Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys

CHAPTER XXX

In Which the Fog Thins and the Crew of the “Spot Cash” Fall Foul of a Dark Plot

Morning came to the Spot Cash, too–morning with a thick mist: morning with a slow-heaving sea and a vanished wind. Bill o’ Burnt Bay looked about–stared in every direction from the listed little schooner–but could find no familiar landmark. They were in some snug harbour, however, of a desolate and uninhabited coast. There were no cottages on the hills; there were no fish-flakes and stages by the waterside. Beyond the tickle–that wide passage through which the schooner had driven in the dark–the sea was heaving darkly under the gray mist. Barren, rugged rock fell to the harbour water; and rocky hills, stripped of verdure by the winds of a thousand years, hid their bald heads in the fog.

“I don’t know what it is,” said Bill o’ Burnt Bay to the boys; “but I know well enough what it ought t’ be.”

“’Tis never the Shore,” Billy Topsail declared.

“I’m ’lowin’,” said Skipper Bill, but yet doubtfully, “that ’tis one o’ the Pony Islands. They lies hereabouts,” he continued, scratching his head, “long about thirty mile off the mainland. We’re on a westerly shore, and that means Islands, for we’ve never come t’ the westerly coast o’ Newfoundland. If I could get a peep at the Bald-head I could tell for certain.”

The grim landmark called the Bald-head, however,–if this were indeed one of the Pony Islands–was in the mist.

“I’ll lay ’tis the Pony Islands,” Billy Topsail declared again.

“It may be,” said the skipper.

“An’ Little Pony, too,” Billy went on. “I mind me now that we sheltered in this harbour in the Fish Killer afore she was lost on Feather’s Folly.”[6 - As related in “The Adventures of Billy Topsail.”]

“I ’low ’tis,” Skipper Bill agreed.

Whether the Pony Islands or not–and whether Big Pony or Little Pony–clearing weather would disclose. Meantime, as Archie Armstrong somewhat tartly pointed out, the Spot Cash was to be looked to. She had gone aground at low tide, it seemed; and she was now floating at anchor, free of the bottom. The butt of her bowsprit had been driven into the forecastle; and the bowsprit itself had gone permanently out of commission. Otherwise she was tight and ready. The practical-minded Archie Armstrong determined, with a laugh, that notwithstanding the loss of a bowsprit the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company would not have to go out of business for lack of insurance. And after an amazingly hearty and hilarious breakfast, which Bagg, the cook–Bagg was the cook–presently announced, the folk of the Spot Cash went ashore to take observations.

“We’ll rig a bowsprit o’ some sort,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay remarked, “afore the fog lifts.”

The fog was already thinning.

Meantime, on the easterly coast of the Little Pony, the Black Eagle was being warped in towards shore and moored with lines to a low, sheer rock, which served admirably as a landing wharf. The gangplank was run out, the hatches were lifted, the barrows were fetched from below; and all these significant operations were directed in a half-whisper by the rat-eyed little Tommy Bull. Ashore went the fish–ashore by the barrow-load–and into a convenient little gully where the tarpaulins would keep it snug against the weather. Fortune favoured the plan: fog hid the island from the sight of all men. But the faces of the crew grew longer as the work advanced; and the voice of the rat-eyed little clerk fell lower, and his manner turned still more furtive, and his hand began to shake.

In the cabin the skipper sat, with an inspiring dram, engaged in melancholy and apprehensive brooding. Armstrong & Company had not served him ill, after all (thought he); but, pshaw! the Black Eagle was insured to the hilt and would be small loss to the firm. Well, well! she was a tight little schooner and had many a time taken the evil fall weather with a stout heart. ’Twas a pity to scuttle her. Scuttle her? The skipper had much rather scuttle Tom Tulk! But pshaw! after all ’twould but make more work for Newfoundland ship-builders. Would it never be known? Would the murder never out? Could Tommy Bull and the crew be trusted? The skipper had already begun to fear Tommy Bull and the crew. He had caught himself deferring to the cook.

To the cook!

“Pah!” thought the skipper, as he tipped his bottle, “George Rumm knucklin’ down to a cook! A pretty pass t’ come to!”

Tommy Bull came down the ladder. “Skipper, sir,” said he, “you’d best be on deck.”

Skipper George went above with the clerk.

“She’s gettin’ light,” said Tommy Bull.

At that moment the skipper started. With a hoarse ejaculation leaping from his throat he stared with bulging eyes towards the hills upon which a shaft of sunlight had fallen. Then he gripped Tommy Bull by the arm.

“Who’s that?” he whispered.

“What?” the terrified clerk exclaimed. “Who’s what, man? Where–where? What you talkin’ about?”

The skipper pointed to the patch of sunlight on the hills. “That!” he gasped.

“’Tis a man!” said the clerk.

“We’re cotched!” the skipper groaned.

The rat-like little clerk bared his teeth.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay and the boys of the Spot Cash had seen what the lifting fog disclosed–the Black Eagle moored to the rocks of the Little Pony and unloading. But they had not fathomed the mystery. A mystery it was, however, and a deep one. To solve it they came down the hill towards the schooner in a body and were presently face to face with skipper and clerk on the deck. The crew went on with the unloading; there was never a hint of hesitation or embarrassment. And the skipper of the Spot Cash was serenely made welcome. Whatever rat-like impulse to bite may have been in the heart of the little clerk, when Bill o’ Burnt Bay came over the crest of the hill, it had now vanished in discreet politeness. There was no occasion for biting. Had there been–had the crew of the Black Eagle been caught in the very act of scuttling the ship–Tommy Bull would no doubt have driven his teeth in deep. Even amateur scoundrels at bay may be highly dangerous antagonists. These were amateur scoundrels, to be sure, and good-hearted in the main; but they were not yet by any means at bay.

“Jus’ a little leak, Skipper Bill,” Skipper George explained, when Bill o’ Burnt Bay had accounted for his presence in Little Pony. “Sprung it in the gale.”

“Did you, now?” said Skipper Bill, suspiciously; “’tis lucky we happened along. I’m a bit of a carpenter, meself, an’ I’d–”

“Not at all!” Skipper George protested, with a large wave of the hand. “Not at all!”

“’Twould be no trouble–”

“Not at all!” Skipper George repeated. “Here’s Tommy just found the spot, an’ we’ll plug it in short order.”

Skipper Bill could ill conceal his suspicion.

“You’re in trouble yourself with the Spot Cash, says you,” said Skipper George. “We’ll lend you a spar an’ a couple o’ hands t’ set it.”

“We’ll buy the spar,” Archie put in.

Skipper George laughed heartily. “Well, well,” said he. “Have it your own way. You make your repairs, an’ I’ll make mine; an’ then we’ll see who’s back t’ the Shore ports first.”

Archie bethought himself.

“I’ll lay you,” Skipper George went on, clapping Archie on the back, “that you’ll not find a fish in the harbours where the Black Eagle goes.”

“You’re ordered home, Skipper George,” said Archie. “I’ve this message from Tilt Cove.”

Skipper George glanced at the telegram. “Well, well!” said he, blandly; “we’re nigh loaded, anyhow.”

Archie wondered afterwards why Skipper George had caught his breath and lost some of his colour.

Presently the crew of the Spot Cash, with two stout hands from the Black Eagle, went over the hills with the spare spar. Skipper George and Tommy Bull made haste to the cabin.

“Ordered home,” said the skipper, slapping the message on the counter.

“Forthwith,” Tommy Bull added.

“There’s more here than appears,” the anxious skipper went on. “Tommy,” said he, gravely, “there’s something back o’ this.”

The clerk beat a devil’s tattoo in perturbation.

“There’s more suspected than these words tell,” the skipper declared.

“’Tis by sheer good luck, Skipper George,” said the clerk, “that we’ve a vessel t’ take home. I tell you, b’y,” said he, flushing with suspicion and rage, “I don’t trust Tom Tulk. He’d sell his mother for a slave for a thousand dollars.”