The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

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.

If any one had put that claw in there for him to find, why, of course, they would look for it when the Viking was returned. It was bad enough to be cheated, defrauded, robbed – thought the squire. But to know that Henry Burns and Jack Harvey and all the rest of the scamps would look for that drawer, and find it missing, and laugh themselves sick to think of his discomfiture, why, that was not to be thought of.

Squire Brackett stooped down and gathered up the pieces of the shattered drawer. Fortunately, they were of common pine, and were mostly wrenched apart where they had been nailed together. The squire hunted for hammer and nails in the yachtsmen’s stores, and hammered the drawer together as best it would go. He cast loose the line astern and pushed the yacht in to the pier again. Then he hunted around, outside of a boat-shop near by, till he found, a small piece of wood that would do, with proper shaping, to supply one of the parts he had broken.

Altogether, with his clumsiness in the matter of reconstruction, the squire consumed the rest of the morning repairing the drawer he had wrecked.

Then, when he had finished his work, he strode away up the street and made a purchase. The purchase was a fine, big boiled lobster – just a shade redder than the squire’s face as he paid for it. But, having paid for it, he took it back to the yacht and ate it for his dinner – all but one claw. That claw he wished to save. He was so careful of it, indeed, that he put it away in a certain secret drawer under the third locker on the starboard side.

“No, they’re not coming,” he said, that evening, to John Hart and Ed Sanders, on their return. “Too bad. Got a telegram saying they can’t come. The sailing party’s given up. Shame, isn’t it? However, I’ve got some business I’m going to attend to before I go home. We’ll stay the week out. Your pay goes on just the same. So you needn’t say anything to the boys about my not using their yacht. They might think they got a shade the best of me. It’s all right, though. I can make use of the time.”

The squire, in truth, was too ashamed to return so suddenly. He spent the week in Mayville; and of all miserable weeks in his existence, that week was the most dismal of any.

Saturday came, and it was a day of fitful weather. Part of the day it rained. Then there were signs of clearing, with the wind sharp and squally from the west. They waited till mid-afternoon, and then the weather improving a little, the squire gave the order to start. He dreaded the sail, but he would wait no longer. They went across the bay under two reefs, and the squire’s hair stood on end all the way.

It was shortly after supper, and Henry Burns and Jack Harvey sat with their friends, the Warren boys, on the veranda of the Warren cottage. The wind was still high, and now and then there came a brief rain-squall.

“I wonder if the Viking will be in,” said George Warren.

“Possibly,” replied Harvey; “but, if she isn’t, we’ll give the squire another day. It’s stiff wind for him to sail in. What worries me, is whether the crew are all right or not. They’ve been gone a week almost, and they’re way down ’round Stoneland somewhere.”

“Oh, they are all right,” said Henry Burns.

And yet, if Henry Burns could have seen the position of the good yacht Surprise, at that precise moment, he might not have thought she was exactly all right. For the yacht Surprise was hung up on a sand-bar, some ten miles below Stoneland, among the islands; and the crew had already worked an hour, in vain attempts to get her off.

There came a driving squall of wind and rain, presently, and the boys went inside.

“The Viking won’t be in to-night, I guess, after all,” said Harvey.

Then, as it grew dark, they busied themselves till they were taken all by surprise by a knock at the door. There stood Ed Sanders, his clothes dripping.

“We’re in,” he said. “The squire sent me up to tell you. He’s gone home. The Viking’s fast at her mooring, and all right. Come out and you can see her lantern that I set at the foremast. She don’t need a light, safe in the harbour here, but I thought you might like to see it and know she is there.”

“We’ll go down right away,” said Henry Burns. “Much obliged to you.”

“No, you won’t,” cried George Warren. “You don’t stir out of this house to-night. You’re going to stay with us. The boat is all right.”

They stepped to the door and looked out upon the bay. It was clearing, but it was not pleasant. Everything was soaked with the rain, and the wind was blowing.

“What do you say, Jack?”

“Oh, I think we might as well stay,” answered Harvey.

So they stayed. And they slept soundly, too, with the night-breeze whistling past their window. But it is certain they would not have slept soundly, nor slept at all, if they had but known of a certain letter that young Harry Brackett had written and sent to Bellport, three days before, and of the significance it had to the man who received it.

It was about six o’clock the next morning that Jack Harvey, still sleeping soundly, was rudely awakened. Henry Burns was shaking him violently.

“Jack, wake up!” cried Henry Burns. “Wake up and get your clothes on. There’s something the matter. The Viking’s gone. Yes, she’s really gone out of the harbour; for I’ve been clear down to the shore to see. It isn’t any joke. Hurry up. I’ll get the fellows out.”

A few moments later, Henry Burns, followed by Harvey and the three Warren boys, was running for the shore.

CHAPTER XX.

FLEEING IN THE NIGHT

Southport was very quiet of a Sunday morning, the sleepy aspect of its weather-beaten, low buildings taking on an even more drowsy appearance with the Sabbath calm, and without the sign of any activity along the shore and in the harbour to interrupt its rest. The faint tinkle of a cow-bell, or the mild bleating of a few sheep coming in from a near-by pasture, only served to accentuate the stillness.

The whole island sparkled with the morning sunlight, the rain-drops of the night before gleaming on bushes and grass before they vanished under its warmth and with the drying wind. The waters of the bay rolled away clear and blue, ruffled a little by the freshening breeze, and here and there showing patches of a darker hue, where a wind-flaw bore down quick and sharp and flayed the water.

On the point, in front of the tent, stood the boys that had dashed down from the Warren cottage, with Tom and Bob, rudely aroused from their morning nap, and hastily dressed in trousers and sweaters.

There was no comfort nor hope in the view that extended before them. Down between the islands, a schooner was running to sea, winged out before the favouring breeze. Nearer, a coaster, light and drawing little water, was beating up the bay, bound for Benton, to load with lumber. Over toward the Cape was a fisherman, with stubby mast and no topmast, skirting alongshore.

But there was no yacht, sailing or drifting. There was no yacht Viking anywhere to be seen. Nor could she have sunk at the mooring, for at that depth of water her topmast would be showing. However, half suspecting some trick might have been played on them, and the yacht taken out into deeper water and sunk, they went out in a rowboat and the canoe, and examined the water for quite a distance, all about.

“We’re losing precious time, though,” said Henry Burns. “The Viking’s been stolen. The first thing we’ve got to do, is to run over to the mainland and send a telegram down to Stoneland – though I’m afraid, with this breeze blowing all night, she’s got past there long before this. We’ll telegraph on to Portland, and to Boston, too, and have the police on the watch.”

“Oh, if the Surprise was only here,” groaned Harvey. “We might stand some chance in a long chase. Confound the crew! Here they are, gone, at the one time in the whole summer that we need them most.”

“Isn’t it just barely possible, though, that John Hart or Ed Sanders didn’t make her good and fast to the mooring, and that she went adrift? If that is so, she would have gone clear across to the islands in the night, or even past them, out to sea.”

“That’s possible,” replied Henry Burns, “but it isn’t likely. That’s one thing a good sailor does, always, by sheer habit – leave a boat secure. We’ll get them out, though.”

A hurried search brought forth Ed Sanders and John Hart, who stoutly protested the yacht had been left as fast as human hands could tie her. Moreover, they intimated, in no uncertain language, that the yacht had been turned over to the possession of the owners, according to agreement; and that, if they had not seen fit to look after their own property, it was not the fault of John Hart or Ed Sanders or Squire Brackett.

And the yachtsmen realized there was no answer to this.

“Jack,” said Henry Burns, as they hurried back again to the shore, “there’s no use trying to fool ourselves with false hopes. The Viking’s stolen – and you and I know who took her. He came back for the treasure in the cabin.”

In the same breath, they uttered the name of Mr. Carleton.

Then, to their amazement, George Warren gave an exclamation of dismay and self-reproach; for there had come back to him again, for the first time, the memory of that rainy night down the island, and of the envelope he had found in the fireplace, with the name of Mr. Carleton upon it. He told them now of the discovery he had made.

“Oh, if I’d only thought of it last night,” he cried, “I shouldn’t have urged you to stay at the cottage. You see, the cruise we’ve been on put the thing clean out of my mind. I hadn’t thought of Carleton since that night. Hang it! I feel as though I was to blame – and you’d have gone aboard last night if it hadn’t been for me.”

Poor George Warren looked the picture of dismay. “There’s nothing for you to blame yourself about,” said Henry Burns. “You couldn’t suspect Carleton was coming back.”

They had been running all the while, and had come by this time to Captain Sam’s door.

“Now,” said Henry Burns, quick and sharp, “we’ve got to jump lively and be off. You fellows will all help, of course. Tom, you and Bob have got to go to Bellport. The canoe will do it twice as quick as any boat could beat up around the head of the island and sail over.”

“We’re off,” replied Tom Harris. Without another word, he and Bob dashed for the shore, had their sweaters off, in a twinkling, snatched up the canoe as though it were a feather’s weight, launched it, and started down along the island for the Narrows. The light craft darted ahead swiftly, impelled by bronzed and muscular arms. The boys were trained to hard work, in rough water and smooth; and they wasted no effort now in starting off at any frenzied pace, under the excitement. They set, from the first, a strong, steady, even stroke, that could be sustained for hours if need be, knowing, as does a trained athlete, that the long distance race is to the man that sustains, and does not exhaust, his strength in useless haste.

“You fellows make for the islands in the Spray, will you?” said Henry Burns, turning to the Warren boys. “There’s a man in back of Hawk Island that owns a big fishing-boat; and if they’ve seen the Viking go down through that way, perhaps he’ll go along for us. Every man around this bay will help, when he knows there’s a yacht been stolen.”

“We’ll start just as soon as we can get a jug of water and some food aboard,” said George Warren.

“I’ll go back to the house for the food,” said young Joe.

The Warren boys started off on the run.

Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, their faces drawn and anxious-looking, but determined to keep up their courage, knocked at the door of Captain Sam.

“Come in,” was the hearty response.

They opened the door, which admitted directly into the dining-room, where sat Captain Sam, with Mrs. Curtis about to pour his coffee.

“You’re just in time. Sit right down,” cried Captain Sam hospitably. “Baked beans and brown bread is what you get, you know. I can always tell it’s Sunday morning, as soon as I wake up, by the smell from the oven. Haw! haw!”

“Hello, what’s the matter?” he added, seeing the expressions of distress on their faces. “Nothing gone wrong, is there?”

They told him, hurriedly.

Captain Sam Curtis raised his brawny right hand, which clutched an iron knife with which he had been dexterously engaged in conveying beans from his dish to his mouth, and brought it down on the table with a smash that made the coffee-cups jump in their saucers.

“I knew it and I said it!” he cried. “I didn’t like the looks of that Carleton from the first – did I, Nancy Jane?”

“No, you didn’t, Sam,” responded Mrs. Curtis. “You declared he had a queer way with him – though I couldn’t see it.”

“The villain!” roared Captain Sam. “A boat-thief, is he? We’ll catch him, if we have to sail to New York after him. Nancy Jane, throw some bread and cheese and that cold meat and brown bread into a box, and we’ll get away quicker’n scat.”

He bolted a cup of coffee at one swallow and unloaded his plate of beans with a rapidity truly marvellous, urging the boys, between gulps, to do likewise. But they had not much appetite and ate only a little, hastily.

“He’s the man – the scoundrel!” exclaimed Captain Sam, wrathfully, as they gathered his belongings and prepared to leave the cottage. “And didn’t I see him night before last, as sure as a man can see? I was coming down through the pasture from the post-office, about dusk, and there was a man ahead in the path; and when he heard me coming behind him, he slips off into the bushes and cuts across lots. Once he looks back for a moment, over his shoulder, and I says, ‘Why, that looks as much like that man Carleton that boarded at my house as one pea looks like another.’ But he didn’t answer when I called to him; only pushed ahead, out of the way. And I thought it was queer – and now I know it.”

The Nancy Jane, Captain Sam’s big fishing-boat, named for his wife, and, like that good woman, plump and sturdy of build, and not dashing, was swinging idly at its mooring. They jumped aboard, lifted the tender aboard also, so it would not drag and delay them, ran the mainsail and jib up, cast off, and stood down alongshore. The chase of the Viking had begun.

The yacht Spray, which had been under way for some minutes, was off about half a mile, heading for the islands. The canoe had already reached the Narrows, a little more than half a mile below, and was not to be seen. The Nancy Jane was doing her best. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns looked at each other, their faces set and anxious. They could hardly speak.

Only Henry Burns managed to say, “Keep up your courage, Jack. We’ll get him, yet.”

Jack Harvey shook his head, dubiously.

“He’s got a long start,” he said; “and you know how the old Viking can sail.”

As for Captain Sam, he must have had his own convictions about the relative merits of the Nancy Jane and the Viking; but he refrained from expressing them. He merely drew out his pipe and sent up such clouds of smoke that it might have seemed as though the Nancy Jane was propelled by an engine.

Tom Harris and Bob White lost little time in reaching the Narrows. At this point, the waters of the Eastern and Western Bays came so near together that only a narrow strip of the island prevented the sea from flowing between and making two islands, instead of one. The boys lifted the canoe on their shoulders, carried across and launched it again in the Western Bay. They had now some six miles of water to cross.

Heading somewhat above their destination, so as to allow for the setting of the tide, they proceeded vigorously. With the precision bred of long practice, their paddles cut the water at the same moment; while, under the guidance of Tom’s stern paddle, the canoe sped on an undeviating course, leaving a wake as straight as though a line had been drawn for them to follow.

Then, when they came to within the last mile of Bellport, Tom gave the word, and they finished at racing speed. In upon a clean strip of sandy beach they ran; nor had the bow scarcely grated upon the shore, before they were out and were carrying the canoe up above the reach of tide-water, or the wash of any passing boat. Then, still stripped for the race, with arms and shoulders bared, they started on a run for the telegraph office. They had set out at about half-past six, and it was now eight o’clock.

Oh, but the minutes seemed hours now. The little office, where the one operator did whatever business came that way, was locked, when they arrived. It was Sunday morning, and the operator was being shaved at a near-by hotel. They fairly dragged him out of the barber’s hands, however, and got him to send their messages: one to Stoneland, another to Boston, and another to Portland. They were brief:

“Yacht Viking; thirty-eight feet, six; sloop; foresail, two jibs; painted white; new sails. Stolen last night. Stop her.”

The messages were directed to the harbour-master at each port.

The boys, donning their sweaters, sat in the shade by the roadside, to rest. The pace had been so swift, and their intent so absorbing, that they had not fairly considered until now the real extent of the loss. But now they groaned with sympathy for their comrades.

“Isn’t it awful?” exclaimed Bob. “Just think of losing a boat like the Viking.”

“Yes, and think of the start he’s got,” replied Tom. “He’s had a smashing breeze all night. He must have got past Stoneland. Only the despatch to Portland or Boston will catch him.”

“Well,” said Bob, “what next?”

“Breakfast, the first thing,” said Tom. “Then let’s go down the bay toward Stoneland and see what’s happened.”

They had, indeed, eaten nothing since Henry Burns had awakened them with the dire news.

An hour later, they were paddling leisurely down alongshore.

In all the village of Southport, through which the exciting and unusual news had spread, there was but one man who regarded the loss of the Viking with anything approaching satisfaction. Having assured himself that no legal blame could attach to him, Squire Brackett was far from being downcast over the event. He thought of the secret drawer and the lobster-claw.

“I’m glad she’s gone,” he muttered. “Serves ’em right. And they can’t blame me for it. I brought her back all safe.”

And yet, if the squire had known it, he was, by reason of having a son, in that measure responsible for the Viking’s strange disappearance.

Since Mr. Carleton’s sudden departure from Southport, there had been a desultory correspondence carried on between him and young Harry Brackett, unknown to any one but themselves. Harry Brackett, indeed, felt rather flattered to receive attention from so important a person; and he had become convinced that Mr. Carleton did, in truth, regard certain things that the boy had done as practical jokes, instead of putting a worse interpretation on them.

Moreover, in furtherance of this idea, Mr. Carleton in all his letters spoke of a certain indefinite time when, if occasion offered, he should return to Southport, and the two would have some quiet joke of their own at the expense of the yachtsmen.

“And when I come, I shall stay into the fall,” he wrote, in one letter. “I expect to buy some land of your father. But say nothing to him about my coming. My plans might fall through and I should not wish to disappoint him.”

Thus it had happened that when, on Thursday, Harry Brackett’s letter of the day before reached Mr. Carleton at Bellport, it was a letter of much importance to that gentleman. He sat on the veranda of the hotel, holding the letter in his hand, thinking deeply, and uttering his thoughts softly to himself.

“So the squire’s got the boat,” he murmured. “I wish it was I that had her. I was a fool to start off so soon down this way, and not see Chambers, myself. It’s funny, too, about that secret drawer with the money. There wasn’t any when Chambers and I and French owned her. But it must be there, for Chambers’s friend, Will Edwards, told me about it in Portland. And didn’t he write me from Boston that Chambers says it is still there? And isn’t it queer, and lucky, too, that there’s only Chambers and I left to share it, since Will Edwards has been put where he won’t need money for ten long years?”

Mr. Carleton arose and paced the veranda, still talking to himself.

“He said I was the one to get it, did Will Edwards, because I appear like a gentleman, and can meet people – and, besides, I had the money to spend. But there’s little enough of that left. I’ve spent a lot. Somebody’s got to pay me. It’s the last chance, and I’ll have the boat if – ”

Mr. Carleton did not finish the sentence. But behind the heavy moustache, that had seemed like a disguise, almost, to Henry Burns, Mr. Carleton’s teeth were clenched tight; and his eyes looked away across the bay to Grand Island, with an expression in them that was cold and resolute.

Harry Brackett got an answer to his letter, next morning, and the secret it contained filled him with expectation and excitement.

“A capital scheme for us, he says,” exclaimed Harry Brackett, tearing the letter into little pieces and casting them to the winds. “I wonder what it is? I’m to meet him in the pasture to-morrow night. Cracky! but I guess something’s going to happen. I’d like to get even with Jack Harvey and Henry Burns for once. I’ll dare to do anything that Mr. Carleton will, too; for he’ll get the blame, if there’s any trouble, because he’s a man.”

Thus it happened that Captain Sam Curtis had not been mistaken when, on Friday night, he thought he saw his former lodger, Mr. Carleton, stealing through the bushes in the pasture, as he was coming from the post-office. Indeed, Captain Sam might have seen more, if he had been sharper-eyed. He might have seen Harry Brackett dodge quickly out of sight at the sound of his voice, then throw himself on the ground and lie still until he had passed.

What took place between Harry Brackett and Mr. Carleton, on this Friday night, was an agreement, merely, to meet there again on the succeeding night; after which, Mr. Carleton proceeded some three miles down the island, where he had engaged a room at a farmhouse.

“And what’s the joke?” Harry Brackett had asked, eagerly.

“Leave that to me,” Mr. Carleton had replied. “It won’t hurt the boat any; I promise you that. But they may have to mend their sail a little after it. You know what that means, eh, you young rascal?”

Mr. Carleton chuckled.

“Keep watch for the Viking,” were his parting words.

There was little need for Harry Brackett to watch for the Viking’s return. He knew of it by the arrival home of Squire Brackett, in the worst humour he had ever been in – if there could be degrees of such bad humour as the squire’s. He knew of it by his father’s ordering him to “clear out,” when he asked about the trip. So, his supper finished, he lost little time in obeying.

Harry Brackett hurrying up the road and turning off at length into the pasture, and Mr. Carleton walking rapidly up the island, and coming at length to the same spot, they met, shortly after eight o’clock. Great news had Harry Brackett to impart: the arrival of the Viking. Important enough it was to Mr. Carleton, but he took it coolly – or seemed to.

“Well, well,” he said, laughing, “you’re in for fun, aren’t you? I didn’t half expect you; the night started in so bad. I shouldn’t have come, if I hadn’t promised you I would. However, we’re in for it. Ha! ha! I declare it makes me feel like a boy again. We’ll have a laugh on them to-morrow, for I’m coming back to Captain Sam’s to-morrow afternoon, to stay.”

“Now,” he continued, “you get back to the shore as quick as you can, and keep a watch on the Viking, to see whether the boys go aboard. If they do, we’ll have our little joke some other night. If they don’t – ho! ho! I’m too old to play jokes like a boy – but I’m in for a good time. I’ll be down to the shore by ten o’clock.”