The Argosy, August 1914 — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

24 “Goodness gracious!’’ the girl ex- claimed. ‘No wonder you fainted away when I dragged you to the boat. You don’t look like a sailor.” ‘““T was one,” he said simply. “[ mean a barge sailor. all sorts of sailors and then there are barge hands. But that will keep. What we've got to do now is find out whether my compass was wrong, and the only way I know of is to pick up Asa Hewlett’s lobster pot buoys. This fog hangs on like a sprained thumb, as Captain Eb says.” Jack was indifferent to Captain Eb’s wisdom. He did want to know, how- ever, what Asa Hewlett’s lobster pot buoys might have to do with getting to port. An exclamation from the girl intercepted inquiry. “The wind’s dropped a little,” she said. “ [ wonder whether—’” “What is it?’’ he inquired as she stopped short. “T was wondering,” she went on doubtfully, “ whether you could swing around so as to keep a hand on this til- ler while I went forward and raised the peak. We need all the speed we can get now. At the same time, I don’t want you to almost kill your- self.” A moment later she told him ad- miringly: “Well, you’ve got pluck. Just hold her on the wind. I won't be half a minute.” He watched her as she picked her way forward and flattened out the sail. Her strong, tanned hands, muscular as those of a boy, yet not coarsened by _ outdoor work, first caught his notice. His eyes passed down the curves of her youthful figure, full of grace. There was nothing languorous there. Yet undeniably there was appeal. It was made to a set of emotions quite different, however, from those such girls as Vesta Dawn touched. The firm, rounded bust and the free use of the waist muscles as she tugged on the peak halyard declared her un- corseted. She wore rubber-soled can- There are THE ARGOSY. vas shoes, and seemed unconscious that her feet were soaked. Nor could the cheap black stockings disguise the symmetry of small, rounded ankles. She had just made the rope fast to a cleat forward and started to return when she stopped, her eyes fixed on some object. “What is it?” Jack called. “[ thought I saw—yes, there it is again,” she cried. “One of Asa’s buoys.” . She jumped back to the stern and took the tiller from his hand. “ Duck,” she warned as the Polly Ann came about. The boom swung over with a rattle of hoops, and she started for the buoy. It was easier to search than to find. The painted stick, showing for a sec- ond, remained thereafter persistently hidden by fog and cresting wave. Jack Garrett found opportunity to put his question. ‘How is a lobster pot buoy going to help you pick up your course? ”’ “One wouldn't,’ she admitted. “But a line of buoys would. Asa Hewlett has a line of forty or fifty set off Garr’s Ledge, and I happen to have heard that they ran southeast and northwest. So don’t you see that if I locate them and the ledge too I know where [ am and can figure how far off my compass is?” It was perfectly clear as she ex- plained it. At the same time it was so different from any sea knowledge Jack had picked up during his service in the navy that it opened his eyes to a new way of living. He followed up his first question with another. “Suppose it should be somebody else’s buoys and not Asa Hewlett’s?”’ he said. ‘I mean, how can you tell whose they are?”’ “It’s plain you've never shore- fished much,” the girl laughed. “ Every lobsterman has his own colors for his buoys, registered like cattle brands in the West. Asa’s are white with black ends. There it is again,’ she cried, half rising. CORMMICLOOKS (C@