Captains Courageous. Rudyard Kipling
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Are you so everlastin’ anxious to land him alone?” Harvey’s knuckles were raw and bleeding where they had been banged against the gunwale; his face was purple-blue between excitement and exertion; he dripped with sweat, and was half blinded from staring at the circling sunlit ripples about the swiftly moving line. The boys were tired long ere the halibut, who took charge of them and the dory for the next twenty minutes. But the big flat fish was gaffed and hauled in at last.
“Beginner’s luck,” said Dan, wiping his forehead. “He’s all of a hundred.”
Harvey looked at the huge gray-and-mottled creature with unspeakable pride. He had seen halibut many times on marble slabs ashore, but it had never occurred to him to ask how they came inland. Now he knew; and every inch of his body ached with fatigue.
“Ef dad was along,” said Dan, hauling up, “he’d read the signs plain’s print. The fish are runnin’ smaller an’ smaller, an’ you’ve took ’baout as logy a halibut’s we’re apt to find this trip. Yesterday’s catch – did ye notice it? – was all big fish an’ no halibut. Dad he’d read them signs right off. Dad says everythin’ on the Banks is signs, an’ can be read wrong er right. Dad’s deeper’n the Whale-hole.”
Even as he spoke some one fired a pistol on the We’re Here, and a potato-basket was run up in the fore-rigging.
“What did I say, naow? That’s the call fer the whole crowd. Dad’s onter something, er he’d never break fishin’ this time o’ day. Reel up, Harve, an’ we’ll pull back.”
They were to windward of the schooner, just ready to flirt the dory over the still sea, when sounds of woe half a mile off led them to Penn, who was careering around a fixed point, for all the world like a gigantic water-bug. The little man backed away and came down again with enormous energy, but at the end of each manoeuvre his dory swung round and snubbed herself on her rope.
“We’ll hev to help him, else he’ll root an’ seed here,” said Dan.
“What’s the matter?” said Harvey. This was a new world, where he could not lay down the law to his elders, but had to ask questions humbly. And the sea was horribly big and unexcited.
“Anchor’s fouled. Penn’s always losing ’em. Lost two this trip a’ready, – on sandy bottom, too, – an’ dad says next one he loses, sure’s fishin’, he’ll give him the kelleg. That ’u’d break Penn’s heart.”
“What’s a ‘kelleg’?” said Harvey, who had a vague idea it might be some kind of marine torture, like keel-hauling in the story-books.
“Big stone instid of an anchor. You kin see a kelleg ridin’ in the bows fur’s you can see a dory, an’ all the Fleet knows what it means. They’d guy him dreadful. Penn couldn’t stand that no more’n a dog with a dipper to his tail. He’s so everlastin’ sensitive. Hello, Penn! Stuck again? Don’t try any more o’ your patents. Come up on her, and keep your rodin’ straight up an’ down.”
“It doesn’t move,” said the little man, panting. “It doesn’t move at all, and indeed I tried everything.”
“What’s all this hurrah’s-nest for’ard?” said Dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by the hand of inexperience.
“Oh, that,” said Penn, proudly, “is a Spanish windlass. Mr. Salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn’t move her.”
Dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once.
“Haul up, Penn,” he said, laughing, “er she’ll git stuck again.”
They left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely.
“Oh, say, while I think of it, Harve,” said Dan, when they were out of ear-shot, “Penn ain’t quite all caulked. He ain’t nowise dangerous, but his mind’s give out. See?”
“Is that so, or is it one of your father’s judgments?” Harvey asked, as he bent to his oars. He felt he was learning to handle them more easily.
“Dad ain’t mistook this time. Penn’s a sure ’nuff loony. No, he ain’t thet, exactly, so much ez a harmless ijjit. It was this way (you’re rowin’ quite so, Harve), an’ I tell you ’cause it’s right you orter know. He was a Moravian preacher once. Jacob Boller wuz his name, dad told me, an’ he lived with his wife an’ four children somewheres out Pennsylvania way. Well, Penn he took his folks along to a Moravian meetin’, – camp-meetin’, most like, – an’ they stayed over jest one night in Johnstown. You’ve heered talk o’ Johnstown?”
Harvey considered. “Yes, I have. But I don’t know why. It sticks in my head same as Ashtabula.”
“Both was big accidents – thet’s why, Harve. Well, that one single night Penn and his folks was to the hotel Johnstown was wiped out. Dam bu’st an’ flooded her, an’ the houses struck adrift an’ bumped into each other an’ sunk. I’ve seen the pictures, an’ they’re dretful. Penn he saw his folk drowned all ’n a heap ’fore he rightly knew what was comin’. His mind give out from that on. He mistrusted somethin’ hed happened up to Johnstown, but for the poor life of him he couldn’t remember what, an’ he jest drifted araound smilin’ an’ wonderin’. He didn’t know what he was, nor yit what he hed bin, an’ thet way he run agin’ Uncle Salters, who was visitin’ ’n Allegheny City. Ha’af my mother’s folks they live scattered inside o’ Pennsylvania, an’ Uncle Salters he visits araound winters. Uncle Salters he kinder adopted Penn, well knowin’ what his trouble wuz; an’ he brought him East, an’ he give him work on his farm.”
“Why, I heard him calling Penn a farmer last night when the boats bumped. Is your Uncle Salters a farmer?”
“Farmer!” shouted Dan. “There ain’t water enough ’tween here an’ Hatt’rus to wash the furrer-mould off’n his boots. He’s jest everlastin’ farmer. Why, Harve, I’ve seen thet man hitch up a bucket, long towards sundown, an’ set twiddlin’ the spigot to the scuttle-butt same’s ef ’twuz a cow’s bag. He’s thet much farmer. Well, Penn an’ he they ran the farm – up Exeter way, ’twuz. Uncle Salters he sold it this spring to a jay from Boston as wanted to build a summerhaouse, an’ he got a heap for it. Well, them two loonies scratched along till, one day, Penn’s church he’d belonged to – the Moravians – found out where he wuz drifted an’ layin’, an’ wrote to Uncle Salters. Never heerd what they said exactly; but Uncle Salters was mad. He’s a ’piscopalian mostly – but he jest let ’em hev it both sides o’ the bow, ’s if he was a Baptist, an’ sez he warn’t goin’ to give up Penn to any blame Moravian connection in Pennsylvania or anywheres else. Then he come to dad, towin’ Penn, – thet was two trips back, – an’ sez he an’ Penn must fish a trip fer their health. Guess he thought the Moravians wouldn’t hunt the Banks fer Jacob Boller. Dad was agreeable, fer Uncle Salters he’d been fishin’ off an’ on fer thirty years, when he warn’t inventin’ patent manures, an’ he took quarter-share in the We’re Here; an’ the trip done Penn so much good, dad made a habit o’ takin’ him. Some day, dad sez, he’ll remember his wife an’ kids an’ Johnstown, an’ then, like’s not, he’ll die, dad sez. Don’t yer talk about Johnstown ner such things to Penn, ’r Uncle Salters he’ll heave ye overboard.”
“Poor Penn!” murmured Harvey. “I shouldn’t ever have thought Uncle Salters cared for him by the look of ’em together.”
“I like Penn, though; we all do,” said Dan. “We ought to ha’ give him a tow, but I wanted to tell ye first.”
They were close to the schooner now, the other boats a little behind them.
“You needn’t heave in the dories till after dinner,” said Troop, from the deck. “We’ll dress daown right off. Fix table, boys!”
“Deeper’n the Whale-deep,” said Dan, with a wink, as he set the gear for dressing-down. “Look at them boats that hev edged up sence mornin’.