The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

Running the litter through his fingers, he turned up from the very bottom a piece of the paper that had escaped entire mutilation. He held it up triumphantly to the light.

“We’ve got one prize,” he cried. “It’s the only one that isn’t destroyed – but it’s fifty dollars, and that’s something.”

“But there’s only a piece of it,” said Harvey.

“More than half,” said Henry Burns, joyfully. “That’s enough. We can redeem it.”

“Oh, but isn’t that awful?” groaned Harvey, gazing ruefully at the litter of paper that filled the drawer. “Just think of all that money going to make a nest for mice.”

“It’s what you might call extravagance,” replied Henry Burns. “I wonder how much there was. We’ll never know, though. But there was enough to make it worth while for Mr. Carleton to come down here after it.”

“Say,” exclaimed Harvey, suddenly, “do you suppose that’s what the squire’s after?”

Henry Burns smiled, and stood for a moment thinking, before he replied.

“Possibly,” he answered. “But I don’t see how he could know of it. Where could he have learned of it? At any rate,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I don’t see as we are under any obligation to tell him about it. We don’t have to assume that he is hiring our yacht to steal something out of the cabin. He has told us what he wants the boat for. We’ll take him at his word.”

“Oh, by the way,” he added, “did we throw those lobster shells overboard after we finished supper?”

“All but one claw that I didn’t eat,” replied the astonished Harvey. “Why, what do you want of it?”

In reply, Henry Burns, his eyes twinkling more than ever, and with a quiet smile playing about the corners of his mouth, went and got the lobster-claw from the ice-box. Emptying out the scraps of now worthless paper, he deposited the lobster-claw in their place, took the candle, and once more replaced the drawer in the secret chamber. Then he shoved in the larger drawer.

“Whoever finds that may keep it,” he said, as he rolled himself in his blanket and blew out the lantern nearest him.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE LOSS OF THE VIKING

Squire Brackett was for once in rare good humour, as he came down to the breakfast-table on Saturday morning. He was beaming like a harvest moon, and a look of satisfaction overspread his heavy face. He even smiled affably on his son Harry, and was, withal, so pleased with himself, and so off his guard, that his son took advantage of the opportunity to ask him for ten dollars – and got it. By the time Squire Brackett had repented of his generosity, young Harry had disappeared.

“The scamp!” reflected the squire. “Smart enough to see something is up, wasn’t he? Well, I reckon I’m glad of it. He comes by his smartness honestly, I vow. I wonder how the wind is.”

He was, indeed, a bit apprehensive on this score, for he was a bad sailor. He had, moreover, a vivid recollection of the last time he went threshing down the bay in Captain Sam’s Nancy Jane, and of how sick and frightened he was.

“However,” he thought, “I guess I can stand it.” And he added, chuckling, “It will be worth my while, or my name isn’t Brackett.”

Mrs. Brackett was perplexed. She couldn’t, for the life of her, understand what had come over the squire, to induce him to venture forth on a yachting trip.

“Why, you just hate the water – you know you do, James,” she exclaimed, as the squire was bustling about, getting out his greatcoat and preparing otherwise for his departure. “You said, a year ago, when you got back from that chase after those boys, that you’d had enough sailing to last you the rest of your life. And I don’t see why you don’t use your own boat. Here you’ve been talking about selling her for the last three years, because every time you go out in her you’re dreadfully sick. You’d better get some use out of that boat while you have it.”

“Well! well!” responded Squire Brackett, somewhat impatiently. “This is a business trip. You can’t understand, because it’s business – important business. I guess I know my affairs, or I wouldn’t be the richest man on Grand Island. You just get that lunch ready, so I can start before the wind grows any stronger.”

Mrs. Brackett complied, obediently, but wondering.

“Morning! morning! Nice day, my lads,” said the squire with unwonted cordiality, some minutes later, as he appeared alongside the Viking, accompanied by John Hart and Ed Sanders, who were to constitute his crew.

“Good morning, squire,” responded the yachtsmen, catching the painter of his boat and making it fast. “You’re going to have a glorious day to start off in.”

“Think so?” queried the squire. “Not going to blow much, eh?”

“Not this morning, by the looks,” replied Henry Burns; “just a nice little easy southerly that will take you up to the head of the island in fine style. Then all you’ve got to do is to beat down the western side, a mile or so, and you can stand right over to Mayville without touching a sheet – isn’t that so, Captain Hart?”

John Hart, having the prevailing contempt of the born and bred fisherman for the amateur sailor, grunted a curt affirmative.

“Well, take good care of the Viking,” said Harvey, as the squire’s crew cast loose from the mooring and stood away, leaving the boys in their tender astern.

“We’ll do that,” replied the squire, assuringly. “And if we don’t, why, you’ve got it in black and white that I’ll make it good to you. A bargain’s a bargain. That’s my principle.”

The Viking, under a gentle breeze, was soon out of the harbour, clear of the bluff, and was running up alongshore. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns rowed ashore, to the tent, where Tom and Bob were awaiting them. Something that Henry Burns and Harvey confided to them, as they sat together on the point, sent the campers off into roars of laughter.

“Oh, but I’d give my shoes to see the squire when he finds that lobster-claw – if that’s what he’s after,” cried Tom, punching Henry Burns in an ecstasy of mirth. “Do you suppose that’s really what he’s hired her for, though?”

“Don’t know,” replied Henry Burns, solemnly. “No; Squire Brackett wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Well, let’s go up to the store and see how we stand,” suggested Harvey. “Come on, fellows. You’re interested in this.”

“How much do you think we have earned, Jack?” asked Henry Burns, as they walked up the street toward Rob Dakin’s store.

“Oh, more than two hundred dollars – quite a little more, before taking out expenses,” replied Harvey.

“Yes; nearer three hundred, counting Tom’s and Bob’s share, I think,” said Henry Burns.

“Well, that’s reckoning in the fifty dollars we found in the cabin, isn’t it?” asked Harvey.

“Yes, I guess it is,” said his companion. “It remains to be seen, of course, whether we can keep that or not. We’ll ask Rob Dakin what he thinks about that.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I think about it,” said Rob Dakin, some minutes later, after the boys had seated themselves in his store. “You say you found that piece of a bill in a locker in the cabin of your boat. Now there are two things to consider about that:

“In the first place, if the owner of the boat – supposing she was stolen – put that money in there, and he should turn up and claim the money, why, you might have to give it up. Of course the boat was taken over by the sheriff and sold, according to law; and if the owner claimed the boat I reckon he’d have to pay Mrs. Newcome what it cost her. But nobody has ever claimed her, and there isn’t really any danger of that. So far as that goes, the money seems to be yours.

“Now, in the second place, the men that had this boat, and who were sent to prison, might have had this money. Well, if it was their own money, why, the State would take it and keep it and restore it to them after they are set free. If it was stolen money, and the owner couldn’t be found, I can’t just say whether you could keep it or whether it would belong to the State. I’m not quite lawyer enough for that. But if they should deny knowing anything about it, why, I reckon it would belong to you, as you found it aboard your own boat.”

“Well, we will figure it in, anyway,” said Henry Burns.

So, at their request to draw them up a statement of their affairs, real “shipshape,” as Henry Burns expressed it, Rob Dakin set to work and, after some minutes’ figuring, produced a sheet at which they gazed with pride and satisfaction. It was as follows:

LEDGER OF THE VIKING – FISHING SLOOPEarnings

1st trip to Loon Island $18.00

2d trip to Loon Island 22.00

3d trip to Loon Island 35.00

Lobsters – apart from crew 45.00

Big mackerel catch 80.00

Other mackerel 30.00

Other fishing 15.00

Paid by the Squire 25.00

Found in the cabin 50.00

–

Total earnings $320.00

Expenses

Tom’s and Bob’s share first three trips $25.00

Tom’s and Bob’s share mackerel 36.66

Tom’s and Bob’s share other fish 5.00

Bait purchased 9.50

Anchor 5.00

Extra rigging 15.00

Hooks and lines 10.00

Provisions 25.00

Hire of tender 10.00

Paid Captain Sam for labour 11.50

Incidentals 13.50

–

Total expenses $166.16

–

Balance $153.84

Henry Burns’s share 76.92

Jack Harvey’s share 76.92

“Hooray!” cried Harvey, waving the paper, triumphantly. “I wonder what my dad would say to that. I’ll bet he’d be pleased. That’s the first money I ever earned.”

“Well, why don’t you write him about it?” suggested Henry Burns, with a wink at Tom. “You’re feeling pretty strong after the summer’s sailing.”

“Say, I never thought of that,” exclaimed Harvey. “I’ll do it – that is, I’ll do it some day – say – well, some rainy day when I’ve nothing else to do.”

“You like to write letters about as well as I do,” said Henry Burns, laughing. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You write to your father, and I’ll write and tell old Mrs. Newcome what we’ve done this summer with the boat. She’d be pleased to know about it.”

“All right,” said Harvey. “It’s a bargain – that is, some day when it’s raining good and hard and nothing else to do. Perhaps you’ll let me read your letter over first. It will sort of give me an idea what to say.”

“We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Dakin,” said Henry Burns, as they left the store. “You keep the money for us till we go home. We’ll want a few more provisions, too.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” responded Rob Dakin, good-naturedly. “You’re good customers, and I’m glad to oblige you. I hope you can keep that fifty dollars.”

And, to look ahead a little, they did keep it. Some days later, Mr. Warren, who had been communicated with at Benton, and who had looked into the matter, wrote them a letter that contained good news. It was, simply, that the men in prison, questioned regarding it, had denied flatly knowing anything about a secret drawer or hiding-place anywhere aboard the Viking. Perhaps they had their own good reasons for doing this. Perhaps it was, that they feared the consequences of the disclosure. Perhaps the money had really been stolen and concealed there by them. Perhaps they feared their admission of such a hiding-place would put them at the mercy of the authorities – who might have unearthed more about it than had been told – and that it might convict them of still another crime.

Whatever their reason, it was known to them alone. But their denial left the money to the finders.

To return, however, to the day of their reckoning, the yachtsmen, in high spirits, invaded the Warren cottage; and, later, the party, augmented by the three brothers, travelled down to the camp of Harvey’s crew, where they held carnival till late into the night.

Squire Brackett’s adventures throughout the day had been, on the whole, rather more exciting than those of the campers and the yachtsmen. The squire had gone aboard the Viking with mingled feelings of exultation and misgiving. But, as he had looked abroad over the surface of the bay, his courage had been restored somewhat, for there were no waves of any size discernible to his eyes, and the wind was still light.

He seated himself nervously near the stern, where John Hart was holding the wheel, while Ed Sanders managed the jib-sheets. The jibs soon ceased to draw, however, as they were beginning to run squarely before the wind; so Ed Sanders contented himself with hauling up the centreboard, and then betook himself to the cabin, for a nap.

This was a sad blow to the squire. He was fairly consumed with eagerness to go below and hunt about in the cabin, undisturbed, and without attracting attention. But he couldn’t do it while Ed Sanders remained awake. So he was constrained to sit out in the sun, and listen to John Hart’s explanations of the art of sailing – which didn’t interest the squire at all – and hope for slumber on the part of Ed Sanders.

Finally there came a welcome sound to his ears, a hearty snore from the cabin.

“I declare, that makes me sleepy, too,” said Squire Brackett, simulating a yawn and stretching his arms above his head. “I believe I’ll go below for a few moments, myself, and see if I can’t get a nap. It’s hot, this morning.”

The morning was, in fact, unusually sultry for September, and the wind showed no signs of increasing and cooling the air.

“Well,” replied John Hart, “this is a good morning to sleep, but I don’t know as I would go below if I were you, squire. You know, if a man has any tendency to be squeamish, that is apt to send him off.”

“Yes, I know,” answered the squire; “but it seems so nice and still that I think it won’t disturb me. I’ll just drop off to sleep as easy as a kitten.”

He accordingly descended the companion, looked sharply at Ed Sanders, to satisfy himself that he was sound asleep, and went to the forward end of the cabin.

“Let’s see,” he muttered, “I wonder if the ‘third starboard locker’ means the third from the stern or the third from the bow.”

The squire began opening the lockers along the starboard side, at random, and peering inside.

“We’ll see what sort of an equipment these youngsters have left us,” he exclaimed, aloud.

But, just at this moment, the squire felt a queer sensation, like a strange, quick spasm of dizziness, accompanied by a slight shiver. It was gone the next moment.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed to himself. “Funny how a man’s imagination works in a cubby-hole like this. I almost thought I was dizzy for a moment. Confound that John Hart! I wish he hadn’t said anything about being seasick. Of course a man can’t be seasick on a quiet day like this. Pooh!”

The squire perhaps had not taken into account, as had John Hart, that, whereas the sea was not ruffled by any chop-sea or breakers, there was still an exceedingly long, almost imperceptible undulation of the bay; a moderate but continuous heaving of the ground-swell, that swayed the boat gently from beam to beam or rocked it slowly from stem to stern. The squire did not realize that it was this that had set his brain momentarily awhirl.

Like many another sailorman, John Hart, having given his advice and finding it disregarded, considered it no longer his business whether the squire fared well or ill. Likewise, he did not see fit to warn him of the near approach of a big tramp steamer that was on its way, a little farther out in the bay, to Benton, to load with spool-wood.

The big tramp was making time, with black smoke pouring out of its two funnels; and, as it went along, it sent a heavy cross-sea rolling away from its bows and stern.

A few moments later, just as the squire had opened the lower drawer beneath the third locker from the starboard end of the yacht, something extraordinary happened to him. His feet were suddenly knocked from under him. At the same time, it seemed as though the cabin roof had fallen down; for the squire’s head came in violent contact with it. Likewise, it seemed as though the yacht was standing on its bowsprit and kicking its stern into the air; and, likewise, as though it were performing, at the very same instant, as violent a series of antics as the craziest bronco that ever tried to buck its rider.

The immediate result was, that Squire Brackett first bumped his head against the roof of the cabin. Then he fell over sidewise and hit a corner of the centreboard box. Finally, he found himself lying on the cabin floor, rolling about in highly undignified and uncomfortable fashion.

But, saddest to relate, when he had in a measure recovered from his amazement and endeavoured to pick himself up from the floor, his head was swimming round and round like a humming-top. Poor Squire Brackett was, indeed, as addle-brained as a sailor that has had a day’s shore leave and has spent it among the grog-shops. With a groan of anguish, he relinquished all hope of treasure-hunting and crawled upon one of the berths, where he lay helpless, and muttering maledictions on the head of John Hart for not warning him of what was coming.

“Hello, what’s the matter?” cried Ed Sanders, sitting up and addressing the squire, whose sudden downfall had awakened him.

“The matter!” roared the squire, in a burst of energy and indignation – “the matter is, that you were down here sleeping like a mummy instead of attending to business on deck. Here’s a sea hit us and nearly turned the yacht upside down, and my neck nearly broken.”

“Ho, we’re all right,” said Ed Sanders, intending to be reassuring. “Just a little swash from a steamer, I guess. She’s rocking a little, but there ain’t any harm in it.”

The squire was so unutterably disgusted that he couldn’t find words to reply. What could he say to a man that assured him he was all right when he was beginning to feel the qualms of seasickness? There were no words in the language to do the occasion justice.

Nor was he mollified or comforted by the appearance, the next moment, of John Hart at the companionway, also declaring that really nothing had happened – nothing of any consequence – and that he would be feeling as fine as an admiral in a few minutes.

The squire tried to reply, but could only choke and sputter.

“Nothing of any consequence, eh?” he groaned. “Oh, my head! O-h-h! If I die I hope they’ll indict John Hart for murder, and hang Ed Sanders for criminal negligence. Nothing of any consequence – but I know I’ll never live to see the end of this voyage.”

The squire’s agitation was not abated with the rounding of the head of the island; for, with this, what slight sea was running was soon broadside on, so that it rolled the Viking from side to side – not roughly, but enough to cause him untold misery.

Finally, at John Hart’s solicitation, he was induced to return to the outer air, where he sat, wrapped up in two heavy blankets, shivering, and with his teeth chattering, although the day was exceedingly hot.

When, at the close of the afternoon, they had arrived at Mayville, the squire had had enough yachting. He staggered ashore and took a carriage to the hotel, rather than spend the night aboard the Viking.

“Well, sir,” said John Hart, some time the next forenoon, when the squire, improved in appearance and temper, had come down to the dock, “when do you expect that yachting party to arrive?”

“What yacht – ” began the squire. He had forgotten for the moment the alleged object of the trip to Mayville. “Oh, you mean my party?” he said. “Why, they won’t be here until night. I won’t need you two at all to-day. You can have the day off. Here’s fifty cents to buy both of you your dinners. You needn’t come back until night.”

“Well,” said Ed Sanders as he and John Hart departed from the dock and went on up the main street of Mayville, “I thought the squire wasn’t hurt much by that bump he got yesterday in the cabin, but I declare if I don’t think it injured his brain. Did you ever know of his giving anybody fifty cents before?”

“No, never did,” answered John Hart; “but if getting seasick has that effect on him, we’ll make him sick every time he goes out. Next southerly we get, with the tide running out, we’ll sail into the worst chop-sea we can find and give him a dollar’s worth.”

Squire Brackett, however, watched them disappear with a satisfaction equal to theirs. He rubbed his hands like a money-changer, and stepped from the wharf aboard the Viking with the assurance of a buccaneer. He almost imagined he was a sailor when a man on the wharf accosted him.

“Fine boat you’ve got there,” said the stranger – evidently from the city.

“She’s pretty good, if I do say it,” replied Squire Brackett, swelling out his chest and looking nautical.

“Looks as though she might carry sail some,” continued the stranger, admiringly.

“Ha!” exclaimed the squire. “The harder it blows the better we like it. My men say to me, time and time again, ‘Most too much wind, Captain Brackett; better reef, hadn’t we?’ ‘Not much,’ is what I say. ‘Let a topsail go if it wants to. I’ll buy another when that’s gone. Keep her down to her work. She’ll stand it.’ What’s the use of having a good boat if you keep her in a glass case, eh, sir?”

“Well, I suppose that’s so,” replied the stranger, much impressed. “But you’ve got to have the nerve to do it.”

“It’s nothing when you’re accustomed to it,” said Squire Brackett, taking a nautical survey of the sky, and rolling toward the companionway like an old salt.

Before he began operations, however, he returned on deck, took the bow-line and drew the yacht close in to the pier, stepped off and cast loose the end of the line where it was made fast to a spiling. There was another line out astern, to which an anchor was attached, and which had been dropped at some distance from the boat. This was to keep the yacht from getting in too snug to the pier and scraping the paint from its sides. The squire took hold of this rope and drew the yacht out farther from the pier, so that no one could step aboard from there.

Thus safe from interruption, he again went below and sprang breathlessly to the drawer.

“Here’s the third starboard locker from the bow,” he muttered. “‘Money is still aboard yacht,’ eh? Ha! ha! I’ll show ’em a thing or two. He didn’t intend to buy my land – the rascal. Well, I’ll get his treasure. They will run down my sailboat, will they? Well, I’ll pull a prize out of their own boat. They’re a smart lot, the whole of them; but I’ll show ’em who’s smarter.”

Squire Brackett’s hand shook with excitement as he drew out the large drawer.

He looked into it earnestly, but there was clearly nothing of value in it, nor anything queer in its construction. He opened the door to the locker, and pounded on the bottom of that.

“There’s nothing odd about that, so far as I can see,” he exclaimed. “Well, it’s in behind there. That’s where it is. I’ll just get a light and take a look.”

The squire hurried to the provision locker, rummaged therein, and found the stub of a candle. He nearly burned his fingers in lighting it, so wrought up was he.

Returning to the opening whence he had withdrawn the drawer, he got down on his hands and knees and peered within. The candle-light flickered on the little drawer that fitted snugly to the under side of the locker’s bottom. The squire felt a queer, almost choking sensation come over him. He thought of the jewel robbery of the year before, up at Benton. He thought of the men that had had the Viking. The possibilities of his find swept through his excited brain, till the fancy fired his imagination beyond his hitherto wildest dreams.

In a delirium of expectation, and breathing short and quick like a man that has run a race, the squire snatched at the tiny knob, grasped the little drawer with eager hands, drew it forth, and rushed with it to the cabin door.

For one brief, ecstatic moment he paused exultantly. Then a strange, remarkable change came over him and he stood like a man stiff frozen. The look of anguish, of rage, of disappointment, of amazement that distorted his features was like that which an ingenious South Sea Islander might give to an image he had carved out of a very knotty and cross-grained junk of wood.

He held the drawer out at arm’s length, as though he was demanding that some imaginary person should look and behold the contents. And the contents, that the squire’s own eyes rested upon, were indeed not silver nor gold nor precious jewels, nor even the tawdriest trinkets, but – of all abominations – Henry Burns’s lobster-claw!

A moment later, the squire uttering an exclamation that shall not be recorded here, lifted the drawer above his head, hurled it down upon the floor, and crushed it with his heel. Once, twice, thrice he stamped upon it, shattering it to pieces, and crunching the lobster-claw into a shapeless mass. And then – why then, all at once, it flashed into his mind that he had, in his fury, done precisely the wrong thing; the very thing he should not have done.