The Castle on Deadman's Island Read Online Free PDF Page B

mother instructed. “Don’t expect to be waited on. And don’t forget to thank her.”
    He threw a T-shirt into the knapsack. “No, Mom, we won’t.”
    â€œYou’d better take a blanket. You can have that old army blanket of your grandfather’s. It still gets cold at night. And what are you taking to eat?”
    He stuffed his envelope of paper-route money into the pocket of the knapsack. “There’s stores there, Mom.”
    â€œHot dogs and potato chips and chocolate bars, I suppose. Well, I guess it won’t kill you for a few days. When will you be back?”
    â€œDepends. If it stays hot, why rush back to town?”
    â€œIs there a phone at the cottage Crescent’s family has rented?”
    â€œI doubt it.” Neil zipped up his knapsack. “Don’t worry about us, Mom. We’ll be okay.”
    His mother sighed. “Well, you be careful, Neil.”
    â€œSure, Mom.” He headed for the door.
    â€œAnd don’t forget the blanket – it’s in the spare room.”
    â€œOkay. Bye then. See you when we get back.”
    At the window, his mother watched him walk up the street until he disappeared around the corner.
    â€œKids these days,” she said to her husband at dinner. “Independent as all get out.”
    Neil’s father wasn’t really listening. Not that he wasn’t concerned about his son’s welfare, but his mind was on the rush job he had at the new army hospital. More and more Canadian war casualties were being repatriated – bombers were over Germany almost every night now, many of them manned by Canadian aircrews, and the Desert War in North Africa was heating up. Neil’s father was behind schedule on the work and couldn’t find experienced plumbers at any price.
    â€œHalf the time, I don’t know where he is,” Neil’s mother continued. “Now he’s off on some camping trip with Graham. George … George, do you hear me?”
    Mr. Graves looked up. “It’s the war,” he said. “Kids know they could be in the army overseas in a few years.”
    Mrs. Graves shuddered. “I just hope the war’s over before Neil’s old enough. If I know him, he’ll sign up on his eighteenth birthday.”
    The first half hour was smooth sailing. Crescent handled the tiller and the mainsail while Neil tended the jib, hauling it in or out as she directed. Soon, he began to get the hang of it.
    You let the jib out until it starts to flap, he realized, then pull it in until it stops – not too much though, just enough, so that it makes a nice smooth curve, matching the curve of the main. Then the two sails work together, pulling
Discovery
along at a fast clip.
    It was downwind all the way – a broad reach, Crescent called it – with the wind on their stern quarter. They barreled along. But then the wind shifted so that it was dead astern, and the jib, now blanketed by the main, sagged like an old sock. The boat slowed.
    Crescent showed Neil how to push the jib out to the other side, so the main was on one side and the jib on the other. Wing and wing, she said it was called.
Discovery
immediately picked up speed again.
    Graham simply tried to stay out of the way. When the wind freshened and the dinghy heeled sharply in a gust, he grabbed for support.
“Uh-oh,
are we going to tip?”
    Crescent assured him that heeling was normal, and she eased the mainsail out to spill some wind and settle the dinghy down.
    They were sailing along the north shore of the St. Lawrence River, and islands were streaming by. Large islands, small islands, islands dense with tall pines, islands with one lone pine, islands with sprawling mansions, islands with one-room cabins, and islands with nothing but granite rock. There were two tiny islands connected by a little arched wooden bridge, like a miniature of the big suspension bridge connecting Canada and the United