CHAPTER VII The boats went out Monday morning, went out early. They went out from the St. James harbor and from the scattered holdings on the other islands, boats of Indians and white men, out to the fishing grounds where lacy gill-nets and hidden trap-nets and long bloater lines and other legal and illegal methods of obtaining the finny prey were put into effect. Boats bobbed here and there against the horizon of island or sea or reef, and engines whirred as the lifters brought the nets aboard, while trout and whitefish and perch went tumbling down into the tubs. There was heavy work to be done, since the fish must be all cleaned and boxed and in to St. James to make that afternoon’s mailboat. All that morning Hardrock’s canoe bobbed here and there off the end of Hog Island, with a drag out from bow and stem, countering back and forth. It was too shallow hereabout for the big fish, and the waters looked all deserted, with only a sparkling flash of gulls off the blue line that marked the north end of Garden to show that a boat was working there beneath the horizon. Back and forth they went, and found nothing, though they searched hard enough for any sign of the black ropes that might mark a trap. Nothing came near them on the water, excepting a covey of young ducks that bore down and then wheeled and went flashing away through the waves in a hurry. With noon, they returned to camp, where the Sheriff’s launch was drawn safely out of sight among the bushes down the shore, and lunched leisurely, and then returned again to the search. It was nearly three o’clock when at last they found the trap, and then only by accident, for one of the drags picked up the mooring line, and Hardrock hauled the canoe along this until the dim mass of the trap itself was under the canoe. Fulsom came to his assistance, since it was no light task to haul in the heavy lines without tipping the canoe, and together they got it to the surface. They could see perch in it, and big Bullheads from the mud bottom, and one lordly yellow sunfish, but no whisky. “Hold on!” exclaimed Fulsom, who knew more about traps than did Hardrock. “Hold her till I get a grip on that mooringline! Now let go, and catch hold.” Now they tugged at the line, and bit by bit worked loose the anchor down below, and after a time got it on the up-heave. Hardrock was leaning far over on the line, depending on Sheriff Fulsom to balance the canoe, and giving his entire attention to the rope below him. This came heaving up soggily from the depths, and presently disclosed another line knotted around it and hanging straight down. “Thought so!” came the exultant voice of Fulsom. “Haul in on the short line, now--” * * * * * In another moment the end of this came into sight, and showed a firmly lashed case of liquor. Hardrock glanced up over his shoulder. “Want it aboard?”