were afraid of it. This fear was owing to the belief among them that the current, always sweeping across it, was strong enough to drag under and sink any vessel that should anchor within its influence.

The first three fishing vessels that visited the dreaded bank kept close together, and their crews fished as they drifted about. Finally, one of the skippers, who was regarded as a perfect dare-devil for proposing such a thing, said he was going to anchor and take his chances. Several of his crew were so frightened that they begged to be put aboard the other vessels, whose skippers were not so venturesome. They were allowed to go, and volunteers were called for from the other crews to aid this bold skipper in his desperate venture. When enough brave fellows had gone on board to be able to get the anchor up quickly in case of trouble, it was let go, the cable spun out, was checked, the anchor held, and the schooner rode to it as easily and quietly as though in Gloucester harbor.

Now occurred the most amusing part of this bold experiment. The swift current quickly bore the other two vessels away from the anchored craft, but those on board the latter imagined that they were moving and leaving their friends behind. They began to heave desperately on their cable, got their anchor up, and started back in pursuit of their companions. When they were once more united, all hands were fully satisfied with their exploit; and though they had taken but a few quintals[^[B]] of fish they sailed back to Gloucester filled with pride because one of their number had dared drop an anchor on George’s.

In those days, and until 1846, fishing vessels did not carry ice in which to pack their catch and bring it fresh into market. In place of this, many of them were made into what are known as “smacks” by having tight compartments built in their hold amidships, and filled with sea-water from auger-holes bored through the vessel’s bottom.

The greatest depth of water on George’s is 212 fathoms,[^[C]] or 1272 feet, nearly a quarter of a mile. The average depth for fishing is sixty fathoms, though halibut are often taken in water two hundred fathoms deep. It is, of course, tiresome work to drag these great fish to the surface from such great depths, and they are never sought for there if they can be found in shoaler water.

It is no rare thing to find a hundred fishing vessels at anchor at one time on George’s during any month of the year, and it was to join this fleet that the Albatross was now making her way swiftly around the point of Cape Cod. She was fitted out as a hand-liner--that is, her crew would fish with hand-lines over her sides--and she had a quantity of frozen herring stowed with the ice in her hold to be used as bait.

They reached the bank and caught sight of the anchored fleet early the following morning after leaving Boston. As they slipped along past one after another of the vessels already at work, they could see their crews hauling in their lines and tossing fish over the rail as fast as their arms could move. It seemed curious to Breeze that this busy work should always stop as soon as the Albatross drifted near any of the others. He asked why it was, and was told that they were afraid the new-comers would notice their good luck and anchor near them, which they did not wish to have them do.

As the Albatross moved slowly across the bank, soundings were taken, and the skipper kept a baited hook down. At last, in fifty fathoms of water he got a strong bite, and at once ordered the anchor to be dropped, Then the sails were snugly furled and the riding-sail set. This is a small triangular bit of canvas bent to the main-mast, and is used to hold the vessel’s head to the wind.

Now baskets of bait were got up, lines were overhauled, and soon every man on board had one or two over the side. They were allowed to run out until their leaden sinkers touched, when they were drawn up so that the hooks, that hung a fathom below them, were raised a few feet above the bottom.

There was an intense eagerness to bring up the first fish, and each man kept an eye on his neighbor’s line as well as on his own, to see if he were to be the lucky man. At last a shout announced a bite, and all turned to see Breeze McCloud tug away at something so tremendously heavy that it seemed to him he must be lifting a large piece of the bottom of the ocean.

CHAPTER VI.
THE GALE ON GEORGE’S.

“Look out, Breeze! Let him run a bit!” shouted the skipper. “Don’t try to snub him yet, or he’ll snap your line like a thread.”

Whish-hiss-s-s goes the stout line as the fish at the other end takes a downward plunge. Now he runs upward, and the slack is hastily gathered in. “There, he is off again! My, what a rush! There is evidently some serious work on hand here,” said the skipper, as he went to the young fisherman’s assistance. It took fifteen minutes of steady, patient, and skilful work to tire the powerful fish. During this time general attention was directed to the struggle, and the men almost neglected their own lines in their curiosity to see what sort of a creature Breeze had hooked.

Finally the exhausted fish gave up the fight and allowed itself to be drawn to the surface. Now was seen the great white head of a halibut, that looked to Breeze, who had never before caught a fish of this kind, large enough to be a whale. Two men with gaffs[^[D]] in their hands sprang to his assistance, but the fish was so huge that not until two more had also got gaffs into him was he lifted from the water and got on deck. Here he was despatched by a few smart taps on the head from the “halibut killer,” which is a short wooden club kept ready for this especial purpose.

Breeze was wild with delight over his capture, while the whole crew were more or less excited, as well they might be, for no such fish had been taken from George’s by any one else that season. It weighed three hundred and twenty-six pounds, and though larger halibut than this have been caught, they are few and far between. One of the men said that he was worth at least twenty dollars, and all admitted that he would create a sensation when they took him into port.

“Put your mark on him, Breeze,” said the skipper, “so that you will be able to pick him out when we get home. He might get lost, you know, among the really big ones that the rest of us are going to catch.”

The boy laughed, but felt very proud of his first fish, as with his sharp sheath-knife he cut a rude B like this,

, in the thick skin on its head, and inscribed the same mark near its tail.

Old Mateo was as delighted at the success of his protégé as the boy himself, and in honor of the event brought him a cup of hot coffee and an extra nice Joe-flogger spread with butter and sugar.

“Me tell ’em so ven you lit babee, an’ eat ze harda tack. Me tell ’em you catch ze feesh bimeby plentee, plentee! Now zey find out, eh?” he exclaimed, in a tone of self-satisfied pride. It was as much as to say that if they would only bring all the babies to him, he could tell whether they would make successful fishermen or not. The men laughed at him, and made many jokes concerning his wisdom; but he only laughed back good-naturedly, and shook his head at them as he again disappeared in the depths of his own domain.

For the rest of the day the fishing went on so merrily, and halibut and cod were piled up on deck so rapidly, that nobody found time to stop for dinner; but snatched hurried mouthfuls of food as they tended their lines. It was lively and exciting work; but when it was time to knock off, and begin to clear and pack the day’s catch, Breeze, for one, found himself aching in every joint, while his hands were raw and water-soaked from handling the hard, wet lines.

He would have gladly turned in at once, but the fish must be cleaned first, and after that it was his turn to stand a two hours’ watch on deck. Thus it was late in the evening before the exhausted lad tumbled into his bunk, where he dreamed of monstrous fish with twenty-dollar gold-pieces in their mouths, that turned into Joe-floggers as he reached for them.

The fishing was good for three days longer, and all hands were light-hearted and happy over their success. Songs and jokes were heard on all sides, and the yarns told at night in the cabin were all of big fares and quick trips to the Banks. It had been a stormy winter, and March had come in like an angry, roaring lion; but now it seemed to be anxious to prove the truth of the old saying, and to be about to go out like the meekest of lambs. Three days more of such luck as they had had would pull up their anchor and see them homeward bound. But March is a fickle month.

The fourth day broke cloudy and threatening. The sky was gray and the air was filled with a penetrating chill. The schooner rode uneasily, straining and surging at her cable in the heavy swell that rolled in from the eastward. The previous day had been what old sailors would call “a weather-breeder,” with the wind light and puffy from the south-west. The mercury in the barometer had stood about 30.7, which indicated a change, and something to be expected from off the sea.

As the day wore on there was a feeling of snow in the atmosphere, and the barometer fell steadily. The fish continued to bite eagerly, and every man did his best to swell the sum total of his catch while he had the chance. The luck of the Albatross had been noticed, and several other vessels were anchored near her, both ahead and astern.

By noon angry spurts of snow were driving in the faces of her crew, the wind was moaning drearily through the rigging, and an occasional dash of spray wet the deck. About this time all hands were ordered to “knock off” fishing, dress the morning’s catch, stow all light articles below, and “snug ship.” Twenty more fathoms of cable were paid out. The foresail was loosed and three reefs were tied in it, so that it might be ready for instant use in case the vessel broke adrift. Then it was again furled, and securely tied.

The storm came on rapidly after that, until at four o’clock, when supper was served, the schooner was pitching furiously, and bringing up with vicious jerks on its straining cable. It was already quite dark, and the snow drove in horizontal lines, tingling against a bare face like cuts from a whip-lash. The wind howled through the taut rigging, and the spray, torn from the crests of the racing seas, was blown in blinding sheets above the slippery decks.

Breeze had never experienced anything like this. To him it was already a frightful gale, and, as he almost pitched down the forward companion-ladder in answer to the supper call, he was surprised to find how calmly the men were taking it. In spite of the tumult on deck, the creaking and groaning of the vessel’s timbers, and her mad pitching, several of them were seated at the mess-table eating as unconcernedly as though nothing unusual were happening. Another lay in his bunk, smoking and exchanging jokes with those who were eating.

After the storm-swept deck, the forecastle seemed warm, light, and cheerful. As Breeze sat down to the table, from which, in spite of the storm-racks, the dishes were every now and then flung to the floor, he wondered that he had never before noticed what a cosey and comfortable place it was.

“Vel, Breeza!” shouted old Mateo, whose entire energies were devoted to keeping the coffee-pot from sliding off the stove. “How you lak him? Pret good, eh?”

“I lak him very much better down here than I do on deck,” answered the boy between his mouthfuls of hot coffee and biscuit. “But, I say, Mateo, don’t you call this a pretty stiff sort of a gale?”