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

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.”

“He’s a queer sort of a man,” said Harry Brackett, as he started on a jog-trot back to the village.

“I wish I didn’t have to use him,” said Mr. Carleton, as he watched the retreating figure. “But I don’t dare keep watch, myself; and I need some one to help run the boat.”

It was a long and somewhat dreary wait for Harry Brackett, down by the shore. The sky was clearing, but it was wet and soggy underfoot, and the night was depressing. He almost fancied that he was sorry he had entered into the scheme, though he didn’t know exactly why. However, if Mr. Carleton, who had money to spend like a gentleman, and who was going to buy his father’s land, could indulge in such a prank, why shouldn’t he?

Yet he jumped, and sprang up almost frightened, when a hand was laid suddenly on his shoulder and a low voice spoke in his ear:

“Well, anybody appeared?”

Mr. Carleton had come very quietly. The boy had not heard a footfall.

“No,” he replied. “But how you startled me. What time is it?”

“A little after ten,” replied Mr. Carleton. “We’ll wait till nearer eleven, to make sure.”

He was not especially companionable, was Mr. Carleton, during their vigil. He screened himself behind a thin clump of alders, lighted a cigar, and smoked silently. Harry Brackett quivered with impatience. He wondered what it was about Mr. Carleton that so changed his appearance. Why, of course, it was the dress. Mr. Carleton, the night being bad, had discarded his light yachting costume, and wore a heavy, almost shabby-looking suit, with a rough felt hat.

“What are we going to do?” inquired Harry Brackett, once more.

“Wait till we run her down alongshore between here and the crew’s camp,” replied Mr. Carleton. “Then you’ll see.”

It was a quarter to eleven, by Mr. Carleton’s watch, when he at length arose and motioned for the boy to follow him.

“Any skiffs along the beach?” he asked.

“There are, ’most always,” replied Harry Brackett. “The cottagers have them.”

They found what they wanted, shortly, a little flat-bottomed affair, that just sufficed to float the two. They got in and rowed out to the yacht. Stepping aboard, Mr. Carleton dragged the light skiff also aboard after him. Then he paused abruptly, as though a thought had occurred to him. He shot one quick glance at Harry Brackett, and another off through the darkness.

“We need another small boat,” he said. “When we get down alongshore we’ll use them both.”

“There’s a rowboat moored off that cottage just below,” said Harry Brackett.

“Get it,” said Mr. Carleton, “when we sail up to it.”

Harry Brackett expressed surprise.

“Oh, we’ve got to put them back where we get them from, when we are through,” laughed Mr. Carleton. “Let’s untie the stops in this mainsail now. We’ll run it up only a little way, enough to drift down out of sight of any one from shore here. I want to light a cabin lamp, and I shouldn’t dare to do it here, though I guess every one’s gone to bed.”

There was certainly no sign of life in and about the town. There was not a fisherman in the harbour. Not even a light gleamed from a cottage window. Southport had gone to bed. It was a gloomy sort of night, too, with the black clouds wheeling along overhead, and only the uncertain glimmering of the stars in the shifting patches of blue to relieve the dreariness. Harry Brackett wondered what time he would get back home.

“It’s getting late,” he suggested.

“Well, it won’t take us long,” replied Mr. Carleton. “There, the sail’s free. Get forward and cast that mooring off, while I start the sail up a bit.”

Harry Brackett quickly gave the word that the Viking had dropped its mooring. Mr. Carleton gave another vigorous haul on the halyards, made them fast, and sprang to the wheel. They ran down to where the rowboat lay, and picked that up. But then, Mr. Carleton, strangely enough, ran the sail up more than “a little way.” In fact, as it bagged out with a sharp flaw of the night-wind, the Viking shot ahead quickly and was almost instantly under full headway, gliding rapidly out from the shore.

“We’ve got to get that sail up still more,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “We don’t need it, but it’s dangerous sailing this way. However, we will get there all the quicker. You pull on those halyards when I head up into the wind.”

Harry Brackett, knowing little of what he was doing, complied.

“Now break into that cabin,” commanded Mr. Carleton. “There’s a hatchet under that seat. It’s all right. It’s a cheap lock. We’ve got to get in there.”

Harry Brackett hesitated. Was it going a bit too far?

“Hurry up, there!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, impatiently. “We mustn’t lose any time.”

There was something in his voice that made Harry Brackett hesitate no longer. He took the hatchet and smashed the lock from the staple.

“Now,” said Mr. Carleton, quickly, “we’re down ’most far enough. We’ll need some rope. There’s some light spare line up forward in the cabin, usually. You just go below and look for it. Don’t light a lantern, though. It isn’t safe yet.”

Harry Brackett stumbled below.

There were two reefs in the sail, but the wind was squally; and there was sail enough on to make the water boil around the stern, as the Viking sped swiftly onward. Harry Brackett, fumbling and groping about in the cabin, could hear the rush of the water along the yacht’s sides. They were sailing fast.

Moreover, had Harry Brackett been on deck, he would have seen, now, that they were not running down alongshore, but, instead, were standing directly out from it, and rapidly leaving it astern.

“I can’t find any rope,” he called, at length.

“Look again. It must be there,” replied Mr. Carleton.

Harry Brackett rummaged some more.

“Light a lantern if you want to,” called Mr. Carleton, finally. “We’re most ready to drop anchor now. But turn the wick down low first.”

The light glimmered for a moment or two – and then Harry Brackett, dashing out of the cabin as though he had seen an evil spirit in some dark corner, and giving one wild, terrified glance across the waters, rushed up to and confronted Mr. Carleton.

“Here!” he cried, “What does this mean? You’re not going down alongshore! Why, we’re half a mile out! What are you doing? Don’t you get me into a scrape – oh, don’t you!”

The boy was trembling; and the chill night air, seeming to penetrate to his very marrow all at once, with his fright, set his teeth to chattering.

In answer, Mr. Carleton, holding the wheel with his right hand, reached out suddenly with the other hand and clutched the boy by an arm. He held him in a powerful grasp.

“See here,” he said, “you keep quiet. Do you understand? It’s a long swim from here to shore, and the water’s cold. One cry from you, and overboard you go. Sit down!”

Harry Brackett fell upon the seat, all in a heap. He tried to speak; to beg; to implore this cruel, evil man that was now revealed to him, to stop – to let him go ashore. But something rose in his throat that seemed to choke him; while the tears rolled down his cheeks. He could only gasp and utter a few sobs. He shook and shivered as though it had been a winter’s night.

“Get out of here!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, sharply. “Go below and stop that whimpering. You’re not going to be hurt. And when you get your spunk back, come on deck again. I need you to help.”

Harry Brackett stumbled below and threw himself on a berth, groaning in anguish.

The Viking, with Mr. Carleton sitting stern and silent at the wheel, sped on through the night.