t, but, inside, that old boat is as neat
as wax. Got a good library on board, too; books there that were beyond
me. All the current magazines. Easy to see how he keeps up to date about
everything."

At two o'clock that afternoon in popped the _Calista_ in quest of
lobsters. The boys told her captain about their strange caller. Higgins
laughed shortly.

"What--old Thorpe! Oh yes, I've known of him these twenty years!
Mystery? Not so much as you might think. It's the same mystery that's
ruined a lot of other men--John Barleycorn! Thorpe showed up from nobody
knows where about a quarter of a century ago; and ever since then he's
been banging up and down the coast in that old boat. They say he's a
college graduate gone to the bad from drink."

"What supports him?" asked Lane. "Does he fish?"

"Not more than enough to supply himself and his live stock. I've heard
he's got wealthy relatives who furnish him with all the money he needs.
He likes to live in this style, and they like to have him. He's out of
their way, and they're out of his. In the winter he ties the sloop up in
some harbor and stops aboard."

"He seemed to be sober enough last night," said Jim.

"Yes; when he's all right you couldn't ask for a man to be more
peaceable or gentlemanly; but when he's in liquor, look out! I passed
him a month ago one squally day off Monhegan, running before the wind,
sheet fast, shot to the eyes, and yelling like a wild man. It's a
dangerous trick to make that sheet fast on a squally day, or on any day
at all, for that matter. Some time he'll do it once too often. Well, as
the saying goes, 'When rum's in, wit's out!' How's lobsters?"

XVII

BLOWN OFF

At two o'clock on a Friday morning toward the end of August Spurling and
Whittington started with six tubs of trawl, baited with salted herring,
for Clay Bank. Long before sunrise the last fathom of ground-line had
gone overboard and the tubs were empty.

Swinging the _Barracouta_ about, they retraced their course to the first
buoy.

A long, oily ocean swell, heaving in from the south, undulated the
breezeless sea. The air was mild, almost suspiciously so. Dawn was
breaking redly as they reached their starting-point and prepared to pull
in the trawl.

"I'll haul the first half, Perce," volunteered Spurling.

Drawing the dory alongside, he cast off her painter and sprang aboard.
Before taking in the buoy he stood for a half-minute, scanning sky and
sea.

"Al