The Big Six

by Arthur Ransome

  “Forty-seven,” he said to himself. “Or is it fifty-seven? Come on old perch!” But no perch took his worm. He began to fish not quite so keenly, and presently missed a bite because instead of watching his float he was looking at a small motor cruiser coming up the reach.

  He knew at once that she was not a local boat. Like all the motor cruisers she carried her official number, and the letter in front of the figures was not B, meaning Bure, but W, meaning Waveney. She must have come up through Yarmouth from the south.

  The cruiser was coming very slowly and the man at the wheel slowed her down still more when he saw that Pete was fishing. He even put his engine out of gear and the little cruiser slipped along almost silently. Pete had a good look at her, and saw that she was not an ordinary cruiser but a boat specially built for fishing. He saw rods lying in rests along the cabin-top, and other rod-rests fixed to the cockpit coamings.

  “Wonder if he’s had any luck,” thought Pete.

  He read the name on her bows, Cachalot, and remembered that was some kind of whale. He looked at his float just in time to catch a roach. He unhooked it, dropped it back, and almost instantly caught another.

  “Hi!” called the man in the cruiser.

  Pete looked up and down, saw nobody about, and realized that the man was calling to him. He lifted a hand as the wherrymen do, to show that he had heard. The cruiser was turning slowly round.

  ANOTHER ONE TO PUT BACK

  “Like to catch me some bait for tomorrow?” called the man.

  “Could do,” said Pete.

  “Have you got a keep-net to put them in?”

  “No,” said Pete. “But we got a bucket.”

  “Best put them in a keep-net. I’ll come round and leave you mine. I want a dozen or so good pike baits about the size of that one you just put back.”

  Pete took in his rod and laid it along the cabin-top. The Cachalot swung round, went downstream and came up again even slower than before and slid close by the Death and Glory. The fisherman reached out and swung a keep-net to Pete.

  “Penny a bait,” he said. “Twopence for really good ones. No tiddlers. You be here tomorrow afternoon. I’m going up to Wroxham for the night and I’ll call for them on the way down.”

  “Waveney boat?” asked Pete, looking with interest at the little cruiser.

  “Built in Beccles,” said her owner. “This is her first season.”

  “Fine for fishing,” said Pete.

  “That’s what she’s for,” said her owner.

  He put the engine into gear and the slight wash stirred up by the propeller moved the Death and Glory where she lay. The cabin door flew open, and Bill’s face appeared. He was very red, his eyes were streaming and smoke poured past him out of the cabin.

  “What’s up,” he said.

  “Money for nothing,” said Pete, and pointed to the Cachalot which was moving off round the bend. “He want bait for pike-fishing and I’m to catch ’em. Penny each, and twopence for big ’uns. And there’s a shoal right handy. I been putting ’em back one after another. How’s them eels?”

  “Getting smoked,” said Bill. “And Joe and me’s pretty near kippered.” He came up into the cockpit to have a better look at the Cachalot before she disappeared.

  Joe also came up for a breath of air, and stood in the cockpit wiping the sweat off his face. “This is the last lot we smoke,” he said. “That want bigger chimbleys than what ours is.”

  “Pete’s going to earn a bit of money,” said Bill. “Is he coming for them baits tonight?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” said Pete.

  “That mean we can’t be off early.”

  “Off?” said Pete.

  “Out of here,” said Joe. “Bill and me’s been talking, and we’re going to go down river tomorrow just for the night.”

  “Can’t go far,” said Bill. “But she’s all ready. Just a trial trip and to get away out of here. We got to get a bit of money before we go voyaging proper so as not to have to keep running home for grub. How many baits do you reckon to catch, young Pete?”

  “There’s plenty about,” said Pete.

  “You get him a dozen big ’uns,” said Bill. “That’s two bob. We could stock up well with that.”

  This was a heartening idea and Pete settled down to fishing for roach while the two firemen shut themselves up in the cabin to go on with the job of smoking themselves and the eels.

  Now that roach were wanted, they were not so willing to be caught. The bites were further and further apart and towards evening stopped altogether. Only four were swimming in the keep-net, hung over the side of the Death and Glory and Pete was thinking regretfully of the dozens he had put back before he had known they would be wanted.

  At last Tom Dudgeon, who had had his sleep out, came rowing up to the staithe in his little Titmouse. On the way up he had been stopped by the Towzer boys who had asked him what the Coot Club was playing at, sending their rowing boat adrift. Bill and Joe decided that the eels must be pretty well done and that they need stoke no more, but let the smoke blow out of the cabin. They came up and joined Tom and Pete on the cabin roof. They told him how Mr. Tedder and all the others had been at them about what had happened in the night.

  “But you told them you were at the eel sett?” said Tom.

  “We tell ’em so, and Harry Bangate come along himself and tell ’em too.”

  “They was still saying it was us,” said Bill.

  “They’re going to watch the staithe and all this reach,” said Joe.

  “We’re going down river a bit tomorrow,” said Bill. “And if we get a bit of money we’ll go voyaging, so if anything more happen they can’t patch it where it don’t belong.”

  Just then, the old eelman came down to the staithe, unfastened his boat, and made ready to row away. He looked gravely at the four sitting on the roof of the Death and Glory.

  “You didn’t play havoc with them boats before you come up to mine?” he asked cunningly.

  “Of course we didn’t,” said Tom.

  “There’s some of ’em think you did,” said the old man. “Now that sort of thing you didn’t ought to do.”

  “But we didn’t,” said Tom.

  The old man said not a word, but dipped his oars and rowed steadily away up the river.

  “You hear that,” said Bill. “If everybody think that, we’d best be somewheres else.”

  “But Dick and Dorothea’ll be here the day after tomorrow,” said Tom.

  “We won’t go all that far,” said Bill.

  “What about those eels?” said Tom.

  “Ought to be done by now,” said Joe.

  “Smoke’s well blowed away,” said Bill. “Let’s have supper.”

  “They smell jolly good,” said Tom.

  Joe, not without burning his fingers, got the cap off the chimney while Bill lifted the stick with the four eels shining black with grease and soot.

  “I got a handkerchief,” said Pete.

  “We better wash that before you take it back to your Mum,” said Bill a few minutes later.

  “They look all right now,” said Tom.

  “One apiece,” said Joe. “You cut the bread, Pete.” He held up his hands to show why. “Bill, look what you done to that kettle.”

  “That’ll come off after,” said Bill.

  They settled down in the cabin to eat their eel supper.

  “It’s been an awful job,” said Joe.

  “Worth it,” said Bill, smacking his lips, before taking his first mouthful.

  “For some minutes there was silence.

  “Not bad,” said Bill hopefully.

  “Bit sooty,” said Joe.

  “Try with plenty of salt,” said Tom.

  “Go on, Pete,” said Bill. “Ain’t you hungry?”

  “Not clammed,” said Pete.

  “It’s their not being hot and not exactly cold,” said Tom.

  “Some eels ain’t as good as others,” said Bill. “This ain’t a
very good one, that’s all.”

  Presently they gave up and emptied their plates into the river.

  “It’ll bring the fish,” said Pete.

  They made up their suppers with bread and cheese.

  “Worth trying anything once,” said Joe.

  “We say we smoke ’em and we done it,” said Bill.

  After supper Joe and Bill put up their rods and fished for a while with Pete. Tom watched. Not one of the three had a bite.

  “Too many at it,” said Pete.

  “Pete’s the fisher,” said Bill.

  “I’ll get up early tomorrow,” said Pete, “and catch ’em at their brekfusses.”

  Across the staithe they saw Mr. Tedder, George Owdon, his friend, and the two Towzers in earnest talk.

  “They aren’t really going to keep watch all night?” said Tom.

  “That’s what they say,” said Joe.

  “Let’s get to bed,” said Bill. “And we’ll wake young Pete early.”

  Tom went off.

  “I say, Tom,” said Bill as Tom rowed away, “you tell your Mum not to try smoking them eels.”

  “Stew ’em,” said Joe. “Less work and better eating.”

  CHAPTER VI

  TOW OUT OF TROUBLE

  TWICE during the night they were waked.

  The first time it was the noise of oars, long after dark.

  Joe heard it and slipped out of the hot cabin into the cold night air, wondering who it could be, moving on the river at such a time. The rowers had gone by, upstream, but he could hear the regular drip drip of their oars and the creak of rowlocks, which, he thought, needed a bit of greasing. Presently the noise grew louder again. The boat had turned and was coming back. Dimly, in the dark, he thought he could see something moving on the water.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  “River patrol.”

  “What?”

  “Watching to see no more boats get cast adrift. So don’t think you can do it without being caught.”

  “We didn’t…,” began Joe.

  “What are you waiting up for?” said the voice.

  The boat drifted by. Someone struck a match to light a cigarette and Joe caught a glimpse of a face.

  “I know you, Jim Towzer,” said Joe. “I can see you.”

  “No need to see you to know you,” come the voice out of the dark. “Just try casting our boat off again and see what you’ll get. What’s the time, Jack?”

  Another voice answered him.

  “Half an hour after midnight, and they’re up, watching for a chance. We’ll report that. Come on, Jim.”

  The oars dipped again and the boat slipped away into the night.

  Joe crawled back into his bunk.

  “What was it?” said Bill.

  “Them Towzers watching the river,” said Joe.

  “Good luck to ’em,” said Bill sleepily. “Hope they catch the chap whoever done it and then we’ll be let alone.”

  “They think it’s us,” said Joe.

  “Good night,” said Bill. “Lucky you ain’t waked that Pete.”

  *

  Two hours later they were waked again, this time by a gentle lurch of the Death and Glory.

  “Chimney’s cold,” said a voice Joe knew well.

  “They’ll be asleep likely.”

  “Better make sure, Mr. Tedder,” said the first voice. “They may be ashore and casting somebody’s boat off this minute.”

  There was a bang on the roof of the cabin.

  “What’s that?” Pete started up and bumped his head.

  “Tedder and George Owdon,” said Joe in a whisper.

  “All right, Joe,” said Bill. “I’ll see to ’em. You went out last time.” But Joe was already out of his bunk and feeling his way into the cockpit. A torch flashed in his face.

  “Only one of them,” said George Owdon.

  “Pete and Bill in there too?” asked Mr. Tedder.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Bill. “Have you caught somebody?”

  “Not likely if you’re all three here,” said George Owdon. “Unless it’s Tom Dudgeon.”

  “Tom never …”

  “Shut up,” said George. “Everybody knows Tom did. Is Pete in there?”

  “I’m here,” said Pete coming out and blinking in the light of the torch.

  “Better go to bed again,” said Mr. Tedder. “Just had to make sure where you was. This casting adrift’s got to stop.”

  “Look here,” said Joe, “we was asleep, we was.”

  “Go to sleep again,” said George.

  “No harm done,” said Mr. Tedder. “But I tell your Dads and I tell you, you’d be better in your beds at home.”

  “Well, there’s one thing,” said Joe, settling angrily into his bunk. “There won’t nobody come waking us tomorrow night. Wind come west and we’ll be away down the river.”

  “Dead calm now,” said Bill.

  “There’ll be wind in the morning.”

  “We can’t start till that fisherman come for his baits,” said Pete.

  “You go to sleep,” said Bill, “if you count to be up early. Good night.”

  “Good night!” grunted Joe. “Good morning.”

  *

  As is often the way in fishing, getting up early was waste of good time that might have been spent in bed. Pete began fishing soon after seven. It was a still day, without a breath of wind, and until the sun grew hot you might have thought that there was not a fish in the river. After breakfast Bill and Joe went to their homes to collect stores, milk, cheese, bread and bacon. They also went to Pete’s home to tell his mother, too, that they were going to take the Death and Glory a little way down the river. On their way back they went to Mr. Tedder’s garden to pull a few weeds and collect some worms, for fear Pete should run short. Mr. Tedder came out to them.

  “You?” he said. “Sorry I had to wake you last night. My Missus say I didn’t have no call to. But we can’t take chances not with police work. And see here. If there’s any more boats cast off I can’t have you coming and digging worms in police headquarters.”

  “Shall I put ’em back?” said Joe.

  “You can keep ’em,” said Mr. Tedder hurriedly, looking in the tin. “But we don’t want no more boats messed about. Owners mad, and natural too, and it all come on the police.”

  “We never touch a boat,” said Bill.

  “Don’t you touch ’em no more,” said Mr. Tedder.

  “Wish Tom’d never cast that Margoletta adrift,” said Bill as they went back to the staithe.

  “There was nothing else he could do that time,” said Joe.

  “Nobody forget it,” said Bill. “Don’t seem nobody never can forget a thing like that.”

  “Drat ’em!” said Joe. “Anyways we’ll be out of this tonight.”

  “Come a bit of wind,” said Bill.

  *

  All that morning Pete fished, more and more desperately, while the others tinkered in the cabin (doing no hammering for fear of scaring the fish) or watched from the staithe for the coming of the Cachalot, dreading to see her before Pete had caught his dozen.

  Pete looked at nothing but his float. “A penny a bait and twopence for good ’uns.” If only they had been biting as they had been biting yesterday when he was putting them back as fast as he caught them. At nine o’clock he caught his first fish, a good one. At half-past ten he caught another, not so good. Then came a long string of little ones not worth taking. Every penny earned would help in buying stores for the Death and Glory so that they would be able to go to distant places and not have to run home every other day for supplies. He spoke never a word, dropping the little ones sadly back into the river, welcoming the rare twopennies with a slow grin. He never even looked round, though once or twice he was too late in striking because of things said about casting boats adrift by people who stopped on the staithe behind him and watched, as people always do watch a fisherman, to see whether he was catching anything or not.
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  Dinner time came and he had five possible twopennies in the keep-net and three others that he thought might almost do. There was happily no sign of the Cachalot. The water was as smooth as glass, there was not a cloud in the sky, and the smoke from Horning chimneys trickled straight up in the still air.

  “It’ll be engines, not sailing,” said Joe, wetting a finger and holding it up to see if he could feel a breath of wind.

  “Come on in for grub, Pete,” said Bill from the cabin.

  “Gimme mine out here,” said Pete. “That old float bob just now.”

  All afternoon he fished on, and did better. But now the other two were no longer hoping the Cachalot was not in sight but were wishing she would hurry up. The day was going, there was still no wind, and even if the engines were doing their very best, the Death and Glory was a slow old boat.

  “We’ll never get nowhere if he don’t come soon,” said Joe.

  Towards five o’clock Joe suggested that they had better start without waiting for him.

  “Perhaps he ain’t coming at all,” said Bill.

  “He say to wait for him here,” said Pete.

  “We can tell someone to tell him we’ve gone on down river.”

  “If we tow them baits in the keep-net we’ll drown the lot,” said Pete.

  “How many’ve you got?” asked Bill.

  “I put in one since you count,” said Pete. “And there was sixteen then. Seventeen there’ll be. And a dozen of ’em good twopennies.”