Chapter XX: The Grouper Banks

"WE are grateful for what you did in our behalf," said Charley, when they again came upon the Roberts on the dock. "We did not expect you to take up our troubles but we cannot find words to express our gratitude for what you have done for us."

Big Bill blushed like a school girl. "We didn't do much," he said, awkwardly. "I was going to do it anyway, sometime. It just came off a little sooner than I expected. I don't fancy fighting much--it's poor business--but it's the only way to handle fellows like that Hunter gang--a decent man can't stoop to meet them with their own tricks."

"It is a rather primitive way of righting wrongs, but I was not thinking of that," said Charley, earnestly. "I was thinking of the loyal friendship, and the kindly feeling you had for us that prompted the act. It was a big, friendly action, all the more so as we are almost strangers to you."

"That's all right," stammered Bill, embarrassed by his thanks. "I guess I beat Hunter up more than I intended to. He drew a knife on me so I couldn't handle him very gently. What did the fish boss have to say?" he inquired, eager to change the subject.

The captain told him of the new plan that Mr. Daniels had suggested.

"Mr. Daniels is a mighty square man," said Bill, emphatically. "I am glad you are going to follow his advice. We are thinking some of trying the reef fishing, too, until our nets come, so we will likely see a good deal of each other."

"The more the pleasanter for us at any rate," declared the old sailor. "Well, I guess we must be going. Chris will be wondering what has happened to us. Good-by. Drop in on us when you get the chance."

The trip back to the island was made with lighter hearts than they had brought with them, and they were made still lighter at the sight of Walter's improved condition. He was sitting up in bed arguing warmly with Chris that he was well enough to get up and dress, but the little negro had hidden his clothes and could not be moved by threats or entreaties.

"No, Massa Walt," Chris was saying as they entered. "You got to jis' lay quiet. I'se had a terrible time aworryin' an' anursin' you an' I ain't goin' to risk youah getting sick on my hands again through youah foolishness. Golly, I doan know what you white chilluns would do widout dis nigger to watch out foah you-alls."

So much was Walter improved, that Charley thought it safe to tell him of all that had happened since his accident.

"I am almost glad the nets are gone," he declared, when Charley had finished. "I don't believe I would ever have made a good net fisherman. I could never have grown to like the work."

Chris' joy was almost pathetic to see. "I'se sho' going wid you-alls," he cried. "Dis nigger can sho' catch fish with a hook. An' I sho' is glad I doan hab to stay alone on dis ole creepy island at night, no more."

And, indeed, perhaps, the part the little negro had so far taken had been as hard and unpleasant as any of theirs.

The evening that followed was by far the pleasantest they had spent on the island. Fear of the fishermen was over for the present at least. Walter's recovery was another cause for rejoicing, and they all looked forward to their morrow's work with a pleasurable anticipation that none had felt for the hard, nasty, trying net fishing.

So eager was Chris to begin, that he was up long before daybreak cooking breakfast and putting up a hearty lunch for their dinner.

The sun was just coming up as they steered out of the inlet into the open gulf. Walter had insisted upon coming with them and lay on one of the seats looking somewhat thin and pale but drawing in increased strength from every breath of the bracing, salt air.

The captain was in full command, for, when it was a matter of sea work, Charley quickly gave way to the old, experienced sailor. While they bounded over the blue sparkling waves for the line of coral reefs he brought out the hooks, lines, and heavy sinkers they had purchased and rigged up the tackle for their fishing. It was simple. Just strong braided lines fifty feet long with a heavy lead on one end. Above the lead, he attached three very short lines a couple of feet apart, tying a hook on each.

As soon as he decided that they were nearing the reef he ordered the engine slowed down and cast a line over the stern.

"It's too deep to see when we get on the reef," he explained, "so we will have to feel for it. That lead on the line pulls along smooth over the sandy bottom but when it strikes the coral lumps on the reef it will begin to jerk." He sat with hand on the line until a series of quick, jumping tremors told him they were over the reef when he ordered the anchor lowered.

With eagerness the little party baited the hooks and cast their lines over. They waited breathless for the tugging which would announce a bite, but as the minutes dragged away without a nibble, their high spirits began to lower.

"Golly, I could do better than this on the island," grumbled Chris, as he pulled up his line and examined his bait for the twentieth time.

The old sailor filled and lit his pipe with a twinkle in his eye. "Wait jist one half hour an' they'll begin to bite," he announced, calmly.

"Have you made special arrangements with them," Walter inquired.

"Not quite, but fish have their habits the same as people," the captain explained. "They only bite at certain tides. Seems like they had their regular mealtime as one might say, only they go by tides instead of a clock. It's the last of the ebb tide now. In a few minutes it will be flood tide and the fish will all be hunting their breakfasts."

"But I have caught fish on both ebb and flood tides, captain," Charley objected.

"Yes, an' there are people, too, who are always eating between meals," the old sailor retorted, "but most of them are contented with their regular mealtime."

"Golly! dis nigger often wonders how you keeps track ob dem tides," Chris remarked. "I can't tell nothin' 'bout dem, 'cept when I'se on de shore an' can watch the rise and fall."

"It's simple, lad," explained the old sailor. "It's the moon that causes the tides. All one has to do is to notice the moon. When the moon is coming up the tide is going down. When the moon is going down the tide is coming up. No matter where you are it is always the same."

"I've got a bite," Charley announced, and moon and tides were straightway forgotten by the eager little party.

It seemed as though his announcement had been the breakfast bell for the finny creatures below, for before he had got his fish to the surface, his companions were hauling furiously on the lines.

Charley gave a shout of exultation as he swung his prize aboard. It was a chunky, reddish fish with mouth and fins of scarlet, and was about fifteen pounds in weight.

"That's a red grouper," said the captain, sparing a glance from his own captive. "This one I've got is a black grouper. Those flat, silvery fish Chris and Walter have caught are red-mouth grunts." But the old sailor had no time for further speculations for the sport grew fast and furious. Often they pulled up to find three fish on their line at once, one on each hook.

As fast as they unhooked their captives they threw them into the forward cockpit where they soon grew into a beautiful, glistening heap of red, gold and silver hues.

For two hours they pulled the fish aboard as fast as they could bait and cast their hooks. Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the fish ceased to bite.

"We might as well get up anchor and move to another place," the captain announced.

"Has we done catched dem all?" Chris inquired, innocently.

"Hardly," said the old sailor, with a laugh, "but a shark or some other sea monster is prowling around down below and has scared them all away." They weighed anchor and drifted back a couple of hundred feet upon the reef where they found the fish biting there the same as before.

"I'ze got something queer on my line," announced Chris, as he pulled up hand over hand. "Hit don't jerk none. Hit's jest heavy-like."

"A bit of coral, I expect," Charley suggested.

All stared at the curious-looking object as Chris slung it in over the side.

"Why," said Charley, as he scraped off the clinging moss and barnacles. "It's a doll, just a big, rag doll."

"Put it back in the water, lad," said the captain, with a hint of tears in his voice, "put it back. Likely its little mistress sleeps there below the waves. We must not separate her from her dolly."

It was only a guess, but the idea took such strong hold of them all that anchor was again weighed and they dropped further along to another place.

About four o'clock the captain declared it was time to start for home.

"We have done pretty well for one day," he said, "and we have got to get home in time to carry the fish over to Clearwater."

His companions were willing to stop. Although they had enjoyed the sport greatly, their arms were aching from the constant pulling and their hands were sore from numerous pricks from hooks and fins.

An hour's run brought them back to their island. Here Chris stopped off to get supper, and Walt to lie down and rest a bit, while Charley and the captain carried the fish over.

The two were back by the time Chris had supper ready.

"We had twelve hundred pounds of grouper and six hundred pounds of grunts, twenty dollars' worth in all," Charley announced, proudly. "Not bad for our first day's work."

"Why, that's five dollars apiece," said Walter, delightedly. "If we can keep that up we'll make thirty dollars a week for each one of us."

"We can't figure on steady fishing," objected the captain. "That's the worst drawback about this reef fishing. One can only get out in fine weather. Sometimes it blows for a week at a time so that one cannot wet a line."

"Then it's up to us to discover something to make money at during stormy weather," Charley declared.

It was Chris who hit upon the idea, but the reader will learn about that later.