Smith Ruel Perley
The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

And, stepping into his boat alongside, he put out his oars and rowed away.

“Never mind about that lock,” Henry Burns called out.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, pausing for a moment.

“I say, never mind the lock,” repeated Henry Burns. “We’ll attend to that, ourselves. We’d just as lieves you would keep away from the Viking after this.”

Mr. Carleton made no reply as he rowed away.

“I wonder if we were too rough on him,” said Jack Harvey to his companion, a little later, as they were undressing, preparatory to turning in for the night.

“I don’t see why,” answered Henry Burns. “That’s a pretty high-handed proceeding, to come aboard here and smash into our cabin.”

“Well, perhaps he was worried about that pin,” said Harvey. “Some persons do lose their heads just that way.”

“Yes, but he isn’t one of the kind that lose their heads,” said Henry Burns. “And for my part, I can’t recall for the life of me ever seeing him wear any such kind of a pin.”

CHAPTER XV.
MR. CARLETON GOES AWAY

Squire Brackett, having received sufficient encouragement from Mr. Carleton to warrant action on his part, hitched up his horse one afternoon and drove around the road back of the cove, turning off at length at the pasture lane that led in to Billy Cook’s farmhouse. Billy, barefoot, as usual, was busy hoeing in a small garden patch at a little distance from the house.

“How d’ye do, Billy,” said the squire, sauntering out, with his hands tucked under his coat-tails.

“Afternoon, squire,” responded Billy; and added, to himself, “Wonder what he’s up to.”

“Quite a stranger, squire,” said he. “What brings you way ’round here?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Squire Brackett, seating himself on the handle of the wheelbarrow that was loaded with garden-truck. “I was driving by and thought I’d just drop in and say good day.”

“Humph! guess not,” thought Billy to himself. He knew the squire was not in the habit of making social visits.

“Well, glad to see you, squire,” he declared, cordially. “Nice summer we’re having. Wouldn’t like to take home a couple dozen fresh eggs, would you? Hens doing right well lately. I can spare you some, I reckon, store price.”

“Why, yes, I should,” answered the squire. “Those hens of yours do lay the finest eggs I know of.”

The squire, watching Billy at his work, discoursed of this and that; of the weather, the fishing, politics, and the prospect of the hay crop.

“Wonder what he’s driving at,” was Billy’s inward reflection.

“Have a smoke, Billy?” asked the squire, proffering the other one of Rob Dakin’s best and biggest five-cent affairs.

“Don’t care if I do,” replied Billy, and made a further mental observation that something was coming now, sure.

“By the way, Billy,” remarked the squire, presently, “how do we stand on that mortgage on the island down yonder?”

He said it in an offhand way, just as though he didn’t know, even to the fraction of a cent, the amount of principal and interest due to that very hour.

“Why, I guess you know better than I do, the amount of interest up to date,” replied Billy. “But it ain’t due just yet, eh, squire?”

“Why, no, it isn’t,” replied Squire Brackett; “and I was thinking perhaps we might fix it up between us so there wouldn’t be anything due, and so that you would have something in your own pocket, besides. How would you like that?”

“P’r’aps,” said Billy.

“Well, now,” continued the squire, “there’s two hundred dollars and interest due. Seems to me, if I remember right, you offered to sell the island to me, a year ago or so, for twelve hundred dollars. That’s a pretty big price, but I’ve been thinking it over some lately, and I reckon I’ll come pretty near that figure, if you’d like to make the trade.”

A year ago, Billy Cook would have jumped at the offer. But Billy, boots or no boots, had a vein of Yankee shrewdness in him.

“There’s something in the wind,” he thought. “The squire told me I was crazy when I offered it to him for that, last year.”

“Well, squire, I’ll tell you,” he replied. “Guess I did name something like that as a figure, a year ago. But I dunno about letting it go for that now, when things are looking up so. They tell me some of them New York and Boston real estate fellers have been down here lately, looking over land. However, I’ll just talk it over with the old lady, and let you know in a day or two.”

The squire was taken aback.

“Well,” said he, rising to go, “of course I don’t leave that offer open. That’s a whole lot of money for the land. But I’ve got a little money just come due, and I thought I might put it into that. Maybe I won’t have it to spare by the time you get ready.”

“Well, I reckon the land won’t blow away, squire,” chuckled Billy. “It’s anchored pretty reasonably firm, I guess. I’ll just go in and get those eggs.”

It did not take Billy Cook long, following the squire’s departure, to come to a conclusion regarding the true inwardness of the affair. There was only one man, at present, in the village, who would be likely to be offering anything like that amount of money for the island; and that man was Mr. Carleton. So Billy lost no time in hunting the gentleman up.

But, when he had found Mr. Carleton and suggested the matter to him, he was surprised to meet with a curt denial. Mr. Carleton, being in a bad humour, and having, moreover, as much an intention of purchasing the land as he had of buying the bay, replied, very shortly, in the negative.

“Hm! p’r’aps I guessed wrong,” commented Billy. “But there’s something up. That’s sure. I’ll just jump the squire on the price, anyway. I may catch him.”

With which resolve, Billy visited the squire the following day, offered him the land at an advance of three hundred dollars, and, much to his own surprise, got it.

“It’s a fearful price, fifteen hundred dollars for that land,” exclaimed the squire, after he had tried in vain to beat down the figure. “I’ll never get a cent out of it; but I’m just fool enough to do it.”

“P’r’aps you be,” thought Billy.

“I don’t like to part with that island, squire,” he said. “If you want it, you’d better draw up the papers, right away to-day, and we’ll go over to Mayville and have everything filed straight and regular. Else I might get sorry and back out.”

“All right,” said Squire Brackett.

“We can’t do it any too soon to suit me,” he thought.

So Uncle Billy and Squire Brackett went to Mayville, and the squire generously paid the fares.

“Guess I can stand it, at a thousand dollars profit,” said the squire to himself.

Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, arising on the morning following their adventure with Mr. Carleton, proceeded at once to restore the yacht to its former condition, by purchasing at Rob Dakin’s a strong lock for the cabin. It was heavier and clumsier than the one that had been broken, but, as Henry Burns remarked, it was good enough for fishermen.

Then they sailed down alongshore to where the crew had made their lobster-pots, went to work, and, in a few days, completed the making of the remainder to the extent of their material. This proved easier fishing, too, in a way, than the outside cod and hake fishing, and involved, of course, no danger, as the pots were set near shore. And, as they had got their lath-pots practically without expense, it was likely to prove even more profitable, while it lasted.

The car that they had made, to keep the lobsters alive in, was a big, square boxlike affair, with the slats nailed on just far enough apart so the lobsters could not escape, but affording a flow of sea-water through the car almost as free as the sea itself. The two trap-doors in the roof of the car, through which the lobsters were put in and taken out, were fastened with heavy padlocks. The car was moored in a sheltered nook alongshore, a little distance above the area of water covered by the lath-pots.

They learned how to pack the live lobsters for shipping, too, and sent lots, now and then, by steamer, over to the Bellport and Mayville markets, and to Stoneland. They learned how to stow them into a flour-barrel with their tails curled snugly under, and their backs uppermost, so they could not move; and that a barrel would hold just fifty-five, by actual count, stowed in that way, allowing for ice at the top, and all covered securely with a piece of coarse sacking. They received as much as twelve and fifteen cents a pound for these, shipped so that they would arrive alive at market, and began to feel quite prosperous.

They listened to many a learned discussion, in Rob Dakin’s cracker and sugar-barrel forum, over the habits of the lobster; how it was generally conceded by the local fisherman that the lobster took the bait better at night; but that other wise men among the catchers argued stoutly that flood-tide, whether it served by night or day, was the more favourable time; and how both the ebb and flow of the tides doubtless carried the lobsters back and forth across the feeding-grounds.

They heard discussed, too, the relative merits of flounder and sculpin and cod’s heads as the more attractive baits, and whether these, fresh or old, were the more enticing.

Billy Cook had a theory that a lobster has as keen a scent as a hound, and that a fish of somewhat gamy odour was the better lure; while Long Dave Benson “allowed” that a lobster has an eye like a fish-hawk, and that what was needed was a fish with a gleam of white showing at a distance, like the flounder.

In all, there was a greater and more varied amount of natural philosophy and fish-lore dispensed, free, within the walls of Rob Dakin’s grocery store, than one might hear in a lifetime at any university.

Be it recorded, however, that the suggestion made by young Joe Warren, at one of these discussions, that the lobster regarded one of these lath-pots as some sort of a summer-house, thoughtfully provided for homeless wanderers of the sea, was received with merited and unanimous contempt.

They saw little of Mr. Carleton, these days. He had, at first, attempted to retain the favour of Harvey’s crew, but they would have nought to do with him, following the example of their recognized leader. So it came about that Mr. Carleton, left much to himself, and not caring, seemingly, to cultivate the friendship of the elder persons among the summer arrivals, spent the greater part of his time in driving about the island, and in hiring Captain Sam’s sailboat, for short cruises about the bay.

He took Harry Brackett out with him occasionally, and, being a man of shrewd observation, startled that young man one day not a little, by bursting suddenly into laughter when the yacht Viking sailed past, at a little distance.

“I see your two beauty-spots on the sail,” he said, laughing heartily, and pointing to the places where the sail had been neatly mended. “That was a clever trick. Ha! ha! How did you happen to think of that little dodge of tying up the reef-points? Guess you know more about a sailboat than some folks seem to think, eh?”

Harry Brackett, taken by surprise, made a feeble attempt at denial, but Mr. Carleton wouldn’t listen to it. He had an assertive, positive way, that Harry Brackett could not withstand. So the boy ended by admitting the act, vastly relieved to find that a man like Mr. Carleton, of whom his father spoke so highly, regarded it as a really good joke.

“Makes me feel like a boy again, for all the world,” chuckled Mr. Carleton. “Count me in on the next one. I’m a good deal of a boy, myself.”

Also, did the astute Mr. Carleton feign to regard as a joke an incident that occurred some days later, of a more serious nature, and which he discovered quite by chance.

It had come on foggy, with a lazy wind from the southeast, and for several days the island and the bay had been obscured by thick banks of fog, so that one could not see a boat’s length ahead. The steamers came in cautiously, sounding their whistles, to note, if they were near land, how quick the echo, or an answering fog-bell, came back to them.

There was no sailing, and the boys remained ashore, mostly up at the comfortable Warren cottage, or within the tents. They tended the lobster-pots when the fog did not roll in too thick; but for two entire days it was too heavy for them to find the buoys, and they did no fishing.

It happened on one of these days that, finding it dull in the town, Mr. Carleton invested in a suit of oilskins and rowed down along the shore, where he dropped a line off the ledges and fished for cunners. He was a smart fisherman, and caught a good mess in a short running of the flood-tide.

“I’ll get the captain to clean them, and have Mrs. Curtis make me one of those fine chowders for supper,” he said, as he pushed the basket of fish under the seat, put the oars into the oar-locks and proceeded to row in.

But Mr. Carleton miscalculated a little, in the fog, and rowed some distance down the shore before he discovered his mistake. He was turning to row back, when the sound of some one else rowing attracted his attention. He was close to shore, out of sight.

Presently the boat came dimly into view through the fog, and Mr. Carleton made out the occupant to be Harry Brackett. He was about to hail him, when the rower turned his boat inshore and stepped out. Then Mr. Carleton observed that the object at which Harry Brackett had arrived was the lobster-car owned by the campers. Mr. Carleton quietly stepped out of his own boat, and walked up into the bushes.

Harry Brackett reached for the line with which the car was moored, and drew the car in to shore. Then, taking from his pocket a ring on which several keys dangled, he proceeded to try them, one by one, in the padlock of one of the trap-doors. A certain key finally answered his purpose, and the next moment Mr. Carleton saw the door lifted. Harry Brackett, using a short-handled net, lifted out half a dozen lobsters, dropped them into his boat, and, relocking the trap-door, got into his boat, and started to row away.

But he nearly fell over in his seat with fright, when the sound of laughter close on shore greeted him. The next moment, Mr. Carleton stepped into view.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Mr. Carleton. “Oh, you’re a sly dog. I see what you’re up to. Little bake going on among some of you island chaps, eh? No reason why our friends should not contribute something to the fun. Oh, I’ve been a boy, myself. Look out they don’t catch you, though. Heavy fine, you know, for that sort of thing.”

Harry Brackett, terrified, rowed ashore to where Mr. Carleton was standing. He must explain. He had no idea of stealing the lobsters – which was met with derisive laughter from Mr. Carleton, and the assurance that he was a bold young chap.

From which effort at dissimulation, Harry Brackett came, at length, to beg and implore Mr. Carleton that he would say nothing about it.

Now, if Mr. Carleton had had any notion that young Harry Brackett might at some time be useful to him, he certainly went about the manner of gaining an ascendency over him most admirably. For didn’t Mr. Carleton promise that he would say nothing about the affair? And didn’t he feign to treat it as a huge joke? He certainly did. But how cunningly, also, in all his making light of it, did he convey to young Harry Brackett’s mind the fact that he knew it was a criminal thing; and that it would meet with heavy punishment, if discovered. And how cunningly did he play upon first the one, and then the other idea; the idea of a practical joke, and the idea of the penalty for it, if it should be known; until young Harry Brackett would gladly have promised to do anything in all the world that Mr. Carleton might ask, to buy his silence.

“Then you won’t let on about it?” urged Harry Brackett, apprehensively, for the tenth time or more, as he started to row away.

“Never a word from me,” said Mr. Carleton. “Ho, you rascal – I’ve been a youngster, too. But you’re taking pretty big chances of getting into trouble. Look out for yourself. Ho! ho!”

“I’ll never take another chance like it,” whined Harry Brackett.

For the remainder of Mr. Carleton’s stay on the island, there was one more youth that avoided him now, though for a different reason than that of the others. This was young Harry Brackett. He was ashamed to look Mr. Carleton in the face. Perhaps, on the other hand, it was rather Mr. Carleton who avoided meeting the young yachtsman. And perhaps he, too, was ashamed of what he had done.

However, this newly developed modesty on Harry Brackett’s part did not prevent Mr. Carleton, driving along the road an afternoon or two later, from overtaking him and insisting that he get in and ride.

“Glad to see you,” said Mr. Carleton, as affably as he knew how. “Haven’t seen you around much for a day or two. Lobsters didn’t make you chaps sick, did they? Ha! ha!”

Harry Brackett flushed, and felt decidedly uncomfortable.

But he tried to laugh it off, and said he was feeling first rate.

“Well,” said Mr. Carleton, “you’re all right. I like to see a boy of spirit. I’m glad to have met you. I’m going to leave, to-morrow, by the way.”

Harry Brackett wouldn’t, for the world, have said how glad he was to hear of it. On the contrary, he said he was sorry; and added, that his father, the squire, would be sorry, too.

“I’ll be sorry to lose the squire’s company,” replied Mr. Carleton. “But don’t say anything to him about my going. That’s a peculiarity of mine; I don’t like to say good-bye to people. Sort of distresses me, don’t you know. That is, don’t say anything about it until after I am gone. Like as not, I shall not speak of it to anybody but you. Captain Sam, even, won’t know of it until I settle up with him, to-morrow.”

“How about Harvey and Henry Burns and that crowd?” inquired Harry Brackett.

“Why, the fact is,” replied Mr. Carleton, “we have had a little falling out. I’m sorry about it, too. They’re not such bad young chaps – except that Burns boy. He’s too notional – don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” said Harry Brackett, decidedly.

“Well, I broke a lock on their cabin door,” continued Mr. Carleton, “because I was desperately worried about the loss of a pin that was worth most as much as their boat – to say nothing of a cheap lock. Of course I was going to get them another, and a better one. They wouldn’t have made much fuss, either, I think, if it hadn’t been for young Burns. Harvey was hot-headed about it, but he would have got over it. The other young chap, he was cool as ice; but I could see he was the one I couldn’t make friends with again, so I gave it up.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Harry Brackett – “and after all you have done for them, too.”

“That’s it,” said Mr. Carleton; “though I don’t care anything about that. I was glad to give them a good time.”

“Say,” he exclaimed, suddenly, as though an idea had just come to his mind, “I tell you what you do. I’m going over to Bellport for a few days, and then down the coast somewhere. But I’ll leave word at Bellport for my letters to be forwarded. I want you to write to me once a week or so. Let me know where the Viking is, and what the boys are doing, and what you are doing. If we get a chance, you and I will play a little joke on them, just to show them they’re not so smart – might just tie in a few more reef-points, or something of that sort, eh?”

Mr. Carleton laughed as he spoke.

“I’ll do it,” said Harry Brackett. “Are you in earnest, though?”

“Yes, sir, honour bright,” replied Mr. Carleton. “You keep me informed, and we’ll have a joke on them yet.”

“Well, good-bye,” said Harry Brackett, getting down from the wagon and shaking hands with Mr. Carleton.

“Good-bye,” said the other. “And if any one inquires about me, after I am gone, just tell them you heard me say I was going back to Boston.”

“Harry,” said Squire Brackett, the second evening following this, “I want you to go over to Captain Sam’s and take this note to Mr. Carleton. It’s about a little business transaction, so be careful and don’t lose it. You’re pretty careless sometimes.”

“Why, he’s gone away,” answered Harry Brackett. “No use taking that over to Captain Sam’s.”

“Gone away!” shouted the squire, seizing his son by the collar. “Gone away! When did he go?”

“Captain Sam says he went yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it before?” cried Squire Brackett, shaking his son vigorously.

“Why, how did I know anything about it?” whined Harry Brackett. “How did I know you wanted to see him before he went? You’re always blaming me for things. I’m not to blame.”

On second thought, Squire Brackett came to the same conclusion. Still, it being his habit of mind invariably to blame somebody else for his own misfortunes, he had to vent his irritation on his son.

“Well, clear out of here!” he cried. “You never know anything except at the wrong time.”

Harry Brackett disappeared.

One would have thought that the squire had lost his dearest friend on earth, in the departure of Mr. Carleton, judging by the deep and profound melancholy that fell upon him, for a fortnight. Or, on the other hand, one might have thought that Mr. Carleton was his bitterest foe, if any one had seen him rage and fume in secret, whenever he thought of Mr. Carleton or pronounced his name. Mrs. Brackett overheard him mutter, on one or two occasions, “Fifteen hundred dollars tied up in an island!” But, when she inquired what he meant, she received a reply that was both incommunicative and not wholly courteous.

As for Billy Cook, the squire wouldn’t speak to him, when next they met – nor for half the summer.

“Never mind,” said Uncle Billy to himself, “I’ll buy a new pair of Sunday boots, and I’ll pay as much as two dollars and a half for ’em.”