"Well, principally, where the fishing fleet is," replied Varge.
The old fellow wriggled his hand into his trousers' pocket, brought out a plug of tobacco, eyed the horizon meditatively, bit generously into the plug, wrestled with it till his teeth met, restored it to his pocket, gazed contemplatively again at the horizon, and finally spat profoundly.
"That's a purty tall question," he drawled. "Takin' everything into consideration, weather we've had an' usual conditions, I'd say mabbe they was on the Banquereau, or I dunno but what as mabbe the Saint Pierre."
"Where's that?" asked Varge.
The old fisherman waved his arm with an expansive gesture oceanwards.
"Guess you're kind o' new 'raound these parts, ain't you?" he remarked, his eyes twinkling at Varge. "Them two is two o' the fishin' banks. There's a hull string of 'em—West'rn, Banquereau, Saint Pierre, Green an' the Grand, an' they gen'rally fishes the hull lot on the v'yage, less they get all their salt wet 'fore they strike the Virgin, which don't happen more'n once in a hundred years—takes a hull heap o' fish to wet all the salt, quintals an' quintals of 'em—old Banker I be myself."
Varge was kicking in the sand with the toe of his boot—the other's words had come to him with a shock.
"You mean," he said slowly, "that they've left here?"
"Why, tee-hee," tittered the old fellow, "you didn't expect to find 'em here, did you? But then I dunno as you didn't, kind o' looks as though you did. Weeks ago
