ERY

Next morning at breakfast, about four o'clock, Code told his crew the
situation. He knew his men thoroughly and had been friends with most
of them all his life.

"There's likely to be trouble, and I may be taken away, but if that
happens Pete will tell you what to do. Don't sight Swallowtail until
your salt is all wet. Bring home a topping load and you'll share
topping."

Code did not go out that morning. Instead, he tried to shake off his
troubles long enough to study the fish--which was his job on the
_Charming Lass_.

While not a Bijonah Tanner, Code bade fair to be his equal at
Bijonah's age. He came of a father with an instinct for fish, and he
had inherited that instinct fully. Under Jasper he had learned much,
but it was another matter to have some one on hand to read the signs
rather than being cast upon his own resources.

The fish, from the trawl-line and Pete's reports of dory work, had
been running rather big. This pleased him, but he knew it could not
last; and he sat with his old chart spread out before him on the
deck--a chart edged with his father's valuable penciled notes.

Suddenly, while in the almost subconscious state that he achieved when
very "fishy," the persistent voice of the cook broke through the wall
of unconsciousness.

"Smoke on the port quarter, skipper! Smoke on the port quarter,
skipper!"

The phrase came with persistent repetition until Code was fully alive
to its meaning and glanced over his left shoulder.

Above the line of dark blue that was the ocean, and in the light blue
that was the sky, was etched a tree-shaped brown smudge.

Steamer smudges were not an unusual sight, for not fifty miles east
was the northern track of the great ocean steamers--a track which they
were gradually approaching as they made their berths. But a steamer
smudge over the port quarter, with the _Lass's_ bow headed due north,
was an entirely different thing.

Code went below and brought up an ancient firearm. This he discharged
while the cook ran a trawl-tub to the truck. It was the prearranged
signal for Pete Ellinwood to come in.

As Code waited he had no doubt that smoke was from a revenue cutter
or cruiser from Halifax with his arrest warrant.

There was a stiff westerly breeze, and Code, glancing up at the cloud
formations, saw that there would be a beautiful racing half-gale on by
noon.

"What a chance to run for it!" he thought, but resolutely put the idea
from his mind.