“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.”