For some time following their adventure with Warden Williams’ lobster patrol and their subsequent chase by the Fish Hawk, Ray and Jack were kept rather busy about the construction camp, for the lighthouse builders were working at full speed and taking advantage of the excellent August weather. Mr. Warner was staying awake all hours of the night, working out construction problems in his little office, and of course the two lads had to keep his place in order and do a great deal of checking up after these sessions of activity.

They paid daily visits to Cobra Head, also, to watch the progress of the work there, and during each of their visits they learned something new about the problems of erecting a sea-swept lighthouse. In spite of the excellent weather that the workmen had been blessed with, it seemed to the two lads that they were making unusually slow progress. In truth, though they had been laboring a little more than six weeks there were but four courses of stone laid. Jack remarked about this to Mr. Warner on one occasion when the engineer had accompanied the boys to the rocks.

“Huh,” said Mr. Warner, “if you think that is slow just look up the construction records made on other lighthouses and you will understand what slow work is. We’ve been particularly fortunate here in being so well above the water. Why, there are some jobs where the tide and waves will only allow the men to work a few hours every month, and then they have to accomplish their task with one hand on a life-line, so to speak.

“Look at the conditions that the workmen were forced to contend with while building Minot’s Ledge light, for instance. The old rock was but three feet out of water at the best tide and the engineers had to build a steel structure over the ledge and attach life-lines to it and station a lookout to watch for big waves. When the lookout saw a large one coming which he knew would curl over the rock he shouted a warning and every man grabbed his life-line and threw himself flat upon the rock to keep from being washed overboard. They always worked in wet clothes and they were mighty lucky to have whole legs and arms after a wave had passed. Why, they didn’t get in but 130 hours’ work the first year and it took five whole years to build the beacon.”

“Jiminy, that must have been some job,” said Jack.

“You bet it was,” assured Mr. Warner. “Why, they had to think of all sorts of tricks to keep old Neptune from beating them. When they were building the foundation on the ledge, they had to bring bags of sand out and construct veritable cofferdams about the spot that had been pared down to hold a building block. Then every time they put cement onto a block to hold the next one in place they had to put cheese cloth over the cement to keep stray waves from sneaking up and licking the block clear before the new block could be put in place.”

“Did they take the cheese cloth off before they put the next stone in position?” asked Ray.

“No, they let it stay. The cement oozed through the mesh of the cloth and gripped the block just the same,” said Mr. Warner.

“Hum, that’s a queer wrinkle,” said Jack.

“Well, we may do some of that work here the early part of the Fall when the tides run unusually high and the seas get to curling up on us. Yes, we’re mighty lucky in having the top of the Head so high above water. Also we have been fortunate so far as weather conditions are concerned. Goodness knows some lighthouse builders have had to fight storms almost all the time. Look at the crew that undertook to build the famous Tillemook light under Ballantyne. They fought the weather incessantly, and they even stuck to the rock during a blow that developed into a real tornado which smashed and carried away the storehouse in which their provisions were kept. It was several weeks before more provisions could be brought to them, and in the meantime all they had left was some hard bread and coffee and a little bacon. Those are conditions to work under, lads. Why, this is like dallying in the lap of luxury compared with Tillemook, Minot’s Ledge, Eddystone and the rest of the difficult marine engineering stunts that have been undertaken.”

“Lighthouses have to be mighty strong structures, don’t they?” said Ray, who had been examining the way the heavy stones were interlocked, cemented, and then double fastened with iron “dogs.”

“Strong? I should say so,” assured the engineer. “Why, some of them have to stand wind and waves that tear solid stone to pieces. I remember hearing once of a light over in England, or Ireland, rather, on the Fastnet Rock, the first light steamships sight on their way to England. In a storm a big section of the rock itself, three tons or more it weighed, was torn loose, but before it could fall into the sea, a second wave seized it and hurled it into the air squarely against the lighthouse tower on the top of the rock.”

“Did the tower stand up under that?” exclaimed Jack in wide-eyed amazement.

“Yes, it did, and many another beating almost as bad. Why, they say that storms are so heavy over there that the tower trembles and sways under the force of wind and water. Cups have been jarred from the table to the floor, glasses knocked down and broken, and many other disagreeable things have happened. Yet the tower stood up under it all and still stands, although there has been a new tower erected since. I think that one of the famous Stevensons had something to do with it.”

“Stevensons?” said Jack. “Oh, I’ve heard of them. They were related to the author, Robert Louis Stevenson, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Warner, “the author of Treasure Island came from a family of renowned lighthouse builders. There are many lights along the Scottish and English coast that stand as monuments to the skill of the author’s kinsmen. Among them are the Chicken Rock light on the Isle of Man and Skerryvore.”

“Tell us, Mr. Warner, have many lights been swept away into the sea by storms?” asked Jack, as he and Ray started to climb into the little cable-car that carried them over the aerial railway back to shore.

“Indeed, there have been many. Some have been swept away so completely that only a twisted steel bar or two remained to tell that a light once marked the spot. And always the keepers disappear with them for they are too brave to desert their posts even in the face of death. Take the fate of the keepers of the Grand Manan, which was located not so very far north of here. The light and men disappeared in a storm and never were heard of again. The first Minot’s Ledge light in Boston harbor went the same way and with it went the keepers too. Oh, yes, many a brave man has gone to his death in the Lighthouse Service.”

Such little talks as these with the engineer and the workmen added interest to the boys’ life on the island and the days passed as if on wings. Captain Eli, the lighthouse keeper, also told them tales of the service and the lads spent many an hour in his company while he was on watch in the tower or off duty in his little cottage. Taking it all in all the boys were having quite a delightful time, and if it had not been for Ray’s periodical “blues” (as Jack called them) over his inability to fit another model of his non-sinkable lifeboat together, neither lad would have had a single thing to complain about.

As August wore on Ray’s blue spells occurred more often, however, for he realized that in a few weeks or a month at best Jack would be leaving Hood Island to return to school, while he—well, he didn’t know exactly what he would do. From all appearances there would be no school for him, as much as he wanted to attend. Indeed, sometimes he grew quite beside himself with his unhappiness and it was all that Jack could do to change his frame of mind.

His lonesomeness was emphasized frequently too when a lighthouse tender put in at the island to bring additional supplies and any mail that was meant for the working men. On every visit of the mail steamer Jack was almost certain to have from two to a dozen letters from his father and schoolboy friends who were scattered over the country during the vacation period. But the pleasure of receiving letters was denied Ray simply because he had no friends and relatives in the outside world to communicate with him.

Aside from the visits of the lighthouse tender no vessels touched at the island at all. The lads, almost daily, saw the trails of black smoke above the horizon, left by transatlantic steamers traveling the water lanes across the ocean, but usually these craft were hull down by the time they reached Hood Island. Fishing vessels bound for the banks were occasionally sighted also, and once in a while a stray swordfishing schooner or yawl would hover about the island for several hours in search of their elusive prey.

Once or twice the lads also sighted the trim little Betsy Anne, Mitchell’s boat, dancing on the waves far outside the reef. Since their adventurous two days with the timber-legged lobsterman the lads had always intended walking across the island and locating his house, but nearly two weeks passed before they could find time to pay him a visit.

And strangely enough, on the very day they had planned to cross the island (they had cleared up all their work and Mr. Warner had given them time off), the Betsy Anne came scudding up inside the reef, towing a dory. The small boat was piled high with lobster traps as was the cockpit of the little sloop, and the boys wondered what the old seaman was about.

From the edge of the cliff they hailed him while he was yet some distance off. And when he saw them standing there he hallooed back, and then quite suddenly brought the Betsy Anne up into the wind and waved to them to come down to the beach.

When the boys had made their way down the winding path from the promontory to the sandy strip, the old lobsterman was waiting for them, having rowed ashore in his seemingly overloaded dory.

“Why, blime me; blime me and blow me, say I, where about are you younkers been a-keeping of yersel’s? Blow me an’ sink me, hif ’e ain’t t’ most onsociablest coves as ever was. Why’n’t ’e ever come fer t’ see Hole Mitch, I axe ye?”

“Why—well—you see—the truth is we were going to walk across the island some time to-day—truly we were—don’t grin like that as if you doubted us.”

“I ain’t given’ for t’ doubt ’e, I ain’t. But seein’ as ’ow I spends most o’ my days an’ considerable o’ my nights a-tryin’ fer t’ make a livin’ I ain’t t’ ’ome much. Like es not ye’d never been findin’ o’ me ’ome hif ye ’ad a-come ’crost. I’m hup at four, I are, and hout hin me hole Betsy Anne a-tendin’ o’ my traps ’till hits too dark fer t’ see.”

“What are you doing up at this end of the island? I never saw you come up this way before,” said Jack.

“Right an’ so, right an’ so. Never does I come hup ’ere fer t’ fish, me bein’ given t’ string my traps hout to t’ sow’east’ard. But lobsterin’ been s’ poor hin my usu’l wisinity that I guest I’d try hout a score o’ traps to t’ nor’west’ard, seein’ as ’ow t’ bottom’s likely hout there. I’m goin’ fer t’ try hout these ’ere traps. That’s where I’m bound. Want t’ ship hon this ’ere cruis’, lads?”

“Do we? You bet we do. But—but, will that dory hold all of us? She’s loaded down now,” said Jack.

“Tut, tut, them traps is light. Come along, we’ll make a day of hit, er we’ll make as much o’ a day of hit as t’ weather ’ll let us, fer she’s goin’ t’ blow some this a’ternoon,” said Old Mitchell, making a place for the lads in the dory.

Presently the boys tumbled aboard the Betsy Anne and a few minutes later they were under way. Up along the island coast they sped, the tumultuous currents that slipped between the reef and the land making the little sloop dance and yaw in surprising manner. As they sped past the promontory and plunged tossing and pitching through the line of breakers that marked the joining of the mill race of water with the ocean just off the point of the high promontory, Jack and Ray hallooed as loud as they could to the workmen on Cobra Head and waved a passing salute. Mr. Warner was on the rock and when he saw the lobsterman’s sloop go dancing by he took off his hat and waved a farewell to them.

Beyond the breaker line were the long rolling ground swells of the broad Atlantic, over which the little craft scudded swiftly. Out, out, oceanward they raced, the boys thoroughly enjoying the sail. For two miles to the northwest Old Mitchell kept a straight course and watched the water with critical eye. Finally, after he had prefaced his remarks by spitting over the side, he said:

“Well, ’ere’s es good a place es any fer t’ try a trap. ’Ow say ’e t’ puttin’ one ower t’ side?” Then heading the sloop into the wind he examined one of the traps in the stern of the Betsy Anne, and after seeing that the little mesh bag inside the slat-like prison was well baited with dead fish he shoved it overboard. Two stones in the trap caused it to sink immediately and the lobsterman played out the warping line until he reached the point where a big stone jug was fastened. He examined the stopper in the jug to see that it was airtight, then tossed this over too, and a little later the black and white buoy, to which the end of the line was fastened. This floated away from the sloop, bobbing and dancing in a fascinating manner.

“There,” said Mitchell, “I ’opes as ’ow when I comes t’ see ’e t-morrer er t’ next day ye’ll ’ave a ’alf dozen o’ t’ biggest lobsters es ever was.”

“We hope the same,” said Ray with a grin.

“Thank ’e, lad, thank ’e,” said Mitchell. Then he added, “’Eavens knows I need ’em. This ’ere is t’ sheddin’ season and hits t’ blimdest time o’ year ever fer hus lobster coves.”

“Shedding season?” said Jack. “Do lobsters shed their shells too? I thought only crabs did.”

“They’re t’ sheddinest fish as ever was,” said the lobsterman. “I’ve ’ad ’em shed over night on me. Put a lot o’ big uns in t’ lobster car one day an’ when I comes t’ wisit ’em t’ next day there’s ’alf o’ ’em just crawled hout o’ their shells. An’ they ain’t no good arter they’re shed neither. Just es soft es putty.”

“That’s mighty interesting,” said Jack. “Tell us something about lobsters, will you, Mr. Mitchell? How do they live? How fast do they grow? What do they—?”

“Tut, tut, not s’ fast, lad,” said Mitchell, holding up his hand. “Lobsters is pecooliar fish, seein’ ’as ’ow their chise allus runs t’ livin on rock bottom. Ye’ll never find a lobster as is livin’ hin water wi’ a sand bottom. They eats most heverythin’ too; that is heverythin’ what’s dead. Mostly they eats dead fish, an’ t’ best bait fer ’em is flounders. That’s what I baits my traps wi’. They’re ’eathens too; jest reg’lar cannibuls. I’m meanin’, by that, hif I puts three or four lobsters as ain’t got a little wooden plug stuck hin their nippers, hin my car together, why the next mornin’ I finds that they’ve chawed each other up in fine shape. Bite each other t’ pieces jest like cannibuls does.

“As fer growin’, why, lobsters grows habout a hinch er a hinch an’ a ’alf a year. When they sheds as ’ow I tol ye, why then t’ new shell as grows on ’em is habout a hinch too big for ’em; like a pair o’ daddy’s pants as is on a younker. Durin’ t’ year their body grows an’ fills hup t’ hinch o’ space, an’ next Summer they’re ready fer t’ shed and grow another hinch.

“When a lobster sheds ’e goes an’ crawls down hin t’ kelp an’ lives there ’till ’es shell grows hon agin. If ’e didn’t ’e’d get et hup by fishes as is lookin’ fer soft lobsters. In Maine ’ere we can’t take no lobsters what ain’t growed ten hinches long. Them’s called ‘counters.’ Nine hinch lobsters, what is sold in N’York and Bosting is called ‘Nippers’ and lobsters less ’en nine hinches is called just plain ‘bugs.’ An’ hif a Maine cove as catches lobsters ’as heny bugs hin ’es lobster car when Warden Williams come ’round ’e’s liable fer t’ get fined a dollar fer every one o’ ’em as is there.”

“Jiminy, is that so?” exclaimed Jack, who had been listening eagerly to all Mitchell had said. “How big do some lobsters grow?”

“Well, lad, an huncommon lobster is one as is seven or height pound, though I did see one as weighted twenty-seven pounds down Portland wi’ last time I went there. But when we gets a three or four pound lobster ’ere we don’t raise no ’oller habout bein’ cheated,” said the old salt dryly.

“I think I remember reading somewhere about how, when a lobster loses a leg or a claw a new one begins to grow on immediately. Is that so?” asked Jack.

“Right an’ so lad, right an’ so. I’ve ketched ’em as ’ad one claw which is a big one and t’other which ain’t ’alf as big, en I’ve seen big lobsters wi’ a couple of little small legs as looks ri-dic’lus, too.”

“The Winter season is the best, isn’t it, Mr. Mitchell?” said Ray.

“T’ best for ketchen ’em, but hit ain’t t’ best weather t’ be hout a-hauling hof t’ traps. Why, lads, sometimes hits been s’ cold as me nippers ud freeze fast t’ me ’ands and many’s t’ time I’ve ’ad t’ hang me whiskers ower t’ back o’ a chair near the fireplace when I got ’ome so’s t’ git t’ hice outen ’em.”

The mental picture of the old lobsterman sitting with his beard hanging over the back of the chair tickled the lads, and they roared with laughter, much to the amusement of the one-legged fisherman.

“Lobstering is mighty good sport though,” said Ray. “I’ve been out with the fellows down Ascog way and had a heap of fun. The lobstermen down that way are bad ones though, and they are constantly getting into trouble with one another. They have regular feuds sometimes; the French Canadians and the Yankees. I remember Uncle Vance telling a story once of how one fellow planted a half dozen lobster traps near an island and then hid behind a rock until he saw one of his rivals, a French Canadian, haul one of his traps. He blazed away at him from shore with a rifle he’d taken out there, and the Frenchman shot back with a revolver. They had a hot time until the Frenchman got hit in the knee.”

“Them ’air Cannucks is t’ natchralest lobster piruts as ever was,” said Mitchell with emphasis.

Thus did the crew of the Betsy Anne chat as they sailed here and there in the water north of Hood Island while Old Mitchell dropped his twenty-odd lobster traps overboard. The lobsterman explained, as he finished this task, that these were merely by way of trying out the new location, and that if it proved a good fishing ground he would shift a hundred or more traps north of the island. This amount he said was about one-third of the total number he owned. He also assured the lads that three hundred lobster traps were about as many as one could handle conveniently and that some lobstermen limited their string to half that number.

By high noon the old sailor had deposited all of his traps and was headed back toward the island. Past the northern end they sailed and down the west coast. In the lee of the island the ocean was a great deal calmer, for the mighty currents that swept the other side did not reach them. The shore did not seem as rocky either, and sandy beaches were quite numerous.

When they reached the extreme southern end the lads saw a large cove, and on the shore, above a short sandy beach, the neatest little cottage they had ever set eyes upon.

“Wow,” said Jack, “what a corking little place. That must be your home, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Right an’ so, right an’ so. ’Tis t’ place I built me when I first came ’ere nigh onto twenty years ago. But we won’t stop now, lads, even though ’tis dinner time. Ye see I been heyein’ hof them air clouds off hin t’ nor’east there. Hits a settin’ fer t’ blow, an’ I want t’ git some bait afore t’ waves git s’ ’igh es t’ make hit on’com’ft’bul fer t’ fish outen t’ hole Betsy Hanne. I’m goin’ hoff that air strip o’ sand there where t’ flounders ’angs hout. Flounders is fish as likes t’ nose ’round hin t’ mud fer their food an’ they honly lives hon sandy bottoms. You, lads, kin ’andle a line er two fer me, can’t ’e? Then, arter we get hour bait we’ll go ’ome an’ git somethin’ t’ eat. ’Ow’s that strike ’e?”

“Fine,” said Ray.

“I’ll be ready for the eats,” assured Jack.

For an hour the three in the Betsy Anne fished diligently. Each one handled two lines and was kept busy, for the flounders bit ravenously. But the fish were all small and it took a great many of them to fill the big box that Mitchell used to hold his trap bait. And in the meantime great gray storm clouds were gathering in the northeast and the wind was becoming higher every minute. The long rolling swell changed to choppy seas that made the little sloop dance about like a cockleshell, and the lads had difficulty in attending to their lines and maintaining their places in the boat at the same time.

Finally Old Mitchell announced that the seas were running a little too high for comfort, and since the bait box was nearly full he thought it best to up anchor and set sail for the cove where his cottage was located. This suggestion pleased both Jack and Ray for, to tell the truth, the bucking of the boat was getting really uncomfortable. Mitchell put his main sail up with a reef in it, which Ray helped him tie, and without a jib ran for the shelter of the little harbor in front of the cottage.

Inside the cove the wind seemed less fierce and the water less violent, and in a few moments the Betsy Anne reached the square mooring buoy to which she was fastened. It took but a few moments to make the little craft snug in her berth with her sails furled, and after this operation Mitchell and the lads rowed ashore in the dory.

Although the wind was blowing hard and rain occasionally spattered down, the lads found time to pause and admire the cottage and its surroundings before accepting Mitchell’s invitation to enter.

The old mariner had spent a great deal of time and labor about the place, from all appearances. There was a little dooryard in which had been cultivated the tiniest lawn the boys had ever seen. In the center of this was an old dory with bulging sides. This had been filled with earth and converted into a big flower box and over the gunwale flowers and trailing vines dangled in profusion. The cottage itself was painted white and looked unusually inviting, considering the present weather conditions.

Old Mitchell led the way into his little dwelling and immediately set about preparing a dinner from his well-stocked pantry shelves, while the boys inspected his quarters. There were but two rooms to the cottage, the largest of which was kitchen, dining-room and living-room all in one. But, though the apartment served these many purposes, it was scrupulously clean, and resembled very much Captain Eli’s cottage over at the lighthouse.

It was apparent from the first that the place was the dwelling of a seafaring man, for painted yellow canvas covered the floor and marine prints hung about the wall. There was a picture of Farragut’s fleet in action, with the intrepid commander clinging to the rigging as he was supposed to have done during most of his battles. Then there was a picture of the burning of the frigate Golden Horn, a print of the Shannon bringing the Chesapeake into Halifax Harbor and a score of other decorations of a similar nature.

But the section of the wall above the chimneypiece was the most interesting to the boys, for over the shining stovepipe hung a great old-fashioned cutlass with its brass hand-guard and its black leather scabbard, and there too was Mitchell’s famous old “barker” sticking from its holster. Besides these, a dirk and several vicious-looking knives which the old salt had gathered in the “Inges” were made to serve a decorative purpose.

On the right hand side of the mantelpiece itself was a model of a full-rigged ship bearing in gilt letters the name “H.M.S. Bulwark.” The tiny little craft looked very majestic with all her sails set, and the boys were attracted to it immediately. And to balance this on the other side of the mantel was another craft of very strange appearance. In fact, it was of such a peculiar design that Jack was at a loss to know just what to make of it when he saw it. But the moment Ray caught sight of it he gave a loud cry of delight.

“Jack, Jack, look. Jove, there’s my model; my lifeboat, all safe and sound. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, where did you get it? By George, can it really be mine? How—where—?”

“’Ere, ’ere, what ’er ye jabberin’ habout,” exclaimed Mitchell, who was cramming an armful of wood into the stove preparatory to making coffee.

“Why that, that over there—the model—the little boat. Where did you get it? It’s mine, mine. I made it. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, how did you ever get hold of it?” cried the delighted youth as he rushed across the room and took the metal boat down from the pedestal Mitchell had made for it.

“That air punkin seed—that air tin kettle o’ a wessel; is that what ye’re a-meanin’? Why now, blime ’e, ye say hit’s yours? Well, mebby ’tis. Mebby ’tis, seein’ as ’ow hit ain’t mine ’ceptin’ by right o’ salvage, which I ain’t claimin’ hif ’tis yours. ’Ere’s a go fer ’e, ain’t hit?” said the old fisherman as he scratched his head in perplexity.

“Salvage? Do you mean you picked it up in the water?”

“Right an’ so, lad, right an’ so. ’Ere I war hout a-tendin’ of me traps one day when this ’ere thing comes a-bobbin’ an’ a skippin’ ower t’ water, lookin’ queerer ’n all git hout. Says I t’ myself, says I, ‘’Ere’s a strange craft, Mitchell, what ain’t got no owner aboard; why fer don’t ’e inwestigate hit.’ So I hup an’ salwages hit and blime me hif she ain’t t’ queerest looking wessel as ever I sot heyes on. Says I t’ myself, says I, ‘Now, hif this ain’t t’ most pecooler tin punkin seed as ever I clapped heyes hon, I’ll eat hit.’ An’ seein’ as ’ow she war s’ queer I tikes ’er hinto port an’ stows ’er hup longside o’ t’ hole Bulwark, I does.”

“Say, but that’s funny. Here I’ve been longing for this all Summer and it’s been right on the same island with me,” said Ray as he turned the model over and over.

“’Ow’s that?” said Mitchell, as he stopped in the act of putting the dishes on the table and listened.

“Why, you see the Uncle I ran into over at Austin’s Pool a few weeks ago—you know the one who owned the Fish Hawk and—”

“T’ feller as was sech a good sailor as we outsailed, ye mean?” asked Mitchell with a grin, taking a big brown pie from the pantry in one corner of the room.

“Yes, he’s t’ one. I told you that he had always treated me mean. Well, you see, he always thought I was lazy and he was bound he’d flog it out of me. He called me lazy because I always wanted to potter around with new ideas and new inventions. He never believed in anything that was progressive. All he knew was hard work, wouldn’t send me to school, wouldn’t help me with anything; just made me work like sin. Treated me downright nasty.

“Keeping me from school was what worried me more than anything else, though. I wanted to go to high school mighty badly because I hoped some day to go to college and study engineering.

“Well, I knew the only way I could ever get to school was to earn enough money all in a lump to pay my way. About that time the Titanic ran into an iceberg up off the banks somewhere; you remember the time, don’t you? Well, I got an idea out of that. Why not try to invent an absolutely safe lifeboat that could not sink or capsize? The idea was a corker and I set to work on it. And, by jingoes, when I got my model finished if my uncle didn’t get hold of it and throw it overboard and flog me besides. That’s what made me run away from him.”

“Well, blow me, hif ye didn’t make a lifeboat what won’t sink ner capsize, fer that air wessel war right side hup and warn’t leakin’ neither when I got hit,” said Mitchell.

“Oh, you don’t know how tickled I am. I was sure it would work. I knew I had the right idea,” said Ray as he fondled the little craft.

“Right an’ so, lad, right an’ so; but look ’ere, hif ye stand there ravin’ habout yer boat ye won’t git anythin’ t’ eat. Las’ call fer dinner, fellers. Hits on t’ tible,” said the old seaman, drawing up the chairs.