Johnstone of the Border

"I don't know. I'm curious about the buoy and I imagine that the fellow Dick was with wanted us to clear out. He was right in saying that we'd brought up in an exposed place; but why did he tell us ducks were plentiful down west?"

Whitney made a sign of agreement.

"It's certainly suspicious."

They went on while the sand got softer, but they saw nothing except a few small wading birds and a black-backed gull. Then Andrew stopped near the outer end of the bank. Something black floated in the midst of a tide-ripple, about forty yards away.

"Another buoy and a bigger one, marking the fairway to the gut," he said thoughtfully. "With that and the compass course to the corks we saw, I'd take a boat drawing eight feet up to the burnfoot at five hours' flood, on an average tide."

"Eight feet draught would give you a pretty big boat; a vessel of about a hundred tons would float on that. But what would bring her here?"

"That's the point," said Andrew. "I believe old wooden schooners sometimes take cargoes of coal up these gutters and dump it into carts on the beach, but I'm not quite satisfied."

He turned suddenly, as he heard a flapping of canvas, and a few moments later, a tall dark shape emerged from the haze. At first, it had no clear outline, but Andrew knew it was the topsail of a cutter-rigged boat, beating in against the tide. She grew in distinctness until they could see her black hull washed by a streak of foam, and the straining mainsail, slanted away from them. The iron shoe of a trawl-beam projected between her shrouds, and the net hung in a dark festoon over her weather side. The wind was abeam just there and she passed them, sailing fast; but they waited, knowing that it would draw ahead where the channel curved. Presently, there was a banging of canvas that suddenly swung upright, and then filled and vanished on the other tack.

"Smart work!" Andrew commented. "They'll have about twenty yards of deep water to gather way in before they bring her round again, against the stream. The fellows who can beat her round that bend don't need buoys. I'd like to take some bearings: this gutter's very sketchily indicated on the chart."

"Shore bearings wouldn't be of much use to anybody who wanted to come up in the dark."

"That's true," Andrew agreed thoughtfully. "But we came for geese, and we may as well make our way back across the middle of the sand."

After a while they found a nearly dry gutter, and moved up it cautiously until Andrew stopped. Out of the dark came a clear, high note, the clanging cry of the bernicle geese. It was answered from one side and behind, and then a measured fanning became audible. This swelled into a rhythmic creak as the broad wings beat the air.

The men crouched low, with tingling nerves, clenching their guns and straining for the first glimpse of the approaching birds.

"Flying low and right over," Andrew whispered. "Fire when you see the first!"

Whitney got down on one knee, while the ooze soaked through his trousers and ran into his sea-boot. But this did not matter; it was worth sinking waist-deep to hear the wild call break out close ahead. A dark object, planing downward on extended wings, shot out of the mist; another came close behind; and the gun-butt jarred Whitney's shoulder while smoke blew into his eyes. He swung the gun as he pulled the second trigger, and saw a red flash leap out; and then the dark was filled with a harsh clamor and the furious beat of wings. Andrew jerked his gun open and the burnt cartridges shot out while smoke curled about the breach.

"Two, I think," he said. "Yours is up the bank."

Whitney found it presently: a small, black-breasted goose.

"My first bernicle!" he said with a thrill of pride. "They're more like a big duck than the heavy lag birds we've already bagged. Do you think Dick will get a shot?"

"He ought to. They were flying straight up the bank."

They waited a few minutes, but no gunshot came out of the mist, and when everything was silent they turned back down the gutter.

"The geese won't alight again," Andrew said. "As Dick knows that, he'll probably launch the punt and come to meet us."

When they reached the edge of the water, Whitney stopped and lighted his pipe.

"It's pretty soft farther on. Let's wait here for the punt," he suggested.

He had nearly smoked his pipe out when they heard the splash of a paddle, and presently the punt crept out of the mist. Its low, gray-painted hull was hard to see; but Dick's form was more distinct and Andrew made an abrupt movement as he watched him. He sat facing forward, on the after deck, and he lurched clumsily from side to side as he dipped the paddle. The punt was not going straight, but sheered about, and Dick did not seem to be making for the bank. This projected in a short cape, not far away, and then the sand ran back toward the east, leaving a stretch of rippling water that vanished in the haze. The tide was rapidly running seaward and the wind blew off the flat.

"Dip to leeward!" Andrew shouted. "Head her up for the point!"

Dick stopped and flourished his paddle.

"I'm not coming ashore," he answered with a chuckle. "Do you good to walk back. Jim's getting fat!"

Whitney looked at Andrew in alarm.

"Yes; he's drunk!" Andrew said with an impatient sign.

It was plain to both that the situation was not free from danger. A shooting punt, with its sides only from six to eight inches high, is essentially a smooth-water craft and is easily swamped, in spite of her deck. There was a good breeze, and if Dick passed the short point, he would risk being blown out to sea. The tide did not follow the sweep of bank but ran straight out.

"Don't be a fool!" Andrew shouted. "Run her in at once!"

Dick sat hunched up, with the paddle on the deck, and they heard him laugh.

"It's quite oll ri'," he answered. "Needn't bother about me. I'm going to look for submarinesh."

Andrew ran toward the point, and Whitney, following, tore two buttons off his oilskin jacket as he tried to unfasten them with numbed fingers. He wore ordinary serge trousers and heavy sea-boots, but the punt must be stopped before she drifted past the little cape. Afterward, it would be too late.

Andrew reached the spot first, while the punt was still upstream of it, and at once plunged in; but Whitney, who had now got rid of his oilskin, stopped and tried to pull off his long, wet boots. He hardly thought Andrew could wade out far enough, and one of them might have to swim. He was furious with Dick; but the boy must be rescued. He got his boots off and went in up to his knees; but then he stopped; for he would not be needed if his comrade could reach the punt. Andrew was waist-deep but still floundering on, when Dick, laughing hoarsely, threw something at him. It fell into the water, but the next shot was better aimed, for Whitney saw an egg smash on Andrew's oilskin cap.

Another struck him in the face; but the punt was near now, and after a few more floundering strides, Andrew threw himself forward. The craft lurched as he fell across her deck, and Whitney thought she would capsize; but the next moment Andrew flung Dick into the well and then, kneeling on the deck, brought the craft ashore with a few strokes of the paddle.

Whitney felt very cold, and he was getting stiffly on board when Andrew asked:

"Hadn't you better bring your coat and boots?"

Whitney found it a relief to laugh as he went back for the things; and Andrew pushed the punt off when he got on board.

"I'll paddle while you keep the young ass in the well," he said. "Knock him down if he tries to get up."

"Don't want to get up," Dick remarked. "Quite snug down here. Only trouble is I'm sitting in the eggs."

"I think that's correct," said Whitney. "In is the proper word. There's rather a mess on your face, too."

"Good shot, ole man," Dick observed with a grin.

Andrew said nothing as he swung the long paddle, for the ripples were getting larger as they left the sand, and the breeze was freshening, but at last the yacht's light twinkled in the mist. Getting on board, they hustled Dick below, where Andrew stripped off his wet clothes and put him into his berth, while Whitney got the stove to burn.

After a time, Dick put out his head.

"Feel I'd like some supper, before I go to sleep."

"You can go to sleep without it," Andrew said sternly. "I suppose there's no use in talking about it now, but you've been warned that this kind of thing may kill you."

"I'm 'shured," Dick rejoined. "Good big policy and I don't pay the premiums."

"Who does pay them?" Andrew asked, in a quiet, insistent voice; but Dick only grinned.

"That'sh secret, ole man. You're very good fellow, but don't know everything. Don't bother me any more; I'm sleepy."