HARRY GLOVER, master of the Calumet, was generally admitted to be a great diplomat; he himself allowed he was a little something that way. And everybody said he must be—diplomat, strategist, or whatever it was—else how could he, a man who had never had even ordinary luck at bank fishing, induce so shrewd a man as Fred Withrow, something of a schemer too, to build him a fine vessel like the Calumet and send him to the Newfoundland coast for frozen herring on a trip wherein an owner stood to lose more money possibly, should things go wrong, than in any other venture of fishermen.

The Calumet was lying into Little Haven, Placentia Bay, when Glover, sitting in his cabin, heard a hail and an inquiry for Captain Marrs of the Lucy Foster.

Glover, ever wide awake, was on deck in an instant. It was a man in a boat and looking tired. “Captain Marrs, did you say?” asked Glover.

“Yes, sir— Captain Wesley Marrs.”

“Why, he was here, but he’s gone.”

“Been gone long?”

“Oh, two days now.”

The messenger looked discouraged. “Did he say where he was going to, sir?”

“Why, yes—but you look froze up. Come aboard. You don’t never take a little touch of anything—something nice and warm from Saint Peer—something that’ll melt the frost inside your chest afore you know you got it down—or do you? On a cold day like this,” insinuated Captain Glover, “with frost in the air and maybe a long row ahead of you.”

“It is more than a common cold day,” assented the messenger.

“Cold day! I should say! Why, I don’t know how you ever stood it comin’ as far away as you did—ten miles, did you say you came?”

“Ten mile? Ten mile?” snorted the messenger.

“Ten miles. Why, yes. Ain’t that what it is to Saint Mary’s?”

“Saint Mary’s? I didn’t come from no Saint Mary’s. I came from Folly Cove—eighteen mile.”

“Lord, but you don’t tell me! What d’y’ say, now—another little touch? Let me see. Who’s that fellow down there who’s such a great hand to get herring? Let me see now— Johnson? Burke? No, not Burke. Robbins? No, not Robbins, nor Lacey. That’s queer— I know him so well and yet can’t remember his name.”

“Do you mean Rose, John Rose?” suggested the messenger.

“Rose, is it? Is it Rose you’ve come from?”

“Yes, sir— John Rose.”

“That’s it, come to think of it, old John Rose.”

“Why, he ain’t so old.”

“No? Well, it’s so long since I’ve seen him. Have another little touch, and don’t be afraid of it. There’s another jug when that one’s empty. Seen John lately?”

“Seen him? I should say. Last man I spoke to before I left.”

“That so? Any herring down there?”

“A few. But I must be getting along. Rose’d talk to me if he knew I’ve been loafing here. Which way, Captain, did you say I’d find Captain Marrs?”

Glover carefully headed the messenger about as far off Wesley Marrs’s course as the length and breadth of Placentia Bay would admit. He waited just long enough for the messenger to double the nearest headland, then up anchor, made sail, and away for Folly Cove. It was ten in the morning when he weighed anchor, and early afternoon found him knocking at the door of John Rose’s little house.

He at once introduced himself. “Captain Glover of the Calumet. But maybe you’ve been expecting me.”

“Not that I knows of,” said Rose.

“What, ain’t Captain Marrs sent word yet?”

“Word from Captain Marrs? Why, it was him I was expecting.”

“I know— I know, but he’s sailed for home. By this time I cal’late he’s to the west’ard of Miquelon, streaking it across the Gulf, laying to it for home. Filled up, did Wesley, night afore last, at Little Haven.”

“Filled up at Little Haven? Why, when did any herrin’ hit in there?”

“Two days ago. And Wesley got ’em. And the last thing he said afore wearing off was, ‘Harry, you know I got some good friends across the bay, and maybe one or two of ’em’ll be having some herrin’ saved up for me after this cold snap. If you hear of any and can help any of ’em out by taking ’em off their hands at a fair price, why, I’ll consider it a great favor—a great favor to me, Harry. There’s John Rose down to Folly Cove, a great friend of mine. I’ll send him word ’bout you, Harry, so in case he gets hold of any he’ll maybe let you have ’em.’ Wesley and me’s great friends, you see, Mr. Rose, and Wesley, no doubt, thinkin’ there mightn’t be any market, wanted to do you a good turn too.”

“Oh, there’s plenty market. Herrin’s been that scarce this winter that people been from everywhere lookin’ for a load—yes. But I was savin’ them for Wesley. But if Wesley’s gone, and you’re such a great friend of Wesley’s—any friend of Wesley’s a friend of mine—and sailin’ from the same firm in Gloucester, you say?”

“The same firm, the Duncans.”

“That so? Well, I can’t say as ever I heard Wesley speak of you or any mention of your name down this way before—but that ain’t extraor’nary, maybe. Anyway, being as you’re a friend of Wesley’s, you can have them herrin’ just the same as if you was Wesley himself.”

The loading of the Calumet was a record performance. By dark she was off and away.

And as she cleared the last headland of Placentia Bay, as she squeezed by Shag Rocks and left Lamalin astern, Captain Harry Glover had to laugh aloud. “O Lord, but I call that getting ahead of a man!” he chuckled. “It was too easy. Talk about strategy!”

II

The Lucy Foster was lying into Big Whale Gut with Wesley Marrs chafing to complete his cargo. Five hundred barrels would just about fill her up—fill her up nicely.

A man in a rowboat came into the cove. The one sail on the boat had evidently been blown away, for only some strips of canvas were tied to the little mast.

Wesley Marrs, leaning against the main rigging of the Lucy, watched the weary oarsman approach.

“Looks as if he’d been boxin’ the compass in strange waters,” commented Wesley meditatively. “What’s wrong?” he hailed.

“Captain Marrs?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been three days looking for you, Captain Marrs. But I don’t cal’late you have such a thing as a drink of good liquor aboard, have you, Captain? I’m most famished.”

Wesley said no more—only led the way to the cabin and handed out a jug, a jug so full that from it the cork was yet to be taken for the first time. The messenger took the cork out and without help. He bit it out, and let the red rum of old Saint Pierre gurgle down after the manner in which all men said it should.

“Good?” asked Wesley.

The messenger sucked in his cheek and his lips kissed together lingeringly. “Good—m—m—you ought to try it yourself, Captain Marrs.”

Wesley did try it—a small, safe drink. “It is good, ain’t it?” and was about to put it back in the locker of his stateroom—was about to, but looking around and observing that wistful gathering he hadn’t the heart. Six of his own crew and a dozen natives were there, and they passed it along the locker, though not too rapidly. When Wesley got it back he “hefted” it. It felt pretty light. He shook it up. Gauging by sound was a good way, too, when the jug itself was heavy. It was light. “Lucky ’twas the little jug,” said Wesley, and he laid it at his feet with a sigh. “But what was it you was goin’ to say?” he asked of the boatman he had rescued from famishing.

“John Rose, of Folly Cove—you know him, Captain?”

“For more than twenty year. But what of him?”

“Well, John’s got five hundred barrels of as fine frozen herrin’ as ever a man laid eyes on, and he says for you to come and get ’em.”

“Five hundred barrels? Man, but that’s good news—better have another little touch.”

After that second drink, the boatman, who had been nursing a few little suspicions for two days now, thought he had better tell Captain Marrs of his meeting with Captain Glover. And he did, or rather began to. He was about one-quarter through when Wesley jumped for the companionway. “Break out the anchor and make sail,” ordered Wesley, and then, dropping back into the cabin, and suggesting to the boatman that he had better have one more drink, he started to fill his pipe. With his pipe going freely Wesley could think more rapidly—could fathom things more surely.

“Harry Glover,” said Wesley, to himself as he supposed, but really half aloud, “I know you, Harry Glover, and your father and your grandfather afore you, and all the rest of your fore-people on Cape Ann by hearsay, and not one of you I’d trust with so much as the price of a bait-knife—no. Now, let’s see— Glover, he’s got them herrin’.”

“But how’s he going to get ’em, Captain? John Rose is keepin’ ’em for you,” said the belated boatman at this point.

“Who in the devil,” began Wesley, but recovering himself, pushed the jug toward the messenger. “About one more drink is what you need, and that about empties the jug, too. Take it and keep quiet, or I’ll carry you up on deck and heave you over the rail, and heave the jug after you to make sure you go down.

“Let’s see, now”— Wesley resumed his meditations—“he’s got them herrin’ and off long afore this. Now, where’ll he go first? To Saint Peer? That’s it, to Saint Peer for a few cases of wine to take home. And then? To Canso, of course, to see that girl that’s makin’ such a fool of him. Yes, and he’ll make a great fellow of himself by givin’ a case of cassy wine to her people. It’s most Christmas-time, and he’ll make a great hit, and it won’t cost him too much—a dozen bottles of cassy. And then? Then he’ll tell the girl, and everybody else in Canso, that he’s the first vessel to leave Newf’undland with anything like a load of frozen herrin’ this winter. And he’ll be right—he’ll be easy the first to Gloucester this season—or oughter be. And ‘Let me tell you how I filled up,’ he’ll say, and go on to spin a fine yarn on how he got the best of Wesley Marrs. Never let on he lied and cheated, not Mister Glover. And they’ll think he’s a devil—yes, sir, a clean devil of a man. ‘And Wesley Marrs,’ he’ll go on to say, ‘Wesley’s all right—he can handle a vessel pretty well, can Wesley, but when he gets to figurin’ against Harry Glover—’” Wesley drew a breath—“If I get near enough to lay my hands on him and don’t welt the head off him, then may the dogfish get me and——”

“Anchor’s hove short up, sir,” came down the companion-way.

Wesley took the jug from the messenger and locked it up. Then he went on deck.

Five minutes later the Lucy Foster was off and away. “I’ll chase him,” muttered Wesley, “chase him clear to Gloucester, but I’ll get him,” and himself standing close to the wheel, he drove the Lucy out of Big Whale Gut and across Placentia Bay.

“Just a minute at Folly Cove to drop this blessed fool of a messenger John Rose sent, and just another minute to hail John himself and make certain, and then across the Gulf to Canso,” said Wesley, and stood on the Lucy’s quarter and watched her go along.

III

It was night, and a northeast gale and falling snow was making the thick night thicker. The Lucy Foster had come across the Gulf like a runaway horse, and now they were expecting to strike in somewhere.

Wesley was standing aft, when a long, low, warning moan came to them over the water. “There’s the whistle—we ought to see Cranberry Light soon—watch out.”

The forward watch, hanging on to her fore-rigging and peering sharply ahead, soon called out: “There it is—no—it’s a vessel’s port light.”

Wesley looked. “’Tis a vessel, sure enough, and hove-to, ain’t she? Maybe we’d better speak her”—this last to the man at the wheel. The helmsman brought her up, and “Hi-i!” roared Wesley.

“Hi-i!” came back—“who’re you?”

Wesley swore softly. “Harry Glover, by the Lord! Here, Charlie, you answer him. There ain’t many knows you. Ask him what’s wrong—and don’t get too near him, you to the wheel.”

“What’s wrong?” called Charlie Green.

“Nothin’—just waitin’ for a chance to go into Canso.”

“Well, why don’t you go in—what’s holdin’ you back?”

“Why? Too thick to make the harbor to-night.”

“Ask him, Charlie,” said Wesley, “what kind of a man he holds himself that he’s afraid to make a harbor to-night?” Which Charlie did, in a tone that Wesley could never have achieved.

“Who in the devil are you that’s so all-fired smart?” queried Glover. “Who’re you, anyway?”

“Give him your own name, Charlie,” said Wesley, and Charlie did. “Lord, but you do put up a pert twist with your voice, Charlie. If a man was to talk to me like that, I’d run him down.”

“Charlie Green? I never heard of you afore—nor nobody else aboard here. What vessel is that?” came from Glover.

“Never mind what vessel. Whatever vessel’s here I’m not too frightened to put her into Canso to-night.”

“That so? You’re the devil and all, ain’t you? And when are you goin’ in?”

“Right away.”

“That so? And maybe you’ll show me the way?”

“Yes, if you ain’t too scared to follow. And I’ll have a good story to tell when we get to Gloucester—not alone being scared to go in, but too scared even to follow behind when another man shows you the way.”

“That so? Well, I don’t see you goin’ in, nor I don’t see no ridin’ light hangin’ from your stern.”

“No? Well, s’pose you follow on and stop talkin’.”

A lantern was dropped over the stern of the Lucy Foster, Wesley put her wheel up, and the Lucy was off. Another moment, and they made out the green light of the Calumet coming after.

Wesley, chuckling to himself, sailed scandalous courses with the Lucy. “If I don’t scare him ’bout half to death, and if him and me don’t have a heart-to-heart talk after we come to anchor inside—if ever he comes to anchor inside! Let’s see now, Charlie. There’s Kirby Rock under our lee. I hope the Calumet carries a weather helm—for the crew’s sake, I mean. And now west half no’the— I’ll give him a scare. There’s Black Rocks ahead—he’s got to keep on now. And now for the Bootes—a nice little lot of ledges, the Bootes—but not to make a landin’ on—six feet in spots and the surf breakin’ fine over ’em. Hear it roar? Lord, yes, and see it. We’ll hold up a bit, Charlie, or it’s the Lucy’ll be gettin’ into trouble. And now for Man-o’-war, another fine little spot—six or eight feet of water there—no’the three-quarters west. Oh, man, hear it roar! How’s he makin’ out behind? There he is, and scared blue, I’ll bet, for fear she’ll swing a foot out of the way. Let’s see, now, where we ought to be! Let’s see—man, but it’s thick here!—let her go—off, now, Charlie, west no’west and a hair west, just a hair now, ought to take us inside Mackerel Rock. If Glover knows his business now, it won’t matter; if he don’t, then Lord help his name for master of a vessel. Enough on that course—shoot her up now by the Rock no’the, quarter west. Go ahead, the Lucy’ll make it, don’t fear. Man, she’ll sail in the wind’s eye, the Lucy. Don’t fear for the Lucy—a weather helm she carries. She’ll shy off herself if we get too close. That’s the girl—there she is—a good place to be by, that! And now for the reg’lar channel—no’west by west—and let her go! But how are they makin’ out on the Calumet, I wonder?”

They were not making out on the Calumet at all. Evidently she did not carry a weather helm. From the Lucy they could make out her port light—for a while they thought she was past the ledge and all safe. Then the red light swung off to leeward. They soon heard a hail. Then a series of hails.

“Lord,” said Wesley, “d’y’ s’pose she struck?” and himself jumped to the wheel again. His first thought was to put the Lucy right back to the Rock; his second, and the one he acted on, was to get her lights out of sight and then to turn back, sail wide, and come up to the Calumet as though he had just come in the harbor himself. “They’re safe for a while there, and there was no reason in the world why he couldn’t have got by there if we did,” said Wesley, and began to nose her way back. It was his seaman’s extra sense that brought him safely to the Calumet again.

He found her on the edge of the ledge, with the sea washing over her. She was pounding, and from her deck they heard the sounds that meant that a dory was to be launched. There was much talking, some free comment, and not a little profanity.

“Hi-i!” hailed Wesley, in his own person. “What vessel’s that?”

“What? That you, Wesley?” came Captain Glover’s voice.

“Why, is that you, Harry?” answered Wesley.

“When’d you come in?”

“Just shot in.”

“Shot in! A night like this!”

“Why, yes. But what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Everything’s wrong. Some bloody pirate piloted us ashore and then went up the harbor and left us. What bloody ledge is this we’re on?”

“I’m not sure, not having a chart handy; but it’s a bad place, whatever it is.”

“A bad place? I should say. We’ve just smashed our dory, and I’m afraid some of us will be washed over if the sea makes a little more. What’ll we do?”

“Well, that’s for you to say. You’re master of your own vessel, and, of course, you know your own business. But I’ll drop over a dory, if you say so. I’d rather handle live men now than corpses in the morning, myself.”

“Well then, for the Lord’s sake, hurry up, won’t you?”

Wesley took off the crew of the Calumet. On his own deck he met Glover and spoke a little of his mind. “’Twas my intention, Harry Glover, to take it out of your hide, for stealin’ them herrin’ at Folly Cove, but as you’re shipwrecked now it makes a difference. I’ll take you up the harbor and leave you there.” Which he did, and, further, let them have a dory to take them to the dock.

To Glover, at parting, he said, “You and me, Harry, better have no words over this—you know why. The consul here’ll send your crew home at the expense of the Gover’ment, so they’ll be all right.”

“But the Calumet— I s’pose she’ll break up where she is?”

“She may, and then she mayn’t.”

“Then I’d better go down when it moderates and see what I can do.”

“That,” answered Wesley, “is your business. As it is now, she’s abandoned, and anybody’s property that wants to board her.”

“Oh, nobody’ll board her in this weather—they’d be smashed on the ledges. Just as soon as it moderates—some time to-morrow, maybe— I’ll be down with a tug and lighten her up.”

But Wesley did not wait until it moderated. That same night, at high water, the Calumet floated off. Five hundred barrels of frozen herring transferred to the Lucy Foster helped materially in the floating of the Calumet.

“Only eight hundred barrels of salt herring in her now—we oughter be able to get her home. She’s squattin’ pretty low in the water, but we oughter get her home. And do you, Charlie, take Dan and George and Tommie and follow on behind the Lucy,” said Wesley, and in the morning light he led the way out of Canso Harbor.

IV

The Lucy Foster came sailing into Gloucester Harbor, and in her wake was the Calumet. The Lucy, under not more than half sail, was acting like a vessel that was trying to coax along the other, which was moving most painfully. Wesley, from the Lucy’s quarter, kept hailing out encouragement. “‘Most home, Charlie—keep her goin’. There’ll be good salvage for all hands, but a little extra for you, Charlie—keep her goin’. And them men to the pumps—ain’t there just a little touch left all around in that big jug to hearten ’em up a little? It’d be too bad to have her sink on us now, and she into the dock, you might say. I’ll run a bit ahead now, Charlie, and hail the steamboat people, so there’ll be a lighter alongside by the time you’re ready to anchor.”

Knowing nothing of all this, but talking matters over with Mr. Duncan, was Fred Withrow, the owner of the Calumet, in Mr. Duncan’s office. “Here’s a telegram came four days ago from Glover. Says that the Calumet went ashore the previous night while she was trying to make Canso Harbor. And now here’s the second telegram, came three days ago, saying that as soon as the weather moderated he took a tug and went down to see how she was, but couldn’t find her. And now, here’s this long letter, came this morning, saying that he don’t know what to make of it—that when he went down to look for her he could not find a trace of her. He says he thought she

The Lucy was acting like a vessel trying to coax the other.