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JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN

or Making Good

by

ALBERT W. TOLMAN

Illustrated







[Illustration: [See page 279

HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF TOWARD THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS
FATHER WAS FASTENED]


[Illustration]

Harper & Brothers Publishers
New York and London

JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN

Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America




TO MY BOYS
ALBERT AND EDWARD




CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                 PAGE
  I.      SMASHED UP                       1
  II.     A FRESH START                   18
  III.    TARPAULIN ISLAND                29
  IV.     MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS              41
  V.      GETTING READY                   53
  VI.     TRAWLING FOR HAKE               66
  VII.    SHORTS AND COUNTERS             78
  VIII.   SALT-WATER GIPSIES              90
  IX.     FISTS AND FIREWORKS            102
  X.      REBELLION IN CAMP              114
  XI.     TURN OF THE TIDE               128
  XII.    PULLING TOGETHER               138
  XIII.   FOG-BOUND                      150
  XIV.    SWORDFISHING                   162
  XV.     MIDSUMMER DAYS                 174
  XVI.    A LOST ALUMNUS                 186
  XVII.   BLOWN OFF                      198
  XVIII.  BUOY OR BREAKER                208
  XIX.    ON THE WHISTLER                221
  XX.     SQUARING AN ACCOUNT            233
  XXI.    OLD FRIENDS                    243
  XXII.   PERCY SCORES                   255
  XXIII.  WHITTINGTON GRIT               269
  XXIV.   CROSSING THE TAPE              283




ILLUSTRATIONS


HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF
TOWARD THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS FATHER WAS
FASTENED                                          _Frontispiece_

THE CAMP AT SPROWL'S COVE                           _Facing p._   56

LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED
HIS WAIST, HE LIFTED THE LONG LANCE AND
POISED IT FOR THE BLOW                                  "        166

KNEES BRACED TIGHTLY AGAINST THE SIDES OF THE
STERN, HANDS LOCKED ROUND THE STOUT BUTT
OF THE LANCE, HE FOILED RUSH AFTER RUSH OF
THE BLACK-FINNED, WHITE-BELLIED PIRATES                 "        172

THEY STOOD CLOSE TOGETHER ON THE CIRCULAR TOP,
HOLDING ON TO THE CROSSED BAILS, WAIST-HIGH             "        222

"WE NEED THAT SLOOP AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE
HER!"                                                   "        252




JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN




JIM SPURLING
FISHERMAN




I

SMASHED UP


"Here comes J. P. Whittington, Junior, Esquire, in his new Norman! Some
speed--what?"

The three Graffam Academy seniors, Jim Spurling, Roger Lane, and
Winthrop Stevens, who were sitting on the low, wooden fence before the
campus, earnestly discussing the one thing that had engrossed their
minds for the past two weeks, stopped talking and leaned forward.

On the broad, elm-lined street beyond the Mall suddenly appeared a cloud
of dust, out of which shot a gray automobile. Its high speed soon
brought it to the academy grounds, and it came to an abrupt stop before
the fence.

"Pile in, fellows!" shouted the driver, a bareheaded youth in white
flannels, "and I'll take you on a little spin."

He was a slim, sallow lad of seventeen, with a straw- pompadour
crowning his freckled forehead. The sleeves of his outing shirt were
rolled up above his elbows, revealing his bony, sunburnt arms. He wore a
gay red tie, and a tennis blazer, striped black and white, lay on the
seat beside him.

"No, thanks, Percy," replied Lane. "Sorry we can't go; but we're too
busy."

Spurling and Stevens nodded as Whittington's light-blue eyes traveled
inquiringly from one to the other.

"Ah, come on!" he invited. "Be sports! Let's celebrate the end of the
course. Just to show how good I feel, I'm going to scorch a three-mile
hole through the atmosphere between here and Mount Barlow faster than it
was ever done before. Tumble aboard and help hold this barouche down on
the pike while I burn the top off it for the last time."

Pulling out a book of tissue wrappers and a sack of tobacco, he began to
roll a cigarette with twitching, yellowed fingers.

"Anybody got a match? No? Then I'll have to dig one up myself."

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lucifer. Soon he was inhaling
the smoke and talking rapidly.

"I'm so glad this is my last week here I feel like kicking my head off.
Once I shake the dust of this dump off my tires, you can bet you'll
never catch me here again. Say, do you know what this Main Street
reminds me of? An avenue in Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans, with a row
of white tombs on each side. I saw it last Christmas. They bury 'em
aboveground there, too. The Rubes in this burg are just as dead, only
they don't know it."

Drawing a final, long, luxurious whiff, he tossed the half-smoked
cigarette away.

"Well, so long! My dad's coming on the five-ten to see his only son
graduate _cum laude_. And me loaded down with conditions a truck-horse
couldn't haul! Wouldn't that jar you? Guess I'll have to do my
road-burning before he gets here. Hold a watch on me, will you? I'm out
for the record."

"Careful, or you'll get pinched for over-speeding," cautioned Stevens.

Whittington spat contemptuously.

"Pinch your grandmother!" he jeered. "I've been pinched too many times
to mind a little thing like that."

Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it in silence. Then
Spurling spoke.

"Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank-account you can't touch the
bottom of, mustn't it? They say his father's all sorts of a millionaire.
Hope he doesn't get smashed up or run over somebody."

"He's a good-natured fool," commented Lane. "But you can't help liking
him, after all. Now let's get back to business."

It was Commencement week in mid-June at the old country academy nestled
among the New England hills. The lawns before the substantial white
houses were emerald with the fresh, unrivaled green of spring. Fragrant
lilacs sweetened the soft air. The walks under the thick-leafed elms
were thronged with talking, laughing groups. Bright- dresses
dotted the campus before the dingy brick buildings. Tennis-courts and
ball-field were alive with active figures. A few days more and students
and strangers would be gone, and the old town would sink into the drowsy
quiet of the long summer vacation.

Lounging on the notched, whittled fence, Lane, Spurling, and Stevens
fell once more into earnest conversation.

Spurling came from a Maine coast town. He was nineteen, tall,
broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, deliberate in speech and movements.
Physically very strong, he had caught on the academy ball team and
played guard in football. Mentally he was a trifle slow; but in the
whole school there was no squarer, more solid fellow. So far as finances
went, he was dependent on his own resources; whatever education he got
he must earn himself.

Lane afforded in many respects a decided contrast to Spurling. Reared on
a New Hampshire farm in the shadow of the White Mountains, he was of
medium build, wiry and active, a practical joker, full of life and
spirit. He had red hair and the quick temper that goes with it. Though
not much of a student, he had at eighteen a keen, clear business head.
Like Spurling, he had been obliged to make his own way; and, like
Spurling, he was abundantly able to make it.

Winthrop Stevens, or "Throppy," as his friends nicknamed him, claimed a
small Massachusetts city as his home. He was the best scholar of the
three, dark, quiet, studious, with a decided trend toward mechanics and
electricity. Though not obliged to work for his schooling, he had always
chummed with the other two, and with them had been a waiter at a shore
hotel the previous season.

The trio were endeavoring to decide what they should do the coming
summer.

"Well," said Lane, "what shall it be? Juggling food again at the
Beachmont?"

"Not for me," answered Spurling, decidedly. "I'm sick of hanging round a
table, pretending to do as many unnecessary things as you can, wondering
whether the man you've waited on is going to give up a half-dollar or a
nickel, knowing that the more uncomfortable you can make him feel the
bigger fee you'll pull down. No more tipping for me! I'd rather earn my
money, even if I don't get so much."

"Hits me, Jim," assented Stevens. "What do you say, Budge?"

"Same here," agreed Roger.

The long-drawn shriek of a locomotive rose from the valley-bottom.

"There's the five-ten!" ejaculated Lane. "I pity Whittington when his
dad finds how things have gone."

"Percy isn't the only one who needs sympathy," said Spurling, soberly.
"What about his father?"

"I'm sorry for 'em both," was Lane's comment. "But the Whittington
family'll have to handle its own troubles. Now, fellow-members, to the
question before the house! Unless I raise at least two hundred dollars
in the next three months, it's no college for me in September."

A short silence followed. Spurling took out his knife and deliberately
slithered a long, splintery shaving off the fence-top.

"I've an idea," he said, slowly. "Give me till evening and I'll tell
you about it. What d'you say to a last game of tennis?"

The others agreed and slipped off the fence. Lane glanced up the road.

"Here comes Whittington, scorching like a blue streak! And there's Bill
Sanders's old auto crawling up May Street hill from the railroad
station! If Percy should hit him--good-night!"

The gray machine rapidly grew larger. The people on the sidewalks stood
still and watched.

May Street crossed Main at right angles, and a high cedar hedge before
the corner house made it impossible for the two drivers to see each
other until they were close together. On sped the gray car.

"Isn't he humming!"

Suddenly Whittington thrust out his left arm.

"He's going to turn down May Street!" shouted Lane. "Bound to the
station after his father. He'll hit Sanders, sure as fate! Hi! Hi there,
Percy!"

Heedless of the warning, Whittington whirled round into May Street and
plunged full tilt into the hotel bus, striking it a glancing blow back
of its front wheel. There was a tremendous crash.

"Come on, fellows!" cried Lane.

They ran at top speed toward the wreck. Through the clearing dust three
figures were visible, extricating themselves from the ruins. Sanders,
the hotel chauffeur, was groaning and rubbing his ankle. His only
passenger, a bald, thick-set man, with smooth face and bulldog jaw, had
a bleeding scratch down his right cheek and a badly torn coat.
Whittington, apparently unharmed, was chalky and stuttering from
fright.

Spurling, for all his slowness, was the first to reach the wreck. He
helped the stout stranger to his feet, and the man turned angrily toward
Whittington. An exclamation of surprise burst from both.

"Dad!"

"Percy!"

Understanding struggled with indignation on the older man's face.

"Well," he growled, "so you've done it again!"

For a moment the lad stood in shamefaced alarm, shaking from head to
foot.

"Are you much hurt, Dad?" he stammered.

"Only a scratch," returned Whittington, senior. "But it's no thanks to
you that I wasn't killed."

He turned to Sanders, who was still chafing his ankle.

"Anything broken?"

"No, sir; only a sprain."

"I'm glad it's no worse. Have this mess cleared away and I'll fix up
with you later at the hotel; and get my suit-case over to my room, will
you?"

To his son he said:

"We'll go to your dormitory."

He limped grimly ahead; Percy followed. As he passed the three seniors
he pulled a face of mock repentance. The boys resumed their way to the
tennis-court.

"Pretty poor stick, isn't he?" commented Lane, disgustedly. "Almost
kills his father, and then laughs at it. Throws away in a few seconds
more than enough to put the three of us half-way through our freshman
year in college. No, I've no use for Whittington."

"If he'd had to earn his own money," remarked Spurling, "he'd look on
things differently. He's got a good streak in him."

"Maybe so; but it'll take mighty hard work to bring it out. Well, here's
the court. How'll we play?"

In Whittington's room father and son silently removed the traces