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“Boys, I want you to know each other. Benjamin, this is Frank Braithwaite. Frank, this is Benjamin Selby, the high line of the gulf shore, as I told you.”

While Mr. Murray was speaking, the two men looked steadily at each other. The few seconds seemed very long; when they had passed, Benjamin knew that the other man was his rival.

Braithwaite was the first to speak. He put out his hand with easy cordiality.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Selby,” he said heartily, “although I am afraid I should feel very green in the presence of such a veteran fisherman as yourself.”

His frank courtesy compelled some return. Benjamin took the proffered hand with restraint.

“I’m sorry there’s no mackerel going this afternoon,” continued the American. “I wanted to have a chance at them. I never saw mackerel caught before. I suppose I’ll be very awkward at first.”

“It’s not a very hard thing to do,” said Benjamin stiffly, speaking for the first time since their meeting. “Most anybody could catch mackerel for a while–it’s the sticking to it that counts.”

He turned abruptly and went back to his boat. He could not force himself to talk civilly to the stranger, with that newly born demon of distrust gnawing at his heart.

“I think I’ll go out,” he said. “It’s freshening up. I shouldn’t wonder if the mackerel schooled soon.”

“I’ll go, too, then,” said Mr. Murray. “Hi, up there! Leon and Pete! Hi, I say!”

Two more French Canadians came running down from the Murray fish-house, where they had been enjoying a siesta. They fished in the Murray boat. A good deal of friendly rivalry as to catch went on between the two boats, while Leon and Mosey Louis were bitter enemies on their own personal account.

“Think you’ll try it, Frank?” shouted Mr. Murray.

“Well, not this afternoon,” was the answer. “It’s rather hot. I’ll see what it is like tomorrow.”

The boats were quickly launched and glided out from the shadow of the cliffs. Benjamin stood at his mast. Mary Stella came down to the water’s edge and waved her hand gaily.

“Good luck to you and the best catch of the season,” she called out.

Benjamin waved his hat in response. His jealousy was forgotten for the moment and he felt that he had been churlish to Braithwaite.

“You’ll wish you’d come,” he shouted to him. “It’s going to be a great evening for fish.”

When the boats reached the fishing grounds, they came to and anchored, their masts coming out in slender silhouette against the sky. A row of dark figures was standing up in every boat; the gulfs shining expanse was darkened by odd black streaks–the mackerel had begun to school.

Frank Braithwaite went out fishing the next day and caught 30 mackerel. He was boyishly proud of it. He visited the shore daily after that and soon became very popular. He developed into quite an expert fisherman; nor, when the boats came in, did he shirk work, but manfully rolled up his trousers and helped carry water and “gib” mackerel as if he enjoyed it. He never put on any “airs,” and he stoutly took Leon’s part against the aggressive Mosey Louis. Even the French Canadians, those merciless critics, admitted that the “Yankee” was a good fellow. Benjamin Selby alone held stubbornly aloof.

One evening the loaded boats came in at sunset. Benjamin sprang from his as it bumped against the skids, and ran up the path. At the corner of his fish-house he stopped and stood quite still, looking at Braithwaite and Mary Stella, who were standing by the rough picket fence of the pasture land. Braithwaite’s back was to Benjamin; he held the girl’s hand in his and was talking earnestly. Mary Stella was looking up at him, her delicate face thrown back a little. There was a look in her eyes that Benjamin had never seen there before–but he knew what it meant.

His face grew pale and rigid; he clenched his hands and a whirlpool of agony and bitterness surged up in his heart. All the great blossoms of the hope that had shed beauty and fragrance over his rough life seemed suddenly to shrivel up into black unsightliness.