Adventure Magazine Cover — page 138: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

132 information about the set of the tides, rocks not shown on the charts, and so forth. We start tomorrow morning.” “You will be well paid,” added Miller, as Rob Trevellick hesitated, his eyes wander- ing from one to the other in a searching but bewildering scrutiny. “Well?” exclaimed Sir Ansel, as the fisherman remained silent. ‘“‘Here’s my advice,” said Trevellick. “The Rocks ha’ a bad enough brand as ’tis wiout gentlemen from up-along comin’ down to spear their boats on un and drown ’emselves. Fishin’ parties are terrible scarce now for the name o’ the Rocks. Don’t ’ee try it.” Miller laughed sharply. ‘“‘A fine business man! You’re afraid we’ll kill ourselves on the Rocks and hurt your trade. How much balm do you require in advance for our damage to your tripper traffic? We’re quite willing to pay high for the privilege of settling our—little wager.” “Don’t ’ee try it,’ repeated the fisherman earnestly, showing no resentment at this ridicule. : : ‘“‘We’re here to settle something,” said Sir Ansel grimly. “You needn’t endeavor to dissuade us.” Rob Trevellick shook his head. “T’ll ha’ no hand in’t. There’s bad feel- ings atween ’ee. A blind man could see that. ’Tis no wager—’tis a blood fight. Sail back to Cornwall while ’ee may an’ be thankful the Rocks did not take ’ee both.” This blunt accusation, and the keen dis- cernment behind it, staggered Miller. He stood silent, staring at the fisherman. ‘‘Nonsense!”’ said Ansel, hastily. “We are sportsmen, but we like a bit of danger with our sport.”’ “Keep away from the Rocks,” warned Rob Trevellick. He flung his hand to westward in a solemn gesture. “They'll grind ’ee as they’ve ground better men afore.” He turned his back on them and on the yellow sunset that glared in the westward and walked soberly toward his tiny white- washed stone cottage. That night, before his peat fire, keeping one eye on the quick hands of his nine-year- old boy as they worked on a long splice, Rob Trevellick drew on his pipe and mar- veled over the foolishness or hate that had brought two men to sail among the Western RICHARD HOWELLS WATKINS Rocks. It was very hard for him to under- stand any man’s venturing without need into the graveyard of the Scillies, waters that few Scillonians visited, even when the ocean infrequently quieted to a mere lazy swell. Here there were no _ islands—simply granite masses protruding from the sea, or lurking beneath the surface. In the best of weather swift tides, crazed by the maze of obstacles, swirled among the piles and ledges, and contended with the never-ceas- ing roll of the waves. In the worst of weather—but no man has ever been among the rocks in the worst of weather and returned to tell what he saw. In this waste of white water and hidden pinnacles of granite, pollack, cod, skate, mackerel, conger eel and lobster flourished and grew to a size unknown in the road- stead or among the larger islands. And here, too, on the calmest of summer days, Rob and the few other daring Scillonians who knew the rocks, or hoped that they did, brought venturesome visitors fishing or to view the seals at a pound a day. On the Isles there was no other way that a man like Rob Trevellick might earn such a sum of money as that—a pound for a single day’s work! But it was not greed that sent Rob among the rocks, or even dire necessity. It was ambition. And this same unrealized am- bition now had stirred in the breasts of three generations of his family. Rob took his pipe out of his mouth and looked downward at the boy so absorbed in demonstrating the cunning of his fingers on the bit of rope. A likely lad; alert in mind as well as in hand, and a bold boy, too. Certainly it was worth risking the Western Rocks in all but the worst of weathers to forward, through this youngster, the cause that had animated his father and his father’s father before him. The striving of the family had begun when his grandfather, Yankee mate of the Newburyport clipper Starry Banner, came ashore on the fore royal yard, one morning when the ocean raged. The ship and the others of the ship’s company went down on the Gilstone. The vessel had been lost during his watch, though not by his neglect, so the New Englander philosophically mar- ried a Scillonian girl and spent the rest of his life as a fisherman. But though he cut himself off so abso- lutely from his people and his profession, he COMmMicloooks C©