Anyhow, there won't be no chance to trade long as he's
round, for you folks don't dare say your soul's your own when there's a
Frenchy on the coast."
"Nor hardly at any other time," remarked White, moodily.
"There's another one, too--Britisher, I reckon--went up the bay towards
Humber Arm ahead of us. I only wish the two tarnal critters would get
into a scrap and blow each other out of the water. Then there'd be
some chance for honest folks to make a living. Now I'm up a stump and
don't know what to do, unless some of you people can let me have a few
barrels of bait right off, so's I can clear out again to-night."
"There isn't any to be had here," replied White, "for this is a lobster
factory, and the whole business of the place, just at present, is
catching and canning lobsters. You'll find some round at York Harbour,
though."
"No use going there now, nor anywhere else, long as that pesky
Frenchman's on the lookout. Can't think what made him leave St. Pierre
in such a hurry. Thought he was good to stay there a week longer at
any rate. But say, who owns this factory?"
"This gentleman is the proprietor," replied White, indicating his
companion as he spoke.
"Hm!" ejaculated the Yankee skipper, regarding Cabot with an air of
interest. "Never should have took you to be the owner of a
Newfoundland lobster factory. Sized you up to be a Yankee same as
myself, and reckoned you was here on a visit.
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