Partners Three

The Crystal Spring nosed her way out of Herrick’s Cove, caught the southeasterly breeze on her big sail and moved lazily along past the end of Greenhaven Neck. The Crystal Spring was not built for speed. She was snub-nosed and square-sterned and wide in the beam. The mast was stepped well forward and a short bowsprit made room for a jibsail that was seldom used. Abaft the mast was a small hatch nearly flush with the deck. Amidship was a second hatch, larger than the first. Coiled over it, like a gray snake, was a length of two-inch hose attached at one end to a rusty pump set into the deck. TheCrystal Spring was not a beauty, no matter how you looked at her. She was painted black, as to hull, and gray as to deck and hatches. Her mast needed scraping and her patched mainsail was grayer than her deck. On the stern was the inscription “Crystal Spring, Greenhaven.” She sat low in the water and moved sluggishly. To be sure a three-mile breeze isn’t conducive to speed, but even in a gale the Crystal Spring wouldn’t have shown her heels to anything that sailed out of Greenhaven.

With his feet in the shallow cockpit sat the skipper and crew of the Crystal Spring, one arm draped over the long tiller. The skipper and crew was sixteen years of age, had a good-looking weather-tanned face, a sturdy body and was named John Herrick—and called Jack. He had a pair of nice brown eyes, a straight nose well freckled, a fairly wide mouth and a square and rather aggressive chin. Just at present his mouth was puckered up, for Jack was whistling—I almost said a tune. Let’s simply remark that he was whistling and let it go at that, for the fact is that Jack could no more whistle a tune than he could sing one; and if you ever heard him try to sing you’d understand. As he whistled, his gaze roamed from the sail to the shore and thence out to sea. Seaward there was little to look at—only a smudge of smoke like a narrow cloud trailing above the horizon. Shoreward was the end of the Neck and the squat white lighthouse agleam in the sunlight of a late June morning. Behind the lighthouse was the keeper’s little cottage with its weathered roof and green blinds, and its tiny garden of sweet peas and nasturtiums, making a spot of bright color against the yellow-green of beach-grass and the gray of boulders. The tiller moved a little, the sail flapped for an instant and then filled again and the sloop slowly turned to pass Popple Head and run along close to the granite breakwater, seeking the harbor entrance.

With the breeze behind him Jack found the canvas cap he wore uncomfortable and dropped it into the cockpit, revealing a somewhat touselled head of brown hair. I call Jack’s hair brown for want of a better word. As a matter of fact it was of some indescribable shade between brown and the color of oakum, and, at that, it had lighter streaks in it. I think that nature had intended him to have quite respectable and commonplace brown hair, but as his cap was usually just where it was now—that is, off his head—the sun and the winds and salt spray and the fogs had worked their wills. On the whole, the result, especially when the sun was on it, was rather pleasing. The rest of Jack’s attire was quite simple. A white canvas blouse, clean if not altogether guiltless of stains, covered the upper part of his body and a pair of old gray trousers did for the rest. He wore no shoes, although two brown canvas “sneakers,” in each of which a brown cotton stocking was tucked, reposed in the cockpit.