THE SQUALL


"Sturgeon Island, did you say, Allan?" remarked Step Hen. "Sounds like
it might be a good fishing place. If we happened to land there, perhaps
Bumpus and Giraffe might manage to do some big stunts, pulling in
sturgeon. Can anybody tell me what sort of a fish that is, anyway? I
never saw one, or a fellow that caught one, either."

"Oh! they grow to big size, and are caught in the Great Lakes in this
country. They take sturgeon eggs I believe to make this high-priced
stuff they use in the tony clubs and call caviar, or something like
that," observed Bumpus, who really did know considerable about fish and
fishing, though of course he did not claim to be a fly fisherman,
capable of casting seventy feet or more,

But the subject did not interest any of them just then. The way that
bank of ominous clouds kept advancing higher and higher soon kept their
attention riveted in that quarter.

"About how far away from our harbor are we, Thad?" asked Step Hen.

"Something like fifteen miles, I should say," came the reply.

Giraffe looked at the balky engine, and shook his head.

"Then we'd better make up our minds right here and now that we'll never
get to that place this day," he said, positively; and there was no one
bold enough to accept of the plain challenge his tones conveyed.