High Tide at Noon by Elisabeth Ogilvie Page A

and quivered in the washboards and whose big hand fastened in the front of Ash’s shirt and dragged him against the gunwale.
    â€œHello, Ash!”
    â€œWhat do you want?” Ash tried to laugh. “Hell, what is this?”
    â€œJust a little neighborly greeting,” said Charles genially. “Seems like your pots have moved around some in all this weather we been having. Shoved right up alongside mine, some of ’em are. I thought I’d let you know, so you could move ’em.”
    â€œSure, sure,” Ash stammered. “I never noticed—guess I ain’t reached that string yet-”
    â€œRound on the east side,” said Charles benevolently. “You better take a little sail around there. If I had a suspicious nature I might think you’d been there already—’bout daylight—hauling my traps.” His smile was benign. “But it’s a good thing for you I have a Christian mind. Because if I thought you were robbing me I’d haul hell out of you, my boy. And I’d give you the biggest, worst, goddamndest beating you ever had!”
    Sweat sprang out on Ash’s forehead. “Aw, let go, Charles,” he said with a feeble grin. “You know damn well I’d never touch your gear.”
    â€œSure I know it!” Charles let go and clapped him on the shoulder with such robust goodfellowship that Ash fell backwards over the engine box. “Kind of unsteady on your pins, aren’t you, fella? Well, I’ll be getting back to work.”
    He lifted his cap with a flourish, and the Sea-Gypsy leaped away like a creature glad to be free again. Joanna had one last glimpse of Ash, sitting limply on his engine box and fumbling with a package of cigarettes. She looked at Charles and they began to laugh.
    They headed for the eastern end of the Island, passing under the shadow of the great rocky crest called the Head; it was yellow in the brilliant sunshine, and there was always a surge and swell below it, even in the calmest, fairest weather. Around the Head, on the lee side of the Island that looked across at the tawny, sloping fields of Brigport and its white houses, they passed the perfect and tranquil curve of Eastern End Cove. The fish houses huddled on the bank, and above them the Trudeau houses crouched, gray and shabby. Between the Eastern End and the harbor there was a long thick stretch of woods, and then fields; the Trudeaus seemed to live on an isolated little island of their own; and the village said it was a good thing.
    Past Long Cove, then, and Uncle Nate’s place looked serene and comfortable across the meadow where his cattle stood knee-deep in buttercups. . . . They were almost back to the harbor before it struck Joanna again: Gunnar and his talk. Oh, she’d get even with the old—It was exciting to have something to be good and mad about. She went to stand by the wheel.
    â€œWhat else did Gunnar say?”
    Charles scowled. “That was all he said.” She caught the faint emphasis on the he , and pounced on it.
    â€œWho else said anything?” she demanded.
    â€œI’ll tell you, kid, because I hate to see you walk in there and not know what it’s all about.” He looked straight ahead at the creaming surf around the harbor ledges. “It’s just more wind, like Gunnar’s chew, and we all know it, so don’t let it bother you. Only Mark brought home a story from the shore and sprang it when we were having a mug-up, and it’s got ’em all by the ears up there.”
    Her lips were very dry. “What is it? Where’d he get it?”
    â€œI don’t know. He just said he heard it, here and there . . . about you and Nils rammin’ around in the dark last night.”
    â€œHe walked home with me from the clubhouse.” She looked at Charles steadily. “What’s that to talk about?”
    â€œNothing. Hell, you don’t think any of ’em at home