Four Afloat: Being the Adventures of the Big Four on the Water. Barbour Ralph Henry

left.”

      “Sure! Off the port bow is what I meant. A sailor’s life for me!”

      “We’ve got all day to make twelve miles,” said Nelson, “so we’ll go inside of Baker’s and keep along the shore.” He turned the wheel and the Vagabond swung her nose toward the green slopes of the Beverly shore. Tom insisted on having a turn at the wheel, and so Nelson relinquished his place and went below to look after his oil cups. Under Bob’s guidance, Tom held the boat about a quarter mile offshore. There was lots to see now, for the water was pretty well dotted with sailing craft and launches, and the wooded coast was pricked out with charming summer residences.

      About half-past two the gleaming white lighthouse at the tip of Eastern Point was fairly in sight, and they rounded Magnolia, a cheerful jumble of hotels and cottages. A little farther on Nelson pointed out Norman’s Woe, a small reef just off the shore. Dan had never heard of the “Wreck of the Hesperus,” and Tom spouted two stanzas of it before he could be stopped. Bob had laid the chart out on the cabin roof, and was studying it intently.

      “Where do we anchor?” he asked. “According to this thing there are about forty-eleven coves in the harbor.”

      “Well, we were in here a couple of years ago,” answered Nelson, “and anchored off one of the hotels to the left of that island with the stumpy lighthouse. I guess we’ll go there to-day. Here’s the bar now.”

      The Vagabond was tossing her bow as she slid through the long swells in company with a fishing schooner returning to port.

      “‘Adventurer,’” read Dan, his eyes on the bow of the schooner. “That’s a good name for her, isn’t it? I’ll bet she’s had adventures, all right.”

      “That’s the life for you, Dan,” laughed Bob. But Dan looked doubtful.

      “Well, I don’t know,” he answered. “I’d like to try it, though.”

      A long granite breakwater stretched out from the end of the point on the starboard, ending in a circular heap of rocks on which an iron frame supported a lantern. Before them stretched the long expanse of Gloucester Harbor, bordered on one side by the high wooded slopes of the mainland and on the other by the low-lying, curving shore of the Point. Far in there was a forest of masts, and, back of it, the town rising from the harborside and creeping back up the face of a hill. Launches and sailboats were at anchor in the coves or crossing the harbor, and a couple of funereal-looking coal barges were lying side by side, their empty black hulls high out of water. At Nelson’s request, Tom turned the boat’s head toward one of the coves, and Nelson went below and reduced the speed of the engine. Then the anchor and cable were hauled out from the stern locker and taken forward. Nelson again stood by the engine and Bob took the wheel. Then —

      “All right,” called the latter, and the busy chugging of the engine ceased. Nelson hurried up, and when the Vagabond had floated in to within some forty yards of the shore the anchor was ordered down.

      “Aye, aye, sir!” answered Dan promptly, and there was a splash. When the cable was made fast and the Vagabond had swung her nose inquiringly toward the nearest landing, the boys went below to spruce up for a visit ashore. Then the tender was unlashed from the cabin roof and lifted over the side, Dan piled in and took the oars, and the others followed. Near at hand a rambling white building stood behind the protecting branches of two giant elms.

      “That’s where we’ll have dinner,” said Nelson. “It’s a jolly old place.”

      “Dinner!” cried Tom. “Me for dinner! Give way, Dan!”

      “They don’t serve it in the middle of the afternoon, though,” said Nelson.

      “Maybe Tommy could get something at the kitchen if he went around there,” Bob suggested. “I don’t believe he’s a real cook, after all; real cooks are never hungry.”

      “Huh!” answered Tom. “I’m no cook, I’m a chef; that’s different. Chefs are always hungry.”

      “Easy, Dan,” cautioned Bob. “Look where you’re going if you don’t want to run the landing down. Here we are, Barry; out you go!”

      And Barry went out and was halfway up the pier before anyone else had set foot on the landing.

      CHAPTER IV – IS LARGELY CONCERNED WITH SALT WATER AND SALT FISH

      “Let’s do the town,” suggested Dan.

      Inquiry elicited the information that the town proper was a good two miles by road, although it was in plain sight across the harbor. By walking a block they could take a car – if the cars happened to be running that day; it seemed that in Gloucester one could never tell about the street cars.

      “Blow the cars!” said Dan. “Let’s walk.”

      So they started out, found the car tracks, and proceeded to follow them along the side of the harbor, past queer little white cottages set in diminutive gardens or nestled in tiny groves of apple trees. To their right a high granite cliff shot up against the blue sky, and was crowned with a few houses which looked as though they might blow off at the first hard wind. After three hours on the boat it felt mighty good to be able to stretch their legs again, and they made fast time. Presently they came to what at first glance seemed to be an acre or so of low white canvas tents, and Tom and Dan, walking ahead, stopped in surprise. Then —

      “Blamed if they aren’t fish!” exclaimed Tom. “With little awnings over them to keep them from getting freckled!”

      “What are they doing?” asked Bob.

      “They dry them like this,” answered Nelson. “They’ve been cleaned and salted, you see, and when they’re dried they are packed in boxes and tubs and casks.” Bob whistled expressively.

      “I never knew there were so many fish in the world!” he exclaimed. Nelson laughed.

      “This is only one,” he said. “There are lots more fish yards just like it here.”

      “What are they?” asked Dan. “Codfish?”

      “Oh, all sorts: cod, hake, pollack – everything.”

      There was row after row of benches covered with wooden slats on which the fish, still damp with the brine, were spread flat. Above the flakes, as the benches are called, strips of white cotton cloth were stretched, to moderate the heat of the sunlight. There was a strong odor of fish, and a stronger and less pleasant odor from the harbor bottom left exposed by the ebbing tide. Tom sniffed disgustedly.

      “I never liked fish cakes, anyhow,” he muttered.

      Beyond the flakes were the wharves and sheds, the masts of several schooners showing above the roofs. As they came to one of the open doors they stopped and looked in. Dried fish were piled here and there on the salt-encrusted floor, and men were hard at work packing them into casks.

      “Will they let you go through the place?” asked Dan.

      “Yes,” Nelson answered.

      “Let’s go, then. I’d like to see how they do it.”

      “All right,” said Nelson, “but I’ve seen it once, and I’d rather go to town. You fellows go, if you want to.”

      Finally Dan and Tom decided to go through the fish house and Bob and Nelson to continue on to town.

      “You’ll have to shed your clothes and take a bath when you come out,” Nelson warned them.

      There wasn’t much to see in the town, and after making a few small purchases – that of a new potato knife being one of them – they boarded a car and, after the trials and tribulations usually falling to the lot of the person so rash as to patronize the Gloucester street railway, returned to the hotel and found Dan and Tom awaiting them on the porch.

      Nelson and Bob halted at a respectful distance.

      “Have you had your baths yet?” they asked.

      “Not yet, but soon,” answered Tom.

      “Then