"With that little shaver on the coast," said the clerk, "'tis best done quickly."

"I've no heart for it," the skipper growled.

The clerk's thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as he lifted his gla.s.s. Nor had _he_ any heart for it. It had been all very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark--just a wild lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking--at first.

But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned uneasy and timid.

In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:

"Wisht I was out o' this."

"Wisht I'd never come in it," the first hand sighed.

Their words were in whispers.

"I 'low," said the second hand, with a scared glance about, "that the ol' man will--will _do_ it--the morrow."

The three averted their eyes--each from the other's.

"I 'low," the cook gasped.

Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook, said: "'Twill blow half a gale the morrow."

"Ay," said the skipper, uneasily; "an' there's like t' be more than half a gale by the gla.s.s."

"There'll be few craft out o' harbour."

"Few craft, Tommy," said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his bristling red beard. "I'm not likin' t' take the _Black Eagle_ t'

sea."

"'Tis like there'll be fog," the clerk continued.

"Ay; 'tis like there'll be a bit o' fog."

Skipper and clerk helped themselves to another dram of rum. Why was it that Tom Tulk had made them a parting gift? Perhaps Tom Tulk understood the hearts of new-made rascals. At any rate, skipper and clerk, both simple fellows, after all, were presently heartened.

Tommy Bull laughed.

"Skipper," said he, "do you go ash.o.r.e an' say you'll take the _Black Eagle_ t' sea the morrow, blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul."

The skipper looked up in bewilderment.

"Orders," the clerk explained, grinning. "Tell 'em you've been wigged lively enough by Sir Archibald for lyin' in harbour."

Skipper George laughed in his turn.

"For'ard, there!" the clerk roared, putting his head out of the cabin.

"One o' you t' take the skipper ash.o.r.e!"

Three fishing-schooners, bound down from the Labrador, had put in for safe berth through a threatening night. And with the skippers of these craft, and with the idle folk ash.o.r.e, Skipper George foregathered. Dirty weather? (the skipper declared); sure, 'twas dirty weather. But there was no wind on that coast could keep the _Black Eagle_ in harbour. No, sir: no wind that blowed. Skipper George was sick an' tired o' bein' wigged by Sir Archibald Armstrong for lyin' in harbour. No more wiggin' for _him_. No, sir! He'd take the _Black Eagle_ t' sea in the mornin'? Let it blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul, 'twould be up anchor an' t' sea for the _Black Eagle_ at dawn. Wreck her? Well, let her _go_ t' wreck. Orders was orders. If the _Black Eagle_ happened t' be picked up by a rock in the fog 'twould be Sir Archibald Armstrong's business to explain it. As for Skipper George, no man would be able t' tell _him_ again that he was afraid t' take his schooner t' sea. An' orders was orders, sir. Yes, sir; orders was orders.

"I'm not likin' the job o' takin' my schooner t' sea in wind an' fog,"

Skipper George concluded, with a great a.s.sumption of indignant courage; "but when I'm told t' drive her, _I'll drive_, an' let the owner take the consequences."

This impressed the Labrador skippers.

"Small blame t' you, Skipper George," one declared, "if you do lose her."

Well satisfied with the evidence he had manufactured to sustain the story of wreck, Skipper George returned to the schooner.

"Well," he drawled to the clerk, "I got my witnesses. They isn't a man ash.o.r.e would put t' sea the morrow if the weather comes as it promises."

The clerk sighed and anxiously frowned. Skipper George, infected by this melancholy and regret--for the skipper loved the trim, fleet-footed, well-found _Black Eagle_--Skipper George sighed, too.

"Time t' turn in, Tommy," said he.

The skipper had done a good stroke of business ash.o.r.e. Sir Archibald had indeed ordered him to "drive" the _Black Eagle_.

And in the rising wind of the next day while the _Spot Cash_ lay at anchor in Tilt Cove and Archie's messages were fleeting over the wire to St. John's--the _Black Eagle_ was taken to sea. Ash.o.r.e they advised her skipper to stick to shelter; but the skipper would have none of their warnings. Out went the _Black Eagle_ under shortened sail. The wind rose; a misty rain gathered; fog came in from the far, wide open.

But the _Black Eagle_ sped straight out to sea. Beyond the Pony Islands--a barren, out-of-the-way little group of rocks--she beat aimlessly to and fro: now darting away, now approaching. But there was no eye to observe her peculiar behaviour. Before night fell--driven by the gale--she found poor shelter in a seaward cove. Here she hung grimly to her anchorage through the night. Skipper and crew, as morning approached, felt the wind fall and the sea subside.

Dawn came in a thick fog.

"What do you make of it, Tommy?" the skipper asked.

The clerk stared into the mist. "Pony Islands, skipper, sure enough,"

said he.

"Little Pony or Big?"

In a rift of the mist a stretch of rocky coast lay exposed.

"Little Pony," said the clerk.

"Ay," the skipper agreed: "an' 'twas Little Pony, easterly sh.o.r.e," he added, his voice dwindling away, "that Tom Tulk advised."

"An' about the tenth o' the month," Tommy Bull added.

CHAPTER x.x.x

_In Which the Fog Thins and the Crew of the "Spot Cash"

Fall Foul of a Dark Plot_