“By jiminy, old man, you certainly can swim,” exclaimed Jack as he reached the lad from the Fish Hawk. But the newcomer to Hood Island made no reply. Instead, he stood still and eyed Jack suspiciously.

“Oh, that’s all right. You needn’t mistrust me. Here’s my hand on it. My name is John Strawbridge—Jack Straw for short, you know,” said the lad from Drueryville, extending his hand toward the big fellow.

“Mine’s Raymond Carroll. Call me Ray; it sounds better.”

“Glad to meet you, Ray. What’s all the fuss about, anyway? What are you quitting the fisherman for? Had trouble with the master?”

“Trouble? Huh, I never am out of trouble. Yes, I’ve had a row with the captain. He’s[49] my uncle and I guess a day hasn’t passed in the last ten years that we haven’t had some sort of a run in. But I’ve left him for good this time. I’d swim clean from here to the mainland before I’d go back on board his old vessel. By hookey, I’ve done nothing but fight with him and his men ever since I started on this cruise. He said he’d knock the inventive bug out of me or crack my head trying. He’s thrashed me with rope ends and even mauled me with a belaying pin now and then when I got my dander up. Look here.”

Ray threw back his wet shirt and exhibited a deep, ragged wound across his shoulder.

“And you swam ashore with that!” cried Jack incredulously.

“Yep, but if it had been fifty feet further I guess I’d never have come out of the water alive. My arm feels as if it was paralyzed. I can’t raise it now.”

“Huh, I don’t wonder. Come on up to camp and get it fixed up,” said Jack solicitously. But just at this point Mr. Warner and Big O’Brien joined them. Ray’s shirt was still open and both men saw the ugly cut.

“By George, lad, that’s a bad slash you have[50] there. What have you been doing for it?” said the marine engineer as he bent closer to examine the laceration.

“Taking a salt water bath,” said the lad with a plucky smile.

“Yes? Well, if you get it infected, you’ll not smile about it. Come up to the lighthouse and we’ll see if Eli Whittaker has anything in his government medicine chest that will help you. A good application of iodine is the thing to chase away the poison germs and heal it up. Come along, son.”

And together they climbed the steep path to the camp. Here they were greeted by a group of workmen who were eager to hear Ray’s story, but Mr. Warner refused to allow the boy to satisfy their curiosity until they had reached the lighthouse and done some doctoring.

Old Eli Whittaker, the keeper of Hood Island light for ten years past, was just getting downstairs from his bedroom on the top floor of the little dwelling attached to the lighthouse, when Mr. Warner and his party arrived. The old keeper had been able to get four hours’ sleep since five o’clock that morning, when he[51] put the light out, and he figured that he had quite enough to last him until the following morning.

“’Lo, Mister Warner. T’men told me you was coming. I calc-late ye came ashore this morning,” said Eli, shaking hands with the engineer.

“Yes, Captain Whittaker,” said Mr. Warner. “We came up on the Blueflower. Say, Captain, how’s the ‘doctor’? We have a patient here. We wanted to see if you had anything in your medicine chest to take the pain out of a nasty flesh wound. Some iodine perhaps.”

“Wall, I calc-late ye can have ’bout a pint o’ it. Hope ye ain’t goin’ t’ need moren that ’cause that all’s left in t’ bottle. My two Manx cats ‘Port’ and ‘Sta’berd’ got fightin’ t’ other night an’ I used a heap o’ iodine t’ mend up their plegid hides,” said the lighthouse keeper, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

“That will be quite enough,” said Mr. Warner. “Where are your two famous tailless cats? I guess every man in the service knows about those cats.”

[52]

“Oh, they’re around somewheres, drat ’em,” said Captain Eli. Then he added:

“All right, come in an’ make yerselfs t’hum, gentlemen, while I consult t’ ‘doc.’”

They were ushered into the spick-and-span living apartment of the tiny four-room cottage adjoining the lighthouse tower, while Captain Whittaker bustled into the kitchen and returned with the portable medicine chest which the Service furnishes to all lighthouse keepers. This was the doctor referred to and Eli scrutinized the various bottles carefully before he brought out one labeled “Poison.”

“Here’s the consarn stuff. Now, let me see this here cut, young feller,” he said. Then when he had looked at the wound he began bathing and bandaging with experienced fingers. Of course Ray winced with pain when the iodine was applied, but he realized that it was the best thing for him.

“There,” said the light keeper after he had finished, “I guess ye’ll pull through all right, providin’ no complications sets in, es Old Doc Chipman sez when he hed stitched up Buck Longyear after t’ red bull hed carried him clear ’cross t’ pasture lot on t’ p’int o’ his horn. How[53] did you come to get beat up so? Been gettin’ fresh to t’ skipper?”

“Yes, tell us your troubles, Ray,” said Jack, who was dreadfully curious to hear the boy’s tale.

“Oh, it isn’t much of a story,” said Ray. “Just a case of my usual luck. I’ve been living with my Uncle Vance for the last ten years. My dad died when I was five and mother followed him a year after. I guess Uncle Vance wasn’t keen on having me on his hands from the first, leastwise he never showed that he liked the idea at all, so I always took it for granted that I was sort of in his way.

“He’s a man who believes that every one including himself should work from dawn until darkness. He says it’s the only way to get along. Just slave like a horse at the work in front of you. That is all he has ever done. He don’t believe in progress and he won’t take any stock in a single new idea. That’s why he and I had most of our misunderstandings. I like to potter with machinery and build things. He called it all ‘durned nonsense’ and allowed he’d thrash it all out of me if it was the only thing he ever accomplished.

[54]

“Everything I built he broke up for kindling wood or tossed overboard as useless. Then he’d give me a flogging for not being hard at work on something more useful. It made me mighty mad. One time I made a corking fine water wheel in the trout stream back of our house in Ascog. I had the grindstone hitched to it, and every time I wanted to grind the ax or a knife or anything, all I had to do was to slip the belt on the pulley and away she went.

“But when Uncle Vance saw that he was furious. He smashed the waterwheel and flogged me good. Then he set to work and gathered every knife and hatchet he could find in Ascog and made me sharpen ’em on an old foot stone just to teach me that laziness never profited any one. I was only eight years old, but I never forgot that. Always since then I’ve taken particular pains to hide everything I made.

“All this Spring I was working on a model of a non-sinkable metal lifeboat. You see, I had an idea I might have it patented and perhaps make money enough out of it to go to high school. Uncle Vance says my schooling[55] days are over and that any more learning would make me lazier than I am. And I just simply want to go to high school so that some day I can go to college and study engineering. Well, about the lifeboat.

“When we started off after swordfish on this last cruise, I smuggled the model aboard the yawl, because I thought I’d get a chance to do some tinkering on it when Uncle Vance wasn’t looking. That was the worst thing I could have done. Last Monday he caught me working on it and he was thundering mad. He just rushed at me and tore it out of my hands. Then he threw the thing overboard and got a rope end. And when he whaled me so I couldn’t stand it any longer and pulled away from him, he threw a belaying pin at me and hit me on the shoulder. Oh, he’s a fine uncle, you can bet. Can’t blame me for being bitter, can you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Mr. Warner.

“That’s sort of tough treatment,” said Jack with sympathy.

“I guess it was. Well, I decided after that I would quit Uncle Vance. Last night I took the plugs out of all the dories after they had[56] been hoisted aboard and then made up my mind to skip to the first land we sighted. And here I am. I guess Uncle Vance will miss me a little at that. He’ll miss flogging me with a rope end. And he’ll miss me if Old Bart gets seasick, as he often does. Old Bart is the harpooner and next to him I was the best harpooner of the—”

Ray stopped talking abruptly and looked with horror toward the door. There stood a big, burly, black-whiskered individual, who fitted exactly Jack’s idea of an old-time buccaneer. He was hatless and his shirt was open at the throat and his great brawny arms were bared to the elbow. In his hand he gripped two knotted rope ends. For a moment he paused there, glowering at Ray. Then with a roar he lunged forward as if he intended to tear the boy in two.

“Oh, it’s Uncle Vance!” screamed Ray, leaping back in fear.

And as quickly as the lad jumped out of the path of the fisherman, into his path stepped Big O’Brien, the camp foreman. This rapid change of principals seemed to disconcert the intruder for a moment, for he stopped abruptly[57] and faced the big Irishman. Both were silent and tense. Not a word did they exchange, but as they stood there glaring at each other it was evident that each was ready to crush the other with a blow. The fisherman’s face was as black as a thunder cloud.

“Let me at t’ whelp,” he hissed.

O’Brien swallowed hard. Then slowly raised his hand and pointed toward the door.

“Git OUT! Git, or I’ll thrash ye! Ye don’t know how t’ take care o’ a nephy!” he roared.

The fisherman did not move. Instead his fist drew back for a blow. But the foreman was too quick for him. Throwing self-control to the wind, the Irishman reached out and seized the big man around the waist. Then with a superhuman effort he lifted him from the floor and hurled him back through the doorway, following after him like a panther.

Now it happened that just at this point one of the fisherman’s followers, who had come ashore with him, was entering the cottage. The captain, as he plunged headlong through the open, collided with this man and both fell into a heap at the very doorstep. But they were on their feet in an instant and O’Brien[58] had hardly stepped clear of the room before his bearded adversary was on guard.

O’Brien’s eyes narrowed in anger. He never paused or wavered a moment but plunged forward like an enraged bull. It was a vicious fight while it lasted. Strength and brawn against strength and brawn. Two masters fighting in almost fatal earnestness, one to avenge an insult, the other to prove his mastery. The grunts that accompanied each trip hammer blow told the bitterness of the encounter.

There were no preliminaries. O’Brien rushed the bearded man and as he closed in his arm shot up from his hip like a shaft of darting lightning. Behind it was every ounce of strength in his great powerful body. The smack of flesh against flesh sounded and the fisherman staggered. An instant he swayed, then he lurched forward into a clinch before the Irishman could deliver a second blow. Desperately he clung on, swaying to the right and left with the foreman, who tried his hardest to shake him off.

Men came rushing from the camp. They formed a circle about the two. They were big[59] burly men and every one of them loved a fight. Jack and Ray and the engineer and even mild-tempered old Eli Whittaker were among them, and as they watched the swaying figures before them their natural love of combat cropped forth and they cheered lustily with the rest, cheered lustily at each clever move, no matter which one made it.

The fisherman held on to the clinch until O’Brien was almost beside himself with rage. He held on for his life until his head cleared from the stinging hammer-like blow he had received on the jaw. Then suddenly with a catlike movement he broke, dropping low and slipping away from two terrific blows aimed at his head.

This agility called forth applause from the men in the circle, which developed into a burst of cheers when the black-bearded one stepped back again and drove right, left and right against O’Brien’s stomach and jumped away before the Irishman could get in anything better than a glancing punch on the head in return. Once again he waded in. But this time he was not so fortunate. O’Brien’s great ham-like fist smashed squarely against his nose, and[60] before he could recover himself a left hook shot up and snapped his head back between his shoulders!

Once more he clinched and held, while O’Brien squirmed and wriggled to free himself for a final and finishing blow.

But the fisherman’s wits cleared again. Then for a moment his head rested on the shoulder of his opponent, his mouth temptingly near the great corded neck of the foreman. An instant later the mariner’s mouth opened and his short tobacco-stained teeth sunk into O’Brien’s flesh. He bit and bit deeply and tiny streams of blood trickled out from between his lips and stained the foreman’s shirt.

With a howl of pain O’Brien hurled the man from him and rained crushing blows onto his face. The mariner was no match for the infuriated foreman after that. He dodged this way and that to avoid the terrible punishment, only in the end to plunge headlong into a mighty swing that O’Brien meant to be the finishing blow! The fight ended there! The impact was terrible! The bearded one’s body snapped like a spring. He clutched blindly[61] for something to support him! Then he pitched forward into the grass!

“The fight ended there!”

A moment the great body quivered, then slowly his knees drew upward almost to his chin, and he lay perfectly still!

O’Brien stood over him, one fist clenched, the other mopping the blood from his neck.

“There, blame him, I guess that finishes his fightin’ fer t’day,” he said laconically. Then to the other swordfisherman who stood near by he said, “There’s yer captain. Lug him out o’ here es fast as ye kin. I don’t want t’ see his ugly face ’round here any more ner yours neither.” And still mopping the blood from the wound in his neck, he elbowed his way through the crowd and disregarding the shouts of applause made his way into Eli Whittaker’s cottage, where he sought the iodine bottle so recently used on Ray’s shoulder.

For several minutes Ray’s Uncle Vance lay unconscious on the grass while the other fisherman worked over him. Finally with the aid of a bucket of cold water, he was revived. Slowly his eyes opened and he looked about. Then without a word he struggled to his feet and assisted by his companion walked slowly[62] down the steep path toward the beach where his dory lay hauled up above the water line. The crowd on the promontory watched him go; in fact, they remained until they saw the small boat reach the yawl. Then O’Brien appeared on the scene again and sent them all back to their task of building houses.

“Say, your uncle is some fighter, Ray. But he wasn’t a match for O’Brien,” said Jack, as the two boys watched the fishermen raise the mainsail of the yawl.

“You bet he wasn’t. That was some of his own medicine applied in a larger quantity. By hookey, I’ll bet a copper he’s raving mad at me. Mark my word, this isn’t the last we hear from him,” said Ray.

“Well, it’s the last we’ll hear from him to-day, for his boat is starting off toward the south,” said Jack.

“That being the case,” said Mr. Warner, “I’m going to look around and become familiar with my working staff. I want to start a survey of Cobra Head to-morrow if I can. You boys can come along if you want to. In fact, I rather think I’ll need you along to help me take stock of materials and things.

[63]

“And, by the way there, son—ah—er—Ray, I mean, what are we going to do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Ray, looking anxiously at the engineer.

“Well, ah—er—hum, how’d you like a job clerking here with Jack? Can’t pay you much, but we’ll give you your board at least. There will be enough work for the two of you to do, I guess. How about it?”

“That would be slick,” exclaimed Ray, all smiles now.

“All right. You’re hired. Come along with me,” said Mr. Warner.