The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

And now that the yachtsmen had retired for the night and Mr. Carleton had withdrawn to his room, it is just barely possible that he may have recalled that fact. At all events, he did not make ready to retire, but sat for a half-hour smoking. Then he arose, turned down the light, and went quietly down the stairs.

It was about eleven o’clock, and the hotel was beginning to grow quiet. Few guests remained in the parlour, and most of the lights were out about the hotel and the grounds. Down in the town, as Mr. Carleton strolled leisurely along the streets, there were few persons stirring. Yachtsmen aboard their craft in the harbour had ceased bawling out across the water to one another, and no songs issued forth from any cabin. Only the harbour lights for the most part gleamed from the little fleet.

The yacht Viking lay some half-mile down below the village, toward the entrance to the harbour, and was hidden now from Mr. Carleton’s view by a little strip of land that made out in one place, and on which some tumble-down sheds stood leaning toward the water.

Mr. Carleton went down confidently to the shore; but when he had arrived at the place where they had drawn the dory out, he met with a surprise, for there was no dory there.

He looked about him, thinking he might have happened upon the wrong place; but there could be no mistaking it. There were the same sheds, with nets hung out, and the same boats in different stages of repair that he had observed with a careful eye when they had come ashore.

He went along the beach for a little distance, to where a lamp gleamed in one of the sheds, and knocked at the door.

“Some one seems to have taken our tender,” he said to a man that opened to his knock. “Do you know where I can borrow one or hire one for an hour so I can go out aboard? My yacht lies down there below that point. Anything you say for pay, you know.”

“I’ve got a skiff you’re welcome to use, if you only fetch it back before morning,” replied the man, good-naturedly. “I don’t want pay for it, though. Just drag it up out of the reach of the tide when you come in.”

He pointed to the boat, and Mr. Carleton, dragging it into the water, stepped in and sculled away.

He was alert enough now, and he worked the little boat with a skilled stroke and a practised arm. There were a pair of oars aboard, but it sufficed him to use the scull-hole at the stern, with a single oar, which gave him the advantage of being able to look ahead. He put his strength into it, and the skiff worked its way rapidly through the fleet of yachts. The evening was warm, and Mr. Carleton threw off jacket and waistcoat and unbuttoned his collar. He was a strong, athletic figure as he stood up to his work, peering eagerly ahead.

Something gave him a sudden start, however, just as he cleared the point that had lain between him and the Viking. Watching out for a glimpse of the yacht, there seemed to be – or was it a trick of the eyes, or some reflection from across the water – there seemed to be a momentary flash of light from the cabin windows. Just a gleam, or an apparent gleam, and then all was dark.

Mr. Carleton had stopped abruptly, straining his eyes at the yacht ahead.

“Strange,” he muttered softly, resuming his sculling and watching the yacht more eagerly, “I could have sworn that was a light in the cabin. If ’twas a light, though, it must have been in one of the other boats.”

He proceeded vigorously on his way.

At this very moment, however, there came another surprise to Mr. Carleton, greater than the other.

Henry Burns, going down to the shore and sculling out to the Viking, had found the cabin unlocked, as he had recalled; but everything was safe. It was comfortable aboard the yacht, and he decided to remain, planning to go ashore early in the morning in time for breakfast at the hotel. He sat up for some little time, however, and it was, indeed, his cabin light that Mr. Carleton had seen, the moment before he had extinguished it, to turn in for the night.

Mr. Carleton, sculling on now cautiously toward the Viking, suddenly heard a noise aboard the yacht. He paused again, then seated himself quickly at the stern of the skiff, as a boyish figure emerged from the companionway of the Viking and came out on deck. It was Henry Burns, taking one last look at the anchor-line, and a general look around, before he went off to sleep.

There was nothing within sight to excite Henry Burns’s interest. Everything was all right aboard the Viking. There were the few lights still left, up in the village streets. There were a few yachts anchored at a little distance. There was the dark shore-line, with its tumbling sheds huddled together here and there. And, also, there was the lone figure of a man, seated at the stern of a small skiff, sculling slowly down past, some distance away. It was all clear and serene in Henry Burns’s eyes, and he went below, rolled in on his berth, and went to sleep.

The lone figure that Henry Burns had seen in the skiff had ceased sculling now. He seemed to have no destination in view. The oar was drawn aboard and the skiff drifted with the tide. What the man in the skiff was thinking of – what he contemplated – no one could know but he.

But he resumed his sculling, very softly and slowly, after the lapse of a full half-hour. Noiselessly he described a circle about the yacht, drawing in nearer and nearer. Then he paused irresolutely, once more, and waited. Only he could know what would happen next. Perhaps he, too, was racked with uncertainty and irresolution. For once he seized the oar and worked the skiff up to within twenty feet of the gently swinging yacht. Then he paused again and waited.

Henry Burns’s sleep might, perchance, have been troubled could he have dreamed of the man now, waiting and watching just off the starboard bow of the Viking, while he slept within. But no dreams disturbed his sound slumbers.

Nor did aught else disturb them. For, presently, there came out from shore another boat, a rowboat with three men in it. They were laughing and joking about something that had happened ashore.

Mr. Carleton, resuming his oar, sculled gently away from the Viking, worked his way back again through the fleet of yachts whence he had come, drew the skiff out of water where he had embarked, dragged it up on the beach, and cast it from him roughly. Then he strode away up the bank to the hotel, muttering under his breath, and looking back out over the water once or twice as he ascended the hill, like a man that has suffered an unexpected defeat.

CHAPTER XI.

SQUIRE BRACKETT IS PUZZLED

Henry Burns was up early the next morning, as he had planned. He rowed the dory quickly in to the landing-place, and was in Harvey’s room before that young gentleman was out of bed.

“Why, I didn’t hear you get up,” said Harvey.

“That’s not so surprising,” replied Henry Burns, “seeing as I got up aboard the Viking. I slept there.”

“Is that so?” exclaimed Harvey. “I wonder how Mr. Carleton would like that if he knew it. He needn’t have hired so big a room just for me. Say, but he’s a jolly good fellow, though, isn’t he?”

“He is certainly a generous one,” answered Henry Burns.

Harvey smiled at his companion.

“What is it you don’t like about him, Henry?” he asked.

“Why, nothing,” replied Henry Burns. “Who said I didn’t like him? I never did.”

“No, you didn’t,” admitted Harvey. “But I know you well enough by this time to tell when you really like a person. Now, if I asked you if you like George Warren, you’d come out plump and flat and swear he is a fine chap, and all that. But you don’t seem quite sure about Mr. Carleton. I think he’s the best man that ever came down here. He likes to have a good time with us boys – which is more than most men do; he enters into things; he buys everything, and he tells good stories. What fault do you find with him?”

“Not any,” laughed Henry Burns. “He’s everything you say he is, and I think he is one of the most generous men I ever met. There, don’t that satisfy you? But I’ll tell you one thing, Jack. I was just thinking I shouldn’t want to be in Mr. Carleton’s way if he had made up his mind to do a certain thing. He’s the kind of a man that wouldn’t be interfered with when once he was decided.”

“How do you make that out?” asked Harvey.

“Oh, just by a lot of little things,” answered Henry Burns, “not any of them of any particular consequence of themselves. By the way, do you remember inviting him to sail down the river?”

“Why, not exactly,” replied Harvey, somewhat puzzled.

“Well, you didn’t,” said Henry Burns, laughing quietly. “He invited himself. He said, ‘I’ll sail down with you,’ or ‘I’ll go along with you,’ or something of that sort.

“And do you remember inviting him to go out sailing on this trip?” continued Henry Burns.

“No,” replied Harvey, a little impatiently.

“That’s because he invited himself,” said Henry Burns, still smiling. “I remember that he said, ‘I’ll go out sailing with you to-morrow.’ That settled it in his mind.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Harvey.

“Nothing,” replied Henry Burns. “I’m just as glad as you are that he proposed it. I’ve enjoyed his company and his generosity. I only say he is a man that I’d rather have for a friend than an enemy.”

Jack Harvey laughed.

“Well, you may be right,” he said. “I never think of looking at anybody as deep as that. If a man comes along and wants a sail and wants some fun, and is willing to do his share, why, that’s enough for me. And if he’s up to any tricks, why, he and I’ll fight and have it over with. I don’t worry about what might happen.”

“Did you ever see me worry about anything?” asked Henry Burns.

“Why, no,” said Harvey, emphatically, “I never did. I meant that I don’t think about things just as you do.”

Which was certainly true.

If Mr. Carleton had any notion in his head that he had, as Harvey had suggested, hired a larger room for him and Henry Burns than was really needed – or if he had any notion in his head that he had wasted his money in hiring any rooms at all at the hotel – he showed no sign of it when he appeared in the office and they went into the dining-room. Indeed, he thought it a good joke on Henry Burns that he should have had to go off to the yacht for the night, and he laughed very heartily over it, behind his big moustache.

The wind was blowing fresh from the south as the party went out on the hotel piazza. It had started up early in the morning, along with the beginning of the flood-tide, which meant, in all likelihood, that it would blow fresher from now on until sundown. There were already whitecaps to be seen over all the bay, and the yachts that were out under sail were lying over to it and throwing the spray smartly. It was a good morning to show the fine sailing qualities of a boat, and they were eager to be off.

They went down through the town, then, to where the dory was tied.

As they took hold to drag it down the beach, a fisherman, weather-beaten, and smoking a short stub of a clay pipe, approached them. Addressing Mr. Carleton, he said, good-naturedly, “Well, you got out and back safe, I see. Found your own boat again all right, eh?”

Mr. Carleton, glancing coolly at the man that had accommodated him the night before, said, carelessly, “Guess you’ve got the advantage of me, captain. I’m afraid I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

The man slowly removed his pipe and stared at Mr. Carleton in amazement.

“Wall, I swear!” he ejaculated. “D’yer mean to say it wasn’t you that borrowed my skiff last night to go out to your yacht?”

Mr. Carleton laughed heartily.

“Well,” he replied, “seeing as I haven’t any yacht to go out to, in the first place, and seeing as I was up at the hotel all last night, I think you must indeed have me mixed up in your mind with somebody else. However, if anybody has been using my name around here to hire a boat, I’m willing to pay, if you’re a loser.”

“Oh, no, sir,” said the man, apologetically. “I don’t want no pay. I just accommodated somebody, and it looked surprisingly like you. Excuse me. Guess I must have made a mistake.”

“Ho! that’s all right, no excuse needed,” said Mr. Carleton, lightly. “You’re going to row us out, are you, Harvey? Well, I’ll push her off and sit down astern. I’m the heaviest.”

They rowed out to where the Viking was tossing uneasily at her line, as though eager to be free and away from the lee of the land, amid the tumbling waves.

It was quite rough outside, and the wind increasing every minute; so they put a reef in the mainsail and set only the forestaysail and a single jib. Then, with anchor fished, they were quickly in the midst of rough weather, with the spume flying aboard in a way that sent them scuttling below for their oilskins.

The harbour out of which they were now beating made inland for a mile or two. The waters ran back thence in a salt river for several miles more, before they grew brackish, and then were merged into a stream of fresh water that had its origin in a pond back in the country. It followed, that the waters of the harbour flowed in and out with much swiftness and strength; and now, the flood-tide and the south wind being coincident, coming in together strongly, it was slow working out, even with as good a boat as the Viking. There was a heavy sea running, too, which served to beat them back. They tacked to and fro, but they drew ahead of the landmarks ashore very slowly.

“I say, my lad,” cried Mr. Carleton all at once, stepping aft to where Harvey held the wheel, “let me take her a few minutes and see what I can do, will you? Oh, you needn’t be afraid that I’ll upset you,” he added, as Harvey somewhat reluctantly complied. “I’ve owned boats and sailed them, too, – as good as this one, if I do say it.”

It was clearly evident, as he seated himself astride the helmsman’s seat, that he was no novice. He held the yacht with a practised hand, and, moreover, asserted himself with the rights of skipper.

“Haul in on that main-sheet a little more,” he said to Harvey.

“She won’t do as well with the boom so close aft in a heavy sea,” replied Harvey.

“Oh, yes, she will,” answered Mr. Carleton, coolly. “You are right as a general proposition, but I’ll show you something. I’ve been watching the run of the tide.”

Harvey, not agreeing, still acquiesced in the order, and hauled the boom aft.

“A little more,” insisted Mr. Carleton. “There, that will do. Now you will see us fetch out of the harbour.”

To Harvey’s surprise, and that of the other boys, the yacht certainly was doing better. Mr. Carleton held her so close into the wind that the sail almost shook. Every now and then it quivered slightly. But they surely were making better progress.

“Well,” admitted Harvey at length, “that goes against what I’ve been taught about sailing. The sheet a little off in a heavy sea and keep her under good headway is Captain Sam’s rule.”

“Quite correct,” said Mr. Carleton, smiling. “But, if you notice, the tide sets swift around that point ahead and we get the full force of it. Now, with the boat heading off as you had it, don’t you see we were getting the head wind and head tide both on the same side – both hitting the port bow and throwing her back? Now, do you see what we are doing? She’s heading up into the wind so far that the force of the tide hits the starboard bow. So we’ve got the wind on one side and the tide on the other; and, between the two forces, we go ahead.”

Harvey’s respect rose for Mr. Carleton.

“That’s right,” he said. “I’ve heard something of that kind, too. But I never thought much about it.”

“Well, the tide is three-fourths of sailing,” responded Mr. Carleton. “Now as we clear this point we’ll start the sheet off once more a little. It’s rougher, and we’ll need all the headway we can make.”

It was evident Mr. Carleton was no hotel piazza sailor. He was as happy as a boy out of school, as he held the wheel with a firm, strong hand, heading up for the deep rollers and pointing off again quickly, keeping the yacht under good headway, and watching the water ahead, and the drawing of the jib, with a practised eye. They had never seen him so enthusiastic.

He was, somehow, a picture of particular interest to Henry Burns, who had a way of observing how persons did things, and who conceived some impression of them accordingly, beyond a mere surface one.

It being a fact, to a degree, that a boat has as many peculiarities – one might almost say individualities – all its own as a human being, or a horse, it was interesting to see how quickly Mr. Carleton took note of them and handled his boat accordingly. He seemed to realize at once just how she would take the wind; how stiffly she would stand up in a flaw; just how much the jib and forestaysail needed trimming to be at their best; just how to humour the boat in several little ways to get the most out of her. And he did it all very confidently.

That he was a man of sharp discernment, and quick to learn things, was the impression he made on Henry Burns. And if there should come a time when Henry Burns, remembering many things which he now observed, but attached no particular importance to, should put them all together and form a conclusion regarding them and of Mr. Carleton, why certainly there was nought of that in his mind now.

He did observe one thing, however, in particular, and it was in accord with what he had told Harvey concerning Mr. Carleton. The man had aggressiveness and determination. Mr. Carleton surely believed in holding a boat down to its work. There was no timidity, even to a point that bordered on recklessness, in the way he met the heavier buffetings of the wind. Where a more cautious man would have luffed and spilled a little of the wind, Mr. Carleton held the wheel firm and let the Viking heel over and take it, seeming to know she would go through all right; as though he should say, “You can stand it. Now let’s see you do it. I’ll not indulge you. I know what you can stand. You can’t fool me.”

Henry Burns rather liked him for this. There was something that he admired in his skill and courage.

The yacht Viking was weathering the seas grandly. She was a boat that did not bury deep in a smother, and flounder about and pound hard and lose headway, but rode the waves lightly and went easily to windward.

“Works well, doesn’t she?” cried Harvey, enthusiastically.

“Splendid, better than ever – better than she did coming down the river, and yesterday,” responded Mr. Carleton. “She’d almost stand a gaff-topsail even with this breeze. That’s a good clean stick, that topmast. However, I guess we’re doing well enough. We won’t set it, eh?”

“Here, you take the wheel,” he said the next moment to Henry Burns, whom he had observed eying him sharply. “Let’s see what kind of a sailor you are.”

One might have thought it was Mr. Carleton’s own boat. He said it with such an air.

Henry Burns acquiesced calmly and with that confidence he had when he knew he could do a thing right. Here was another individual who could learn things quickly, too; and if Harvey had had more experience than he in actual sailing and handling a boat, Henry Burns more than matched him in coolness and resource.

“You’ll do,” said Mr. Carleton at length. “I’ll risk my life with you and Harvey any day. How’s the crew – are they pretty good sailors, too?”

“First class,” said Henry Burns. “We’ll show you there isn’t a lubber aboard.” And he turned the wheel over first to Tom and then to Bob, who acquitted themselves very creditably, showing they had picked up the knowledge of sailing wonderfully well.

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “That’s the way to run a boat. Give every man a chance to get the hang of it. One never knows what’s going to happen to a sailboat and who’s going overboard, or get tangled up in a sheet, or something the matter; and then it pays to have a crew any one of whom can take hold at a moment’s notice and lend a hand.”

So, having established himself in their confidence, and with mutual good feeling aboard, Mr. Carleton declared himself well pleased with their trip, as they beat up to Southport harbour. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years, he said. And he thanked them cordially for his good time, as they rowed him ashore.

“We’re much obliged to you, too,” replied Harvey, “for the fun you’ve given us.”

“Oh, that don’t amount to anything,” said Mr. Carleton.

Mr. Carleton, oddly enough, had occasion to make Henry Burns and Jack Harvey an apology not many hours afterward.

The afternoon and evening had passed, and the two yachtsmen, leaving Tom and Bob to spend the night ashore in their tent, had gone out aboard the Viking. They had sat up reading until about half-past ten o’clock, – rather later than usual, – when a most unexpected visitor appeared. It was none other than Mr. Carleton, rowing alongside in a small rowboat belonging to Captain Sam. He made this fast now and climbed aboard.

“Really this is imposing on your hospitality,” he said, appearing at the companionway. “But the fact is, I’m in a bit of a scrape. I’ve left my key in another pair of trousers in Captain Curtis’s house, and the door is locked there, and they’re evidently all fast asleep, as it’s getting on to eleven. I hated to wake them up, so I came down on the point and looked in at your friends’ tent. They were sleeping like good fellows, too, and I couldn’t see any extra blanket to roll up in. Then I spied your light out aboard here. Do you think you can spare me a bunk and a blanket for a night?”

“We’ll be only too glad to return your favour of last night,” replied Henry Burns.

“Though you didn’t make use of it yourself, eh,” said Mr. Carleton, smiling.

They were off to sleep then in short order, Henry Burns and Harvey occupying the cushioned berths amidships, and their guest one of the same just forward, where Tom or Bob usually slept.

There was really nothing of consequence occurring in the night, to be recorded, except a slight incident that showed Mr. Carleton to be a bad sleeper.

Perhaps it was the strange quarters he was in that made him restless, so that he lay for an hour or two listening to the deep breathing of the boys, himself wide awake. Yet he was considerate, was Mr. Carleton, and made no move to arouse them.

Even when he sat up, after a time, and threw the blanket off, and lit a match under the cover of the blanket to read the face of his watch by, he did it very softly. Perhaps, even then, he was solicitous lest their sleep be disturbed; for he stole quietly along to where they lay, and made sure he had not aroused them.

By and by, Mr. Carleton made another move. Taking the blanket that had covered him, he pinned it up so that it hung from the roof of the cabin as a sort of curtain. Then he lighted one of the cabin lamps, turning it down so that it shone only very dimly.

“Hang it, I don’t know what makes me so wakeful,” he said, in a low voice. “That light doesn’t disturb either of you boys, does it?”

There was no answer. But Mr. Carleton, apparently to make certain, repeated the question two or three times, very softly, so as not to arouse them if they were sleeping, but to be overheard in case one of them should be awake. And he repeated also the remark several times about his sleeplessness.

And also did he mutter to himself, so that none other could by any possibility have overheard, “Perhaps a light will show. I couldn’t make anything out by daylight.”

A moment or two after that, Henry Burns, opening one sleepy eye to an unusual though faint ray of light, escaping from behind the blanket, beheld the figure of Mr. Carleton moving about the forward part of the cabin. He lay still for a moment wondering, drowsily, what was the matter. Perhaps he might have observed the figure for some time in silence, but of a sudden he was seized of an overpowering impulse to sneeze, and did so lustily.

The figure with the lantern jumped as though it had received a blow. Then, by the light of the lantern, the blanket being whisked aside, Mr. Carleton was revealed, with a paper-covered novel in one hand, seating himself in the attitude of one reading.

“That’s too bad,” he said, softly. “I thought the blanket would hide my light. I got restless, you see, and have been reading a bit. I’m all right now though, I think. I’ll douse the light and try again. Sorry I disturbed you.”