Part 4

But it was really due to Cannon, our bantam rooster, that Henry’s convalescence was not entirely unendurable. Cannon was the eldest son of Liberty, a small bantam hen who had brought forth her brood on the fourth of July—hence her name and his. He was the undisputed king of the poultry yard, for a strain of game cock in his blood had made him fearless of everything and an unspeakable bully. There was no hen or cock of twice his size who dared come near his end of the feed trough, and even Prince, the mammoth White Rock rooster, stood in awe of him. Perhaps he was merely amused at the airs Cannon gave himself, and so let the tiny cock have his way, but at any rate his record of combat was unsullied by a single defeat.

I have seen many a strange friendship between animals and between birds, too, but never one so curious as that of Henry, the heron, and Cannon, the bantam rooster. For friends they were, and real friends, too. They became acquainted when Cannon, flying into the back-yard one day, spied the stiff-legged Henry and immediately decided to do battle with him. He ruffled up his neck feathers, whirled round and round with one wing dusting the ground, and advancing on Henry, dared him to come on and fight. At first Brother and I thought to rescue Cannon from what we believed would be his sure death. But we were wrong; for Henry regarded the little brown cock contemplatively, snapped his bill in warning, then blinked and turned away as if overcome with boredom. But Cannon was not used to being ignored. If his enemies would not fight, they must at least give way before him. So his neck ruff distended more and more, his tiny comb glowed an angry red, and in his best game-cock fashion he hopped up and down stiffly, trying to strike at the heron’s broad, feathered breast above him.

Henry eyed him curiously, almost saturninely, and at last with a sort of wearied annoyance gave one sweep of his broad bill, and Cannon was sent tumbling in a scurry of brown feathers and outraged squawks. But he was a warrior; back he came in a series of frenzied leaps, and once more Henry’s massive bill swept him lightly but conclusively aside.

Time after time, to the number of twelve, Cannon came charging in a whirlwind of feathers, trying to slash the feathered breast of his passive enemy, always to be met by the calm but decisive buffet of Henry’s beak. At last it was a wearied little bantam cock who stopped pantingly and turned his back upon the gray heron, owning himself defeated.

Perhaps it was respect for Henry’s superior prowess which actuated Cannon, and perhaps the merry little bantam’s pluck appealed to the grave fisher bird, for they became almost at once inseparable friends. Cannon deserted his feathered acquaintances and spent his time in the back-yard with Henry. When finally the invalid was well enough to hobble down on the float, Cannon went with him and would stand beside him while Henry, the heron, swooped joyfully upon minnows and silver smelt and gobbled them down with a zest he had never displayed when fishing in the washtub. Such became the intimacy of the tall Henry and the diminutive Cannon that Henry would even share his catch with Cannon, dropping down upon the float a small, wriggling fish for Cannon’s delectation.

We noticed that at first the bantam rooster eyed askance the flapping tidbits offered by his friend. He was not accustomed to such lively food, but little by little he learned to peck and devour the fish with the same relish that Henry showed for them. He became a feathered parasite, depending almost entirely upon the heron for his meals.

It was such a pleasant friendship—comradeship between man and man always is—and it was broken up, I am sorry to say, in the usual way—by a woman.

As Henry grew stronger, his leg and wing knit rapidly. And on the day when the Old Fisherman removed the bandages and pronounced the patient out of danger, we feared our heron friend would leave us. But he did not. He had become accustomed to the float, to the cabin, to the yard, and to Brother and me. Above all, there was Cannon, the bantam rooster. So he stayed with us, flapping up into the firtree in the front yard at night to roost, and fishing from the float or the beach in the daytime. It was an idyllic state of affairs which might have lasted indefinitely had it not been for Sironda, the Black Minorca hen.

“Si” we sometimes called her for short, and we had known her from the day of her birth. Even before that; for Brother and I had set the very egg in the incubator from which she was hatched. She was a trim little hen with shiny black feathers, a red comb that fell coquettishly over one eye, and a “singing voice” that made her the prima donna among the poultry. She was in every respect fitted to make an impressionable cockerel forget the ties of friendship, and Brother and I have always believed that she mapped out a campaign to that end after seeing how well Cannon fared by trailing at Henry’s heels.

She took to wandering down upon the float, singing softly to herself and ostensibly on the lookout for bugs, but, as we noticed, keeping an eye upon Cannon and his fisher friend and always drawing nearer and nearer to the pair.

Finally she grew so bold as to come up to Cannon’s side, and when Henry, the heron, next dropped a shining smelt upon the float, the bantam, innately chivalrous, voiced a high-pitched invitation to Sironda to partake of the dainty.

Cannon, watching her, was content to have her devour the juicy morsel, but not so was Henry. He would fish willingly for Cannon, but not for his lady friends, and with one hair-raising scream he opened his huge bill, spread his wings and lunged for Sironda, who dropped the remnants of the fish and fled down the float, half running, half flying, and uttering hysterical cackles.

Cannon watched her precipitous retreat with a surprised and worried countenance; then he turned upon Henry. And though Brother and I could not hear what was said, I am sure that there were fierce words between them, for Henry had to knock Cannon down three times in rapid succession before the irate bantam turned heel and followed Sironda up the float and into the yard.

The rift in the lute had come, and it grew wider. For Sironda became bolder in her advances, and Cannon, flattered by her feminine wiles, laid his fish—of Henry’s catching—at her feet. It was a triangle situation which could end only in one way. For at the end of each one-sided fight Cannon would stalk away with outraged dignity in every ruffled feather, and Henry would gaze after him sadly and would thereafter peck at the swarms of silver smelt solemnly and without zest.

And so he left us. One day he tried his massive wings and sailed upward and outward into the blue sky, circled in midair as if trying his strength, and then flapped quietly away toward the Pointing Finger, and as he flew, he uttered a mournful cry that trailed behind him like a wisp of smoke.

And Cannon, the thankless one, did not even know that he had gone. He was scratching worms for Sironda. But I really think it broke Henry’s heart, for he never came to our float again. And I am positive that he became a woman-hater and remained a bachelor the rest of his life.

_Part Six_ STOP THIEF

In the days when the roving fisher boats chugged into the little cove to set their nets for salmon or silver smelt, we spent most of our time on the bay. We knew every broad-beamed gray launch that rounded Green Point, a mile away, and we knew most of the fishermen who owned them. We would wait until the coughing engine was silent and the anchor was cast; then we would hoist the sail of our tiny, round-bottomed skiff and, using an oar for a rudder, skim out across the ruffled surface of the bay to pay a visit to the swarthy-visaged men with heavy, grizzled beards and rough, red hands. They always made us welcome in their strange and guttural tongues, for we took them apples from the orchard, and sometimes a glass of jelly or a loaf of home-made bread. And in exchange they gave us curious souvenirs of their travels—dried starfish of monstrous size, lovely, iridescent shells, and reed baskets bartered from the Siwash Indians.

The boat we knew best was called _Rosenzweig_, which, the Austrian owners said, meant “Rose-branch.” These two fishermen, dark, powerful men, anchored just beyond our float in the smelt and salmon seasons, and we were fond of them. They let us help them haul in the nets, and more than once Brother and I have stood in huge hip boots many sizes too large, tugging at wet ropes heavy with seaweed, excitedly pulling at the drag net and watching for the first glint of splashing silver in the brown meshes which would tell us that the net was nearly to the beach and filled with fish.

We were always sorry to see the _Rosenzweig_ leave us, and it was always a day of rejoicing when we sighted the little gray boat chugging around the Point, its bow and stern piled high with seine and drag nets. The two fishermen brought us a gift each time—we expected it. Sometimes it would be a bunch of letters with Austrian stamps attached—Brother and I were confirmed philatelists; sometimes it was a sugar-cured salmon, and once they brought us a carved canoe paddle which they had purchased of a Nittenat chief, far up the straits toward Alaska.

But the day of days was when, coming alongside their gray boat just as the anchor splashed, we were greeted by Andrin, the elder brother, who grinned delightedly and signified in his broken English that he had something wonderful for us.

We clambered over the gunwale of the _Rosenzweig_, with its littered deck and its heavy, perpetual smell of fish, seaweed, and tar calking, and Karl, the younger fisherman, made us shut our eyes while he carried something up from the hold and put it on the deck, something that thrashed about wetly and barked in a high-pitched baby voice much like a puppy’s.

We opened our eyes and stared in amazement. For there, before us on the deck, was a baby seal! He was wet and shiny brown, with great, bright eyes that peered at us curiously, but without fear, and delicate nostrils with neat, gentlemanly whiskers protruding from each side. With his tiny fore-flappers he propelled himself along the deck, barking constantly. Andrin threw him a piece of dried fish, which he caught in the air and devoured instantly.

“We bring you nice present,” said Karl, showing his white teeth in a smile, and he indicated the baby seal, who reared himself up as high as he could on his front flappers and barked vociferously.

That we were delighted goes without saying. We had seen many seals from a distance, but never had we thought to have one for a friend.

Often one would pop out of the water in the wake of our boat as we rowed to town, his wet, sleek head blackly silhouetted against the blue water. And if we whistled or called, he would follow us indefinitely, for seals have more than their share of curiosity. They are interested in strange sounds and in bright colors. Once, when Brother was wearing a red sweater, a seal followed our boat for nearly a mile.

We had often known when they were near us in the Bay even without seeing them. For when we saw a salmon jumping many times, in a series of frenzied leaps, we knew it was not through sport, but because he was pursued by a seal who would surely seize him the minute his strength gave out. We had seen salmon nets spread in the water with only a row of fish heads remaining in the meshes. Robber seals had neatly bitten off the rest of the body. Once, while Brother and I were swimming far out from the float, a smooth, heavy body brushed against mine, and I screamed with fear. But an instant later a brown, wet head arose not twenty yards away, and two bright eyes were turned on me inquiringly as if to ask why I had been frightened.

You see, we were well acquainted with the seal family at long distance, but never before had we been so close to one of the brown brethren.

I took a piece of fish from Karl’s hand and stooped toward the baby seal, who turned his head from side to side, sniffed once or twice, and then dragged himself along the deck to me, taking the friendship offering gingerly from my outstretched fingers. A little later he found a warm, sunny place on a pile of nets and turned over on his back, scratching himself negligently with one of his fore-flappers.

Karl said he would not take it amiss if we scratched him under the chin, and indeed he did not. He stretched his head back and closed his eyes, while we gently stroked the glossy fur, which, as it dried, became gray rather than brown in color.

The fishermen told us that the baby seal had attended a net-robbing expedition with his mother. Both the lady seal and her baby had become entangled in the nets. The mother had fought and had finally escaped. But the baby they had loosed from the heavy meshes, and had taken him, barking and protesting, on board the _Rosenzweig_, where they had kept him in the hold, first as a prisoner and then as a pet, to bring to Brother and me.

I know they were sorry to part with Alfred, as we christened the little seal, but they needed the hold of their small boat for their catches of fish. They could not afford to turn it permanently into a bath-tub for a water-baby who could not live long away from the element to which he was accustomed. So when the _Rosenzweig_ chugged away a few days later, Alfred was left to our care, with a hundred instructions as to how to regulate his diet and behavior.

The grown-ups were none too pleased at our latest pet, and it was a tribute to Alfred’s winning ways that he finally established himself as firmly in their affection as in ours. For there was no doubting his intelligence, handicapped as it was by his unwieldy body that seemed half fish and half animal.

He learned to respond to his name sooner than most dogs, and he displayed his love for us in a manner which was unmistakable. At first we were afraid to let him go into the bay for fear he would swim away and leave us. We did not know how large seals had to be before they could earn their living in the water, but we chose to think—selfishly perhaps—that Alfred was too small to make his way in a submarine contest of wits against older and more experienced of his kindred.

We need not have worried, however, for the baby seal adopted us in the same spirit that we had adopted him. He evidently had no thought of leaving us. The float in front of the cabin was his headquarters, and from it he would slide off into the water, rolling and splashing like a young dolphin, to return when he was tired or when we called him.

I can see him now, his small, sleek head, with its great brown eyes, sticking up out of the water, at our call pointing for the float like a periscope; lifting himself by his wet fore-flappers with their short, clicking nails and dragging himself toward us, leaving in his wake a trail of salt water.

It was his constant barking which at first had set the grown-ups against him, so we made him refrain from it. He learned that when we said, with finger upraised reprovingly, “Alfred, less noise!” he must be quiet, or there would be no piece of dried fish for him, no bottle of milk, and no gum-drops.

It might not have been necessary to bring Alfred up on the bottle, especially as the fishermen of the _Rosenzweig_ had been feeding him dried fish ever since they had caught him, but our experience with other baby animals had convinced us that milk was a pleasant if not absolutely essential form of food. So we trained Alfred to drink from a bottle with a rubber nipple, and he loved it. He broke the first two, banging them down on the float, so Brother and I devised a padded bag for it. From this Alfred daily took his milk, blinking his great, shining eyes at us and pausing occasionally to bark. We came to know it for his sign of approval.

The gum-drops were given to him experimentally. Brother maintained that the Esquimaux lived on them, and that Alfred, being a relative of northern fur-bearing seals, would doubtless thrive on the same diet. His reasoning may have been faulty in theory, but in practise it was amazingly successful. Many a time did Brother and I row the three miles to town for the special purpose of purchasing gum-drops for Alfred. He seemed to know instinctively when we had the candy with us, for when, in returning, we reached the Pointing Finger, half-way between Green Point and the cove, we could make out a black speck on the float ahead of us, a speck that wriggled and flopped and finally slid down into the water. Then we would see a round dot against the blue little waves of the bay, a dot that resolved itself into a sleek, brown head, and there would be Alfred, swimming toward the boat, lifting himself as high out of the water as he could, his eyes fixed upon us beamingly. We always made him wait until we reached the float and moored the boat, then we would toss him the candy a piece at a time, making him catch it in midair.

As Alfred grew older and larger, we trained him to do some of the things we had seen his kindred do in the circuses. And how eager he was to learn! He put Brother and me to shame, for we hated lessons. He loved them. We taught him to balance an indoor baseball on the tip of his brown nose, and when he saw us coming down the float with his ball in our hands, he would set up a hilarious barking and wriggle over to us, his head moving up and down in an ecstasy of anticipation. There was no barking, though, when he went through his tricks. If Alfred had been a man, his power of concentration would have made him a millionaire. He would sit, moment after moment, posing the ball on his nose, flexing his body from side to side to keep the balance, his bright, intelligent eyes fixed steadily on the leathern sphere.

We taught him to “play dead,” to dive from a high springboard, and to fetch us a stick that we threw into the water.

Some people say there is nothing in heredity. I am sure there is. I do not pretend to be an expert on the question, but I can account in no other way for Alfred’s deflection from the path of respectability. It was certainly not because of lack of nourishment that he took to robbing seine nets of salmon. I am rather inclined to think it was his mother’s waywardness which was cropping out in him. At any rate, he took to making nocturnal excursions, and in the morning we would find him on the float, stretched out listlessly, his stomach actually distended by too much food, and he would eye with disdain the padded bottle of milk and the pieces of griddle cake we had brought for his breakfast.

Still we did not suspect that our friend had become a net robber until the Old Fisherman descended on us one morning with wrath in his eye. He told us of having made the rounds of his salmon nets the night before to find the bodies neatly snipped from half a dozen king salmon. He had even caught the fish burglar in the act of amputating a Chinook salmon’s silver body from its head, and the seal had stared at him in the lantern light and had barked at him.

That it was Alfred, he was sure. Brother and I demurred that one seal was much like another. But no, said the Old Fisherman; this was a small seal, a seal unafraid of people, an impudent, half-grown seal—Alfred!

“And he chose the best fish o’ the lot,” he fumed. “If he’d taken a dog-salmon, now—but no, he has to pick out the kings, the steel-heads and the Chinooks!”

We faced Alfred and charged him with suspicion of robbery. It seemed to us that he avoided our questioning eyes. He flapped over to his ball at the side of the float and occupied himself in trying to hoist it on his nose. It was perfectly clear to us that his conscience was clouded with guilt.

What to do? We loved Alfred dearly, but we loved the Old Fisherman, too, and his living depended upon the hauls of fish he made. A scanty living it was at best, and we could not bear the thought of being even indirectly the cause of poverty descending upon him.

We built a wire cage in which we confined Alfred the next night, much against his will. And the Old Fisherman reported in the morning that no salmon had been stolen. But the following night heredity and appetite proved stronger than the wire netting we had devised, and Alfred robbed the seine net, near the Pointing Finger, of three large steel-heads.

The question of turning Alfred loose was a difficult one. We had never restrained him in any way, and our float and the beach beside it were the only homes he knew. The Old Fisherman spoke of killing, but that was against the law, since the seals of Puget Sound are considered in the same class with sea-gulls and other scavengers. Besides, Brother and I would never have permitted such a thing. Alfred was our friend. Somewhat of a reprobate, it is true, but after all, he had as much right to the salmon in the Bay as had the Old Fisherman. It was not his fault that he could not understand the man-made ethics by which human beings assumed control over the water and its inhabitants.

Then the next morning, as if in response to prayer, the _Rosenzweig_ came chugging around Green Point. Hardly had its anchor splashed when Brother and I were easing our boat alongside and clambering up to the smelly deck.

We told Karl and Andrin, all in a breath, how Alfred, the seal baby, had grown up to be a salmon thief, just like his mother. We told how sorry we were for the Old Fisherman, and how we could not seem to explain to Alfred about controlling his appetite.

Karl and Andrin took counsel with each other. We hung hopefully upon the strange foreign sentences that we could not understand. Then Karl grinned broadly. They were going to buy a new boat, he said, a bigger boat. They could fix a sort of a tank for Alfred, wherein he could submerge himself in water. There would be no question of fish; he would have his fill of them. They had missed him, Karl said. He had been “such a smart babee!”

So Alfred left us as he had come to us—on board the _Rosenzweig_. He nuzzled against my hand like a dog as I gave him a gum-drop, and his shining eyes were fixed on me with so much affection in them that I had to blink hard to keep from crying. He had forgotten Karl and Andrin. His heart was plainly in our keeping.

But the parting had to be. It was with sorrowful faces that we watched the _Rosenzweig_ weigh anchor and commence to chug out into the current.

Brother and I stood on the float, trying to pretend to each other that we weren’t down-hearted, when suddenly I spied between the boards Alfred’s ball.

“Oh,” I cried, “he must have that to remember us by.”

We piled into the little white boat and, pulling on the oars with all our might, set out in pursuit of the gray fishing launch. Our cries finally reached Karl and Andrin, for the engine stopped, and in a few minutes we came alongside.

“Alfred’s ball!” we explained breathlessly. “He’d be lonesome without it.”

And at the sound of our voices, we heard a high-pitched barking from the hold. It was Alfred, who was calling to us as best he knew how, begging us not to leave him, asking us to please take him home with us—