The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

The wind held on for all of the eighteen miles they had to run; but it dropped away to a very light breeze just at sundown, then freshened a little soon after. It was not until near eleven o’clock, however, instead of nine, as they had expected, that they entered and sailed up the Thoroughfare.

Tom Harris, as lookout forward to watch the shoaling of the channel, saw, all at once, something that made his flesh creep. A stout, wholesome lad was Tom Harris, too, with no superstition about him. Yet he had heard sailors’ yarns of ghostly things in the sea – and he might almost have been warranted in thinking he now beheld something of that sort.

There, off the port bow, about an eighth of a mile from shore, was something that did look strangely like a human head bobbing along; and if there wasn’t an arm lifted again and again from the water, as of some one swimming a side-stroke, why, then Tom Harris was dreaming, or seeing some seaman’s phantom. He had to believe his own eyes, though; and yet how could it be, away down at this end of the island, where there were no cabins of any sort – and the crew up beyond?

“Jack, Henry, Bob,” he whispered, excitedly, “there’s a queer thing swimming just ahead there. It may be a big fish or a seal, but it looks different to me.”

“That’s no fish,” cried Harvey, springing to his feet. “It’s some one swimming. I’ll bet it’s one of the crew. Little Tim Reardon, most likely. Just like the little chap to try to surprise us. He’s the best swimmer I ever saw. Learned it around the docks up the river before he was seven years old.”

If there was any doubt in their minds it was dispelled by a faint halloo from the swimmer, accompanied by a warning cry for them to make no noise.

“That’s queer,” said Harvey. “Something’s up when Tim doesn’t want a noise. I wonder if anything has gone wrong.”

Little Tim, climbing aboard a few moments later, and telling his story in excited tones, quickly apprised them that things were decidedly wrong up the Thoroughfare. Wrong indeed! The yachtsmen were thunderstruck.

Jack Harvey brought the Viking into the wind as near shore as he dared.

“Bully for you, Tim!” he exclaimed. “Now take the dory and get ashore quick, and bring the rest of the crew down here.”

Tim was away for shore in a twinkling. A few minutes later the four could be seen coming down on the run. They piled aboard the Viking in a heap, and the yacht stood along up the Thoroughfare once more.

“Well, what are we going to do, Jack?” inquired Henry Burns, as they turned a bend of the shore and came in sight of the mast of the Seagull.

“I’m going to fight for that boat!” cried Harvey, angrily. “I’ll die for it, but they sha’n’t get it away from me.”

“Of course we’ll fight for it if we need to,” said Henry Burns, calmly. “We will all stand by you, eh, fellows?”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Tom and Bob together, feeling of their muscles, developed by canoeing and gymnastics.

The crew also assented, less warmly. They had had their taste of it already.

“All the same,” said Henry Burns, “it would be a huge joke on them, after they have gone to work and patched her up and floated her for us, to sail in and tow her out without their knowing it. Just imagine them waking up in the morning and finding the boat and the crew both gone.”

“Yes, and we’ll catch it for that, too, I suppose,” groaned George Baker.

“No, we’ll stand by you,” said Henry Burns. And he added, “Let’s try the easiest way first, Jack. We’ll run in as quietly as we can, come up alongside the Surprise and take her in tow. If they wake, we’ll stand by you and fight for the boat. But I think we may get away with her. They’re bound to be sound sleepers.”

Carefully stowing away every pail or oar or stick that could be in the way at the wrong time and make a noise, the yachtsmen brought the Viking close in upon the dismasted Surprise. Then, as Harvey made a wide sweep to bring the Viking about into the wind, Henry Burns and Tom Harris dropped astern in the dory and picked up the line with which the Surprise had been moored. They were ready for Harvey when he had come about. Throwing the line aboard as the Viking rounded to, close in, they rowed quickly alongside and sprang over the rail. The line had been caught by Bob, who made it fast astern.

The Viking had not even lost headway, so skilfully had the manœuvre been carried out. Standing away on the starboard tack, the Viking’s sails filled and the line brought up. The wind was fairly fresh and the weight of the unballasted Surprise did not stop the Viking. The Surprise, its long, lonely stay down in the Thoroughfare ended, had at last begun its homeward journey toward Southport.

“I don’t see but what your friends on the Seagull did us a good turn in trying to rob you of the Surprise,” said Henry Burns, smiling. “They seem to have made the old boat pretty fairly tight. They’ve saved us time.”

“Oh, yes, we owe ’em something for that,” exclaimed Little Tim, feeling around for a sore spot, “but I hope they don’t try to collect any more of the debt from me.”

“Tim, you were a brick to do what you did!” cried Harvey. “And the rest of you, too. You had the real pluck. But Tim suggested it, and he’s first mate of the Surprise after this, and next to Skipper Joe. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

George Baker and Allan Harding agreed.

“What do you think,” asked Harvey, as they sailed on up the bay, “will they keep up the fight for the boat? Will the squire take it to court, or will they quit, now they find themselves outwitted?”

“They’ll give it up,” said Henry Burns. “They would have tried to lie it through if they could have got the boat away from here. But now that we have it, they will look at it differently. They’ll find, when they get back to the village, too, that the Warren boys were down here, and that will settle it.” Henry Burns was right.

John Hart and his comrades, astounded, on awakening, to find the Surprise nowhere to be seen, had jumped to the conclusion that the crew had stolen down and cut her loose.

“We’ll take it out of them!” he had cried, fiercely; and, followed by his no less irate comrades, had dashed up to the old cabin. Another disappointment. And still another, when they had searched all the shores of the Thoroughfare and examined its waters, and realized that the boat was gone.

“Well, we’ll get it yet, if they have carried it off,” young Brackett ventured to suggest.

“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried John Hart, angrily. “You idiot! Can’t you see we’re beaten? Some one has been down in the night and helped them. That must have been true, what they said about the other chaps. The best thing we can do is to keep quiet about what we have done, or we’ll have the whole town laughing at us for working on their boat.”

Young Harry Brackett looked pained.

CHAPTER IX.

HARRY BRACKETT PLAYS A JOKE

Southport, albeit not a place of great hilarity, took a night off once a fortnight or so, and enjoyed itself in rollicking fashion. Up the island, about a mile and a half from the harbour, there was a small settlement, consisting of a half-dozen houses clustered together, overlooking a pretty cove that made in from the western shore. They were a part of the town of Southport, though separated from the rest. It had been, in fact, the original place of settlement, and there was a church and town hall there.

This town hall, bare and uninviting in appearance for the most of its existence, brightened up smartly on these fortnightly occasions, putting on usually some vestments of running pine and other festoons of trailing vines, and adorned with wild flowers in their season.

A glittering array of lamps, some loaned for the occasion, made the hall brilliant; while a smooth birch floor, polished and waxed as shining as any man-o’warsman’s deck, reflected the illumination and offered an inviting surface for dancing.

Overhead, on the floor above, it was often customary to serve a baked bean supper before the dancing, with its inevitable accompaniment of pie of many varieties.

Everybody took part in the dances, from Benny Jones, who had one wooden leg, but who could hop through the Boston Fancy with amazing nimbleness, to old Billy Cook, who arrayed his feet, usually bare, in a pair of heavy boots that reached to his knees, and in which he clattered about the hall with a noise like a flock of sheep. Even the squire consented to unbend from his dignity on some of these occasions, stalking through a few dances stiffly, as a man carved out of wood.

As for young Harry Brackett, he would have been welcomed, also, and indeed had formerly taken part in the festivities. But, since his return from Boston and from some of the livelier summer resorts, he had referred to the island dances contemptuously as “slow.”

The campers usually went up to see the fun; and Henry Burns, who was a favourite about the island, and George Warren were usually to be seen among the dancers.

By far the most important functionary of all, however, was a quaint, little, grizzled old man, who was not a resident of the island, but lived six miles away, over across on the cape. “Uncle Bill” Peters, with his squeaking fiddle and well-resined bow, was, in fact, the whole orchestra. He was the one indispensable man of all. He had a tireless arm that had been known to scrape the wailing fiddle-strings from twilight to early morning on more than one occasion, inspiring the muse now and then with a little tobacco, which did not hinder him from calling off the numbers in a singsong, penetrating voice.

Early in the day, when a dance was arranged, it was the duty of some one to sail across to the cape and fetch “Uncle Billy” over, his arrival being the occasion for an ovation on the part of a selected committee.

“You’re goin’ up to the dance, I see,” remarked Rob Dakin to Billy Cook, one evening shortly following the adventures down in the Thoroughfare, just narrated.

“Well, I reckon,” answered Billy, reaching into a cracker-barrel and abstracting some odds and ends of hardtack.

It was easy enough for anybody to see, for Billy’s boots occupied a large part of the store doorway, as he seated himself in a chair, and crossed one leg over the other.

“I just saw Uncle Bill Peters go by,” continued Billy Cook. “I should think he’d be scared to fetch that ’ere fiddle clear across the bay here. Jeff Hackett says it’s one of the best fiddles this side er Portland. Cost seven dollars, I hear.”

Just then a crowd of boys, including Henry Burns and Harvey, Tom and Bob and the Warrens, went by the door, coming up from shore, where they had been at work on the hull of the yacht Surprise.

“Hello, Billy!” cried young Joe, spying the biggest pair of boots of which the island boasted, filling up the doorway. “Are you going up to the dance, Billy?”

“Yes, I be,” responded Billy, rather abruptly.

“Hooray!” cried young Joe. “So am I.”

“Well, I don’t know as I’m so overpowering anxious to have yer go,” asserted Billy; “at least, unless you mend your ways. You boys have got ter quit your cutting up dance nights, or there’ll be trouble.”

Young Joe grinned.

“I didn’t fill up your boots, Billy,” he said. “Honour bright, I didn’t.”

He might have added that the reason why was because somebody else thought of it first.

Billy Cook’s memory of the preceding dance was clouded by one sad incident. It seems that, by reason of his habit of going barefoot at other times except funerals and dances, and of dispensing with the conventionality of socks when he did wear boots, it was a relief to Billy to step out-of-doors, once or twice during the evening, remove the cumbersome boots, and walk about for a few moments barefoot.

It fell out that, at the previous dance, after one of these moments of respite, Billy had returned to find his boots filled with water, and that young Joe’s deep sympathy had directed suspicion against him.

“No, sirree,” said young Joe now, in response to Billy’s rejoinder. “We didn’t have anything to do with that. And we didn’t put the lobster in the squire’s tall hat, either. ’Twas some chaps from down the island that did that. You know how they like the squire down there, Billy.”

“Guess I know how some folks up here like him, too,” muttered Billy.

Early that evening, the lights glimmering from the well-cleaned windows of the town hall shone out as so many beacons to guide the islanders from far and near. They came from up and down the island, rattling along the stony road in wagons that must have been built at some time or other – though nobody could remember when they were new. Moreover, whereas a boat must be painted often to keep it sound and at its best, the same does not apply to farm wagons. Hence, the conveyances that came bumping along up to the town hall shed were certainly not things of beauty.

But each carried, nevertheless, its load of human happiness and merriment. There sprang out rosy-cheeked, buxom island girls and sturdy young fishermen, healthy, hearty, and full of life, eager for the first weird strains of Uncle Billy’s seven-dollar fiddle.

He was soon in action, too. Seated on a high platform at the end of the hall, resining his bow, was Uncle Billy, smiling like a new moon upon the company. For the hall was used, likewise, by troupes of wandering theatrical companies; and, on this very stage where Uncle Billy was now seated, the villagers had gazed upon the woes of Little Eva and Uncle Tom, and had beheld Eliza Harris flee in terror, with a lumbering mastiff (supposed to be a bloodhound) tagging after her, crossing the little stage at two heavy bounds, and yelping behind the scenes, either from innate ferocity or at the sight of a long-withheld bone.

Uncle Billy was off now in earnest, with a squeaking and a shrieking of the catgut. Captain Sam Curtis, his hair nicely “slicked,” and wearing a gorgeous new blue and red necktie, led the grand march as master of ceremonies, with Rob Dakin’s wife on his arm. Rob Dakin, escorting Mrs. Curtis, followed next. The squire was somewhere in line, leading a stately maiden sister of his wife. Billy Cook clattered along, with a laughing damsel from down the island. Henry Burns and George Warren, with comely partners, were also to be seen, entering heartily in the fun.

At the end of the hall nearest the doorway stood a group of islanders who didn’t dance, or hadn’t partners at present. Included in these were the other two Warren boys and the most of the campers. Included, also, was young Harry Brackett, scowling enviously at a youth from the foot of the island, who led to the dance a certain black-haired, bright-eyed, trim little miss, who smiled at her escort sweetly as they promenaded past the entrance where Harry Brackett stood.

It had happened that this same young lady had been invited by Harry Brackett to accompany him to the dance as his partner; but that she had coolly snubbed him, with the remark that he was “stuck-up,” – an unpardonable offence in the eyes of a resident of Southport, as elsewhere.

So it came about that Harry Brackett, after glaring malevolently upon the general merriment for a few minutes, took his departure.

If any one had followed this young man, they would have observed him footing it up the main road of the island for about half a mile, at a surprising pace for one no more energetically inclined than he. Then, at a certain point, Harry Brackett left the road, crawled through some bars that led into a pasture, and made his way by a winding cow-path into a clump of bushes and small trees, some distance farther.

Harry Brackett evidently was not travelling at random, but had some fixed destination. This destination, shortly arrived at, proved to be a large, cone-shaped, grayish object, hanging from the branch of a tree, near to the ground. The boy approached it cautiously, pulled a cap that he wore down about his ears, tied a handkerchief about his neck, turned up his coat-collar, and put on a pair of thick gloves.

If any one had been near, they might have heard a subdued humming, or droning sound coming from the object on the branch. It was a wasp’s nest of enormous size.

Harry Brackett next proceeded to take from his pocket a small scrap of cotton cloth and a bottle, from which, as he uncorked and inverted it, there issued a thick stream of tar and pitch, used for boat calking. Having smeared the cloth with this, he was ready for business.

He stole quietly up to the nest, clapped the sticky cloth over the orifice at the base of it, dodged back, and awaited results.

A sound as of a tiny windmill arose within the nest – an angry sound, which indicated that the fiery-tempered inmates were aware of their imprisonment and were prepared for warfare. But Harry Brackett had accomplished his design, unscathed. A few tiny objects, darting angrily about in the vicinity, showed that some of the insects still remained without the nest, and were surprised and indignant at finding their doorway thus unexpectedly barred.

Somewhat uncertain as to how these might receive him, Harry Brackett screwed up his courage and dashed up to the nest, which he severed from the tree by cutting off the branch with his clasp-knife. His venture proved successful, and, swinging his hat about his head to ward off any chance wasp that might come to close quarters with him, he emerged triumphantly from the thicket, bearing his prize, and without paying the penalty of a single sting.

“My! but that’s a mad crowd inside there,” he exclaimed. “Sounds like the buzz-saw over at Lem Barton’s tide-mill. Guess they’ll liven things up a bit at the dance. Perhaps some other folks will be stuck-up to-morrow.”

The furious buzzing quieted, however, after he had gone about a quarter of a mile, and he reflected that perhaps the wasps, cut off from a fresh supply of air, might die on the way. So he took out his knife again and stabbed several holes in the nest, with the thick blade; whereupon the angry remonstrances of the prisoners was resumed, to his satisfaction.

This time, however, he did not venture along the highway, but made his way slowly back to the town hall through the woods and pastures. After a time he came to where the lights of the hall gleamed through the bushes, and the thin but vigorous scraping of Uncle Billy’s fiddle sounded from the stage. He put down his burden and made a stealthy reconnaissance as far as the rear sheds of the hall. Some men were about there, so he waited for a favourable opportunity.

This opportunity did not present itself for some time, as now and again some one would come out to see if his horse was standing all right, and possibly suspicious that some prank might be played with the wagons; for the young fishermen of Southport were not above playing practical jokes of their own on these occasions. So it was not until Harry Brackett had waited fully a half-hour that he fancied the coast clear.

It was then half-past nine o’clock, or when the dancing had been in progress about an hour, that Harry Brackett, bearing his burden of pent-up mischief, stole slyly up to the rear of the hall, where a window, opened to give a circulation of air through the place, afforded him an entrance back of the stage.

It happened, not all opportunely for the young man, however, that some of the islanders came to these dances, not for the dancing itself, but because of the opportunity it offered to meet socially and discuss matters. Of this number, long Dave Benson, who lived on the western shore, and Eben Slade, commonly called Old Slade, who lived across from the harbour settlement on the bluff, had withdrawn from the hall to talk over a dicker about a boat.

After a friendly proffer of tobacco on Dave Benson’s part, the two had adjourned to one of the sheds at the rear of the hall, to get away from the noise of the music and the dancers, and had seated themselves in an old covered carryall, from which the horse had been unharnessed.

From this point of vantage, they presently espied a solitary figure emerge from the dark background and go cautiously on to the rear window.

“S-h-h!” whispered Dave Benson to his companion, “what’s going on there? Some more skylarking, I reckon. Well, there won’t be any wheels taken off from my wagon to-night.”

“Why, it looks like that ’ere young good-for-nothing of the squire’s,” said Old Slade. “Thinks he’s a leetle too good for dancing, perhaps, but don’t mind takin’ a peek at the fun from the outside. Seems to be carrying something or other, though. What do you make that out to be?”

“Looks like a big bunch of paper to me,” replied Dave Benson. “But I allow I can’t see in the dark like I used to – however, it don’t matter, I guess. Now as to that ’ere boat of mine, she’s a bit old, I’ll allow, but you can’t do better for the money.”

Harry Brackett, all unconscious of his observers, vanished through the open window. When he reappeared, a few moments later, he was minus the object he had carried. Moreover, that object no longer bore upon its base the piece of tarred cloth. Harry Brackett had snatched that away as he made his hasty departure, after depositing the nest among the faded scenery stored behind the stage. Then, from a side window, he watched the effect of his plan.

The dancing was in full swing. Uncle Billy, warmed to his task, and keeping time with his foot, was calling off the numbers.

“Balance your partners! Gentlemen swing! All hands around!” sang out Uncle Billy.

The dancers were in great fettle. Billy Cook, boots and all, was doing gallantly. Captain Sam’s laugh could be heard clear to the woods beyond the pasture. Squire Brackett was actually breaking out in a smile. Henry Burns and his friends were gathered near the doorway, watching the surprising play of Billy Cook’s boots.

But at this happy moment something happened to Uncle Billy Peters. His fiddle-bow, scraping across the strings in one wild, discordant shriek, dropped from his hand. His half-articulated call for a position of the dance blended into a startled yell, that brought the dancing to an abrupt stop; while Uncle Billy, his fiddle discarded, had leaped from his seat and was now dancing about the stage and describing the most extraordinary gyrations, waving his arms in the air and slapping at his face and the back of his neck, as though his own music had driven him stark, staring mad.

“What on earth!” – ejaculated Billy Cook. He got no further. Something that felt like a fish-hook, half-way down his boot-leg, occupied his attention; and the next moment a dozen or more of the same animated fish-hooks were buzzing about his head.

Billy Cook made one frantic clutch at his boot-leg; and, failing to find relief, yanked the boot off. Swinging this wildly about his head, one foot bared and the other clattering, poor Billy fled from the hall.

The squire’s expansive smile faded away in an expression of anguish and wrathful indignation. Slapping madly at the bald patch at the crown of his head, and uttering fierce denunciations upon the author of the mischief, he ignominiously deserted his partner of the dance and likewise fled precipitately.

The campers had already scuttled before the storm, and in a twinkling the hall was cleared. The angry, buzzing swarm was in complete and undisputed possession.

“I’ll give five dollars to any one that will discover who did this outrage!” cried Squire Brackett, dashing across the road to where a group of dancers had gathered. “Where’s that Burns boy and that Harvey – and that little Warren imp? He had a hand in it, I’ll take my oath. Whoever they are, they’ll get one horsewhipping that they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. Get those horsewhips out of the wagons! We’ll teach the young rascals a lesson.”

The squire had not observed that still another group of stalwart fishermen had had a word with Dave Benson and Old Slade and had already, of their own accord, provided themselves with horsewhips.

The squire only knew, at this time, that a party of the men were off down the road, with a hue and cry. He did not know that his own son was fleeing before them on the wings of fear, and being fast overtaken by his pursuers, themselves borne onward on the wings of pain and wrath.

What the campers, joining in the pursuit, saw shortly, was the figure of young Harry Brackett, fleeing down the highway toward the harbour, bawling loudly for mercy, as first one whip-lash and then another cut about his legs; and receiving no mercy, but, instead, as sound and thorough a horsewhipping as the squire himself had recommended for the guilty wretch.