David stared at him. Why, hauling another man’s traps was the final crime among lobstermen.
“We know none of us full-timers is doing it,” Willis continued. “We’ve made a living hauling together since we was your age, and we don’t aim to start cheating on each other now. But, well . . . .” Willis walked a few paces down the store, then he turned and came back. “Some of us thought that maybe a kid might not see it that way, ’specially if he was just hauling part-time for extra money.”
Sally caught her breath sharply, and David dug his nails into his palms and fought for control. He was waiting for Willis to say it. Why didn’t he come right out and say it?
But Willis shrugged and glanced at Foggy Dennett.
“Well, David, speak up!” Foggy sounded surprised and miserable. “You tell us your side of it. Maybe things aren’t as bad as they look.” Foggy was asking him to deny it.
Now, now was the time to tell them that he had never hauled another man’s traps in his life, and that he never intended to! But, to David’s horror, the tears pricked hotly behind his eyelids and his throat began to fill. He could not trust himself to speak.
“Maybe you’re wondering how we found out.” Willis struck a match and held it to his pipe. “Well, the bait line knotted different, usually. And sometimes the button not shut on the door. And no lobsters, time and time again, and no bait, either, for two, three weeks now.”
Perce Dennett spoke up. “Those traps are prob’ly being hauled late in the day after the rest of us have got back in.”
For a moment no one said anything, then Foggy added sadly, “You’re the only one of us that hauls late, Dave. And your catch hasn’t slacked off any. Willis checked, over to the hotel.”
“Lately, you’re out more often, too, some of us have noticed,” said Perce.
But I’ve been putting down extra traps, pleaded David silently. And I’ve been hauling steady to meet the taxes on Blake’s. I’ve even been fooling around the cove hunting for treasure.
But the words remained unspoken behind the shameful ache in his throat.
Willis shook his head. “We know you got a good reason to make extra money, what with saving up for your education. But that sort of hauling’s no good, son. No good at all.”
David looked at these men whose rough hands had taught him the work he loved. All his life he had cherished their respect. To stand before them now as a lobster thief was nightmarish. He pressed his lips tightly together to hide their trembling.
“You won’t talk?” Willis asked gently.
David drew an unsteady breath. He must speak up now, or it would be too late.
Poke came in and Willis absently counted out the money. Without looking at David he said, “I wish this needn’t have happened.”
Foggy turned to go. He looked very tired. “We’ve been talkin’ this over the past three days, Dave. Perce won’t sell you any more bait. You better quit haulin’ for a while. We’ll see if our catch picks up any.”
Then the men filed out, slowly, as they had come.
David, staring after them, saw his bright world dissolve into ugliness. David Blake, lobster thief.
The west wind, rising, tore great shreds out of the fog and flung them across the cove. Blindly, David turned and headed for home. Sally moved to follow him, but Poke held her back.
“Let him go,” he said softly. “He wants to be alone.”
When the door closed behind David, Poke burst into a rare scorn. “Stealing lobsters? David? What a brilliant idea!” He brought his fist down hard against the counter.
“He didn’t even deny it, Poke.” Sally’s eyes began to fill with tears. “He didn’t even speak up.”
“He couldn’t,” said Poke.
“They said David’s the only one who hauls late, and he’s the only one who hasn’t lost any of his catch.”
Poke frowned out at the bay.
“They’ll keep him from hauling,” cried Sally unevenly. “But let them! Just let them! Then they’ll see it’s somebody else who is stealing their old lobsters.”
Poke shook his head. “If David doesn’t go out for a while, I have an idea that the real thief will just lie low, too. Otherwise, he would have been hauling Dave’s traps right along with the others. As I see it, somebody is hoping to get away with stealing by letting David take the blame. Then when Dave starts hauling again, so does the thief. A nice piece of work!”
“But why don’t the men see it that way?”
“Because everything points to David, and they think they don’t need to look any farther. This is nothing sudden, Sally,” Poke added thoughtfully. “There have been little signs of trouble, if we had known enough to understand them. From Lookout Rock we watched Foggy hauling the other day. He spent a long time with one trap. David thought it was because of a full catch, but probably he was studying the knots in his bait line and wondering if someone had been hauling him.”
“Well, I bet it’s that old Willis Greenlaw! He’s mean to talk to David the way he did. And David just stood there and — and looked at him and didn’t say a word.” Loud grief burst over Sally. Silently, Poke handed her his handkerchief.
“They’ll take his license away from him, Poke,” Sally sobbed. “And his license means more to him than anything in the world.”
“No, Sally, they won’t,” Poke said gently, “because they haven’t any real proof. David can’t lose his license unless the warden catches him in the act of hauling illegally. I don’t think they want to call in the warden. Not yet, anyway.” The boy put an awkward hand on Sally’s shoulder.
After a while she blew her nose and looked up at Poke with reddened eyes. “But David can’t haul without bait, Poke.”
“How about herring?”
Sally shook her head miserably. “The Dennetts know everybody who does any seining. If they won’t sell him any redfish, they’ll keep him from getting herring, too.”
Something darkened in Poke’s eyes. “Will it matter so much if David doesn’t go out hauling for a while?”
“Matter!” cried Sally. “If he stops hauling now he’ll miss the peak season. He’ll lose Blake’s Island because he won’t have any money to pay the taxes.”
Poke’s deep voice was suddenly very firm. “Then he’ll just have to keep on hauling.”
Sally nodded doubtfully, but a tiny light of hope had come into her face. “We could go fishing maybe, for pollack or mackerel. Off the wharf, I mean,” she added hastily. “I don’t mean in a boat.”
Poke smiled crookedly. “I know what you mean, Sally. But I’m afraid Dave will need more bait than we could catch on a line.”
Sally looked down, defeated.
“I’ll find a way,” said Poke. “Now you run along home and let me think.”
Sally ran. She ran until she reached Harbor Road, but her brother was nowhere in sight. Out of breath and discouraged, she slowed to a walk. Her feet felt heavy and her heart was like lead. If she thought about what had just happened she would surely start to cry again. So she picked a daisy in passing and thought instead about the treasure.
“Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief . . .” Sally said to herself as she counted off the petals.
Somehow she knew that David would not take her to Tub Island right away. If he couldn’t get bait, he might keep off the water altogether because of the lobstermen. And if he could, the peak season for the next few weeks would keep him too busy for treasure hunting.
“Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief . . .” muttered Sally. And Poke would never get into a boat, not for the biggest treasure in the world. She knew that now. She would have to go to Tub Island all by herself. But how? Until she learned to swim, she would not be allowed to take the dory out alone. Sally studied the cove in despair.
At the rim of the harbor, the roof and chimneys of the old house rose above the spruces on Blake’s Island.
And behind Blake’s lay little Tub, small and round, like a secret.
“Tinker, tailor,
soldier, sailor . . .” Slowly, Sally walked homeward, her head bent over the daisy. She would have to think of some way to get to Tub Island.
Chapter
7
EBB TIDE FOR DAVID
DISCONSOLATELY, David turned in at the front gate and looked up to see the familiar, ancient Ford parked in the driveway. Of course. Uncle Charlie had come. Now things would somehow straighten out — everything would be all right again. His heart lifted and he hurried into the house.
The old man was seated at the kitchen table with David’s father and mother. Carefully, he set his coffee cup in its saucer and turned to face the boy. Uncle Charlie looked unhappy.
“David,” he began, and his voice filled the room. “I been talking with your folks so’s we can decide what you best do.”
David glanced toward his mother. She seemed disturbed, but her smile was steady. Her look was filled with understanding.
“Stand over by the stove, David, and get warm. You look cold and damp.” His father’s voice, like his mother’s smile, was reassuring.
David stood in front of the kitchen stove, feeling the good warmth at his back like a steadying arm.
Uncle Charlie cleared his throat and began loudly. “The boys over to the dock have been missing some lobsters, Dave.”
“They told me, Uncle Charlie,” said David. He was surprised that his voice did not shake.
“They say any more?”
“Yes.” He met the old man’s eyes steadily. “They asked me not to haul any more.”
Now the explosion would come. Now Uncle Charlie’s tremendous wrath would fall like a hurricane, whirling this nightmare up and away, destroying it for the evil thing it was.
David waited. The old clock on the mantel began to tick with an unbearable zest. TICK-tock, TICK-tock, TICK-tock. Still, Uncle Charlie stared into his coffee cup and said nothing.
Finally he sighed. “Well, Dave. They figure you’re young and mebbe don’t realize what’s what. And you got a good reason, they think, to want some extry cash.” Uncle Charlie slapped his chair in confusion. “Gorry mighty, Dave, they can’t figure out why you haven’t taken a loss yourself!”
“Unless I did it, you mean.”
“Ayuh. That’s about the jist of it.” Uncle Charlie pushed back his chair and stood up. “And another thing. They figure those traps are gitting hauled late in the day after they’re back in. Things are mostly the way they look, you know, and you’re the only one goes out afternoons, Dave. They can’t help wonderin’.”
Then, with a shock, David understood. Uncle Charlie, who should have trusted him, was one of those who wondered.
Mr. Blake met his son’s look steadily. Buck up, he seemed to say. Tell him you didn’t do it. That’s what he wants to hear.
Suddenly David felt himself taller than the old man. He turned back to him and spoke carefully, as he would speak to a child. “Uncle Charlie, I never hauled anybody’s traps but my own and I never will. The men know the reason I haul afternoons is because I work at home in the morning.”
Embarrassed, Uncle Charlie looked away. But there was no mistaking the relief in his voice. “Shooty, Dave,” he boomed, “I know it wa’n’t you. But it’s good to hear you say it, all the same.”
David nodded.
“Now, look. Here’s what you better do. You lay off haulin’ for a while. Then they’ll see it isn’t you and they’ll go after somebody else.”
“Supposing the thief lays off, too?” David’s father asked mildly.
“Well, I s’pose he might, during the peak season while the pickin’s good. But give him time.”
David found himself wondering if Uncle Charlie really believed there was someone else. “I guess maybe it would be easier to quit for a while,” he said, thinking aloud.
“ ’Course it is!” Uncle Charlie shouted. “When you see trouble coming, head the other way. Keep it to wind’ard, that’s what I say. You’ll live longer.”
Why, grown men, even the finest of them, were not always right, David thought with some surprise. Face up to trouble when it came. That was what his father always said, and in this case surely it was the thing to do. He lifted his head.
“I’m going hauling tomorrow, the way I always do. If I quit now the men will always believe I’m the thief. I’m going to keep right on hauling, Uncle Charlie. And if they call in the warden I’ll be glad to take him along.”
“Good for you,” said David’s father quietly, and although his mother was smiling there were proud tears in her eyes.
But Uncle Charlie shook his head as he rose to go. “Thanks for the mug-up,” he said to Mrs. Blake. Then he turned to David. “What are you going to do for bait?”
“I don’t know,” said David honestly.
“If you can’t git bait you can’t keep haulin’, Dave, and mebbe that’ll be just as well. But if you can, then you better forget your chores and haul mornings. Then they can keep an eye on you and they won’t be talking.”
“They don’t have to keep an eye on me, Uncle Charlie, so I’m going out when I always go. But if they think their traps are being hauled late in the day, then I’ll keep a lookout for someone else who goes out late.”
Uncle Charlie sighed. “Well, they can’t legally stop you unless they catch you stealing. But if you keep on haulin’, they ain’t a-going to like it.” He managed a crooked smile by way of farewell and climbed wearily into his old car.
But David did not see him. Instead, he was seeing Roddie McNeill heading out of a cove that glowed red with the sunset.
David’s father put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “What now?”
David turned. “I think I know who is hauling those traps, Dad. Only I need proof.”
His father nodded. “Then go after it, son.”
The following day dawned blue and hot, and the bay was crystal clear. After an early lunch David made ready to leave for town, and Sally followed him around like an anxious puppy. For the first time this summer, she had failed to go to the beach for her swimming lesson. And for once, David noted gratefully, she had not begged to go hauling with him.
“What will you ever do for bait?” she worried.
“I don’t know. I’ll haul today anyway, and maybe I’ll get enough crabs in the traps to tide me over. I don’t know . . . .” David shrugged and headed unsmiling down the path. He sensed that Sally stood at the door and watched him with concern dark in her eyes. She, too, knew that whatever crabs he might haul up would not begin to bait his entire string. With an effort he straightened his shoulders and kept on toward town.
Most of the townspeople seemed not to have heard the ugly rumor that David Blake was a lobster thief, and they greeted him as cordially as ever. But even on that first day there were some who passed him by, silently and with chill faces.
When he reached Fishermen’s Dock a few of the men were already in from hauling and, quietly busy, were carring their catch or putting away their gear. If they noticed David they gave no sign.
He went on down the path to the gear shed and his heart was like a stone. He found himself remembering things that had meant so much — the friendly banter across the water when he passed them coming in, the exchange of news around the gear sheds, Foggy’s special greeting, “Good haulin’, pal!”
All right, David thought with a deep bitterness. His face could be as stony as theirs. He could match their silence with his own. Heavily, he flung open the door of the gear shed and paused, bewildered. The rich, wonderful smell of salt redfish rose strong among the pleasant odors of potwarp and spruce wood. David stared at his bait barrel, filled to the brim. A quick hope rose within him as he wondered which of the lobstermen still believed in his honesty.
Outside, steps crunched on the clamshell path and Poke peered in. His unruly hair was edged by sunlight. A smile lighted his face. “There’s more where that came from,” he said.
David hesitated. “How did you do it, Poke?”
“Simple,” said Poke and he se
ated himself on the workbench. “I had a little talk with Mira Piper who agreed that lobster bait would make a fine fertilizer for her prize roses. So this morning Uncle Fred drove us to Rockland where we got a barrel of, uh, fertilizer from the bait company. It seems,” added Poke with a wink, “that Uncle Fred is growing interested in roses and has taken to calling on Miss Piper to talk about them.”
“Well, what do you know!” said David, interested.
Poke grinned in answer. “And furthermore, Miss Piper said to tell you that she has taken out what fertilizer she wants. You are to have the rest of it if she may store her barrel in your shed.” And Poke surveyed the full barrel with a fond pride.
David’s eyes began to sting, but laughter, too, crowded into his throat. He shook his head, unable to thank his friend properly. “I’ll settle tomorrow, Poke, when the hotel pays me.”
“That’s all right.” Then Poke hesitated, frowning down at the rough floor. “You asked me to be a partner on the Lobster Boy, but I think you know how I feel about boats.”
David nodded, waiting.
“Well, how about counting me in as a sort of silent partner? You do the hauling and I’ll supply the bait. Then we’ll be in this thing together.”
David’s throat tightened at his friend’s loyalty. The two shook hands on the agreement.
“One other thing. Don’t let the men get you down,” Poke urged. “All we have to do, you know, is find the real thief.” Significantly he tapped the battered field glasses slung over one thin shoulder. “Whenever our friend Roddie McNeill roars away from the yacht club, I intend to be watching.”
“But I never said I thought it was . . . .”
“You didn’t have to,” said the older boy. “Furthermore, I have generously offered to wait on tables at the yacht club dinner each Saturday. Young McNeill will be there, talking, I hope. And young Stokes will be there, too, listening.” Poke winked and was gone.
With new courage David filled his bait can. Now he could keep Blake’s Island and he could continue his savings program. And, by the grace of fortune, he could clear his name of dishonor.
The Secret of Saturday Cove Page 7
