Chapter XXI: A Timely Arrival

Would they be pursued this night? Would before the dawn, to race with him? Thus there be any yacht set sail from Southport, thought Mr. Carleton. Thus he questioned himself, and answered, “No.”

And yet the good yacht _Viking_ was, all unknown to any one, running a race. The goal was Stoneland—and the competitor, the yacht _Surprise_.

Thirty miles apart, these two yachts had entered upon this race—and no one knew it. At about the time the _Viking_ had got under way from out Southport Harbour, so had the yacht _Surprise_ floated clear. Should they try to beat back to Stoneland before morning? Why not? The night need not stop them. The crew knew the way. The yacht _Surprise_ began the long, ten-mile beat for Stoneland at about twelve o’clock. The yacht _Viking_ was already under way. Would they meet or would they pass?

Harry Brackett, lying miserably on the cabin berth, was suddenly aware that the yacht had ceased running and had swung up into the wind. Then he heard the sound of the sail dropping. He sat up in wonder. The next moment, Mr. Carleton descended into the cabin. The yacht _Viking_ was drifting before the wind at its own will. There was little sea on, and Mr. Carleton had abandoned the wheel.

“What—what’s the matter?” stammered poor Harry Brackett.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Carleton, shortly. He paid no heed to the forlorn figure on the berth, but hastily proceeded to light another lantern. He turned the wick up so that it shone brightly, and, carrying it, went direct to the third starboard locker that had been Squire Brackett’s undoing. He stooped down and pulled out, first, the larger drawer, and then the smaller and secret one. By the lantern light, he looked within.

Harry Brackett, gazing at him in amazement, saw a strange and unaccountable thing. He saw the man’s face, in the lantern’s gleam, pale to a deathly hue. He saw the drawer that he held drop from his fingers and fall to the floor. He saw the man stagger back, like one that has been struck a blow. Then, the man’s face, turned toward him, was so full of fierce passion and wrath that he shrank back, terrified, and dared not speak to ask him what it might mean. Now Mr. Carleton advanced to where he lay.

“Get up! I want you to help me,” was all he said. But Harry Brackett, to his dying day, would never forget that voice. He scrambled up and followed the man outside.

“Get that sail up!” said Mr. Carleton.

Harry Brackett seized the halyards. The yacht _Viking_ went on its course again. But precious moments had been lost.

The man’s face was something fearful to look into. He threw the wheel over and back, as though he would twist it apart. But he uttered not a word.

Now they were running near a thin chain of islands. Mr. Carleton brought forth a chart and spread it out upon the cockpit floor, with the lantern on one corner.

“Do you know this bay at all?” he inquired, suddenly.

“Ye-es,” answered the boy. “Those are the Pine Islands just ahead, I think.”

“Right,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “I thought so. I’ll go through like a book.”

Presently he muttered something else, inaudible to Harry Brackett—and mercifully so. “I’ll do it,” he said. “The boy’s in the way. I’ve got to go it alone.”

It was quiet water in the channel between the islands, and the _Viking_ skimmed through like a phantom yacht.

“Here, hold this wheel,” said Mr. Carleton, suddenly, turning to Harry Brackett. “Keep her just as she’s going.”

As the boy obeyed, Mr. Carleton seized the line by which the rowboat was towing and drew it up close astern.

“Get into that boat!” he said, the next moment.

Harry Brackett gave a howl of terror, and shrank away.

“No, no, oh don’t!” he cried. “Don’t you leave me here. I might have to stay a week. I’d starve. I’ll do any—”

Harry Brackett’s words were choked off, abruptly. He felt himself gathered up in two powerful arms. He was half-dragged, half-lifted, over the stern of the yacht, and tumbled into the boat, headlong. Then, as he scrambled to his feet, howling for mercy, a knife flashed in the hand of Mr. Carleton. The rope was severed. The _Viking_ shot ahead. The rowboat dropped astern. Harry Brackett, alone in the night, beheld the yacht speeding away like a shadow. A few rods away, the light waves moaned in upon a sandy beach. There was only the black, desolate island, untenanted save by sea-birds, to turn to. Like a lost and hopeless mariner, he got out an oar and paddled in to land, where, upon the beach, abandoned and overcome, he sank down and wept—a faint-hearted Crusoe, monarch of all the shadows and dreariness that he surveyed.

And now that he was in turn alone and in sight of no man, Mr. Carleton, at the wheel of the _Viking_, engaged in strange pantomime. He clenched his fist and shook it at imaginary foes. He struck his hand again and again upon the wheel, as though that were alive and could feel the pain of the blow. If he had suddenly lost his wits he would not have done stranger things.

“But I’ve got the yacht!” he cried, angrily. “She’ll pay me for what I’ve spent. I’ll put her through.”

And then a sudden thought struck him. He brought the _Viking_ abruptly into the wind again, dropped the wheel, and rushed down the companionway. He threw open the door of the provision locker—and uttered a cry of rage. It was empty.

Back at the wheel now was Mr. Carleton. The lights of Stoneland Harbour shone faintly, far, far ahead. He sat, grim and troubled.

“More time wasted!” he muttered. “But I’ve got to stop. And ’twill be three o’clock before I get in. If they’ve got word there, I’m lost. And where can a man buy food at that hour of the night? I have it—the big hotel. There’ll be somebody on watch. I’ll get it by four at the latest. I’ll play the gentleman yachtsman in distress, and pay handsomely.”

But he had lost time. The night had hindered him. By day, he could have laid a straighter course. And there had been delays. It was nearly half-past three when the yacht _Viking_, feeling its way into the harbour of Stoneland, rounded to off the wharves, and the anchor went down. Leaving his sail set, and giving the yacht plenty of sheet, to lie easy, Mr. Carleton lifted the skiff over the rail, jumped in, and rowed ashore.

All safe and clear thus far. No sign of disturbance in the town, as he rowed in. No launch darting out to seize him. Only a few sluggish coasters lying near peacefully at anchor. Only a fishing-boat or two making an early start for the outer islands. Only, far down below, a red and a green light indistinctly to be seen, as of a small craft beating up to harbour.

Mr. Carleton rowed in to the wharf, tied his boat in a slip, and vanished up into the town.

A red and a green light, showing from port and starboard respectively, came to be seen more distinctly as the time went by. Close to, one might have seen now that it was a trim yacht, but beating in slowly, as one goes carefully in darkness, where shipping may lie.

There was also to be seen—if there had been any one to look—that a weary youth sat at the wheel; that a smaller, but brighter-eyed, nimble youngster was standing up forward, peering ahead into the darkness.

“I think we can anchor most anywhere here now,” said the boy astern. “I guess the water isn’t too deep to fetch bottom.”

“Wait a minute, Joe,” answered the boy forward, rubbing one bare foot against his trousers leg. “I say, there’s a sail, on ahead a few rods. Luff up a little more, and we’ll run in near to that.”

“All right, Tim, tell me when we’re heading right,” responded the other boy. But he stared at his small companion in astonishment, a moment later, when the latter, deserting his post, darted aft, uttering a warning “hush.”

“What on earth is the matter with you, Tim Reardon?” exclaimed the boy at the wheel.

“Let her come up and take a look for yourself,” was Tim Reardon’s reply. “It’s the _Viking_, as sure as you’re alive. They must be asleep. We’ll get aboard and give Henry Burns one good toot on the horn. He’s fond of that sort of thing, so he can’t say anything to us. But I wonder what they’ve left the sail up for. Won’t they be surprised to see us?”

Joe Hinman, bringing the _Surprise_ up into the wind at the other’s words, himself gave an exclamation of surprise to see the sail set on the _Viking_.

“That’s queer,” he said. “Tim, you take the tender and go aboard, while I hold the _Surprise_ where she is. Don’t be a fool, though, and blow any horn. If they’re as tired as we are, they’ll be mad enough to throw you overboard.”

Tim Reardon made no reply, as he rowed alongside the _Viking_, but a mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes.

When he had stepped softly aboard, however, and had crept down into the cabin, he darted swiftly on deck again.

“Joe,” he called, “this is great! They’ve gone ashore. And they must be coming back soon. That’s why they’ve left the sail up.”

Then Little Tim Reardon, scampering forward, did a strange thing. Tugging away at the rope, he brought the anchor off from bottom and clear to the surface of the water. Taking a few turns of the rope around the bitts, to secure it, he darted astern, seized the wheel of the _Viking_, and put her under way.

“Here, you Tim, quit that!” cried Joe Hinman in disgust, from the stern of the _Surprise_. “You don’t want to be too free with your tomfoolery with Jack and Henry Burns. Just remember whose yacht we’re sailing. They’ll be mad clean through, too. It’s no joke to think you’ve lost a fine yacht.”

Little Tim only chuckled derisively, realizing that his larger companion could not compel obedience from the deck of another boat.

“I’m doing this,” he said. “We don’t get a chance to play a joke like this on Henry Burns every day. Wouldn’t he do it quick, himself, though? Besides, I’m not going far—only up around the end of that long wharf. We can watch from there and see what happens.”

“You’re a meddlesome little monkey; that’s what you are,” exclaimed Joe Hinman, too sleepy and weary to see fun in anything. “You’ll catch it from Jack—and you’ll get what you deserve.”

And yet Joe Hinman, so long as somebody else would smart for it, had just enough interest in the plot to follow along with the _Surprise_. Together, the two yachts turned in under the lee of a long wharf, less than an eighth of a mile ahead, lowered the sails so they should not be visible, and came to anchor.

“You’ve got to take the blame for this, Tim,” said Joe Hinman, as they waited together on deck.

“I’ll do it,” chuckled Tim Reardon. “I like a joke as well as Henry Burns does. He’ll take it all right, too. You see if he don’t.”

They woke the two boys who were sleeping in the cabin of the _Surprise_—to see the fun. George Baker and Allan Harding came on deck, sleepy and grumbling. Nor did the joke take on a more hilarious aspect, as the time went by and no Jack Harvey and no Henry Burns put in an appearance.

“I’m going to turn in,” said Joe Hinman, at length. “You can have all the fun to yourself, Tim.”

He went below, the two other boys following his example.

Little Tim, himself, began to lose heart in the joke—when, suddenly, in the faint gray of the approaching dawn, he espied a boat coming out from shore toward where the _Viking_ had lain. It was four o’clock. The boat was a small skiff. There was only one person in it. Whoever he was, he was rowing furiously. There seemed to be a box of some sort on the seat in front of him.

Suddenly the man ceased rowing. His head was turned for a moment. Then he sprang to his feet in the small skiff, with a jump that almost upset the craft. He peered wildly about him and seemed to be rubbing his eyes, like a person in a dream or one rudely aroused from sleep. Then he sat down and rowed a way down the harbour—then across to one side—then in toward shore again.

“That isn’t either Jack or Henry Burns,” said Tim Reardon; “and yet he acts as though he had lost something—his head, I guess.”

Little Tim was nearer correct than he knew.

“He looks familiar, too,” thought Tim Reardon. “What man does he look like? I can’t think.”

But what happened next was more extraordinary than before. The man suddenly sprang up, gave one glance about on all sides, then picked up the box on the seat before him and dumped it overboard. He resumed his seat, seized the oars, and began rowing furiously down the harbour. At a point some way below where he had first appeared, he ran the boat in to shore, sprang out, left the boat without tying it or dragging it up on the beach, and started off, running desperately.

“That’s a crazy man,” said Little Tim to himself—and again spoke not far from the truth, unwittingly.

“Hang the joke!” cried Tim, finally. “I wish I hadn’t done it now. It don’t seem so funny after waiting all this time. I’m going to bed, too. I guess I will catch it, just as Joe said I would.”

He went below, in the cabin of the _Viking_. His companions were aboard the _Surprise_.

Morning came, and Little Tim awoke with something disturbing his mind. Oh, yes; now that he was wide awake, he knew. It was that joke. He wished he hadn’t played it. He wished so more and more when Joe Hinman awoke and found that Jack and Henry Burns had not put in an appearance.

“You’ve made a nice mess of it, Tim,” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t be in your shoes, when Jack gets you. Like as not they’ve come down in sight of shore and seen that the yacht was gone, and have given out an alarm. The best thing we can do is to go up into the town and find them, and try to square things.”

Little Tim, looking very sober, scampered off, followed soon by the others. More puzzling than ever it became, when a search through the town failed to yield any trace of the missing yachtsmen. The boys returned to the yachts, and waited.

Somewhere near eleven o’clock there was a curious coincidence. Joe Hinman, looking off on the water, suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise and pointed to a sailboat that was coming in.

“That’s Captain Sam’s old tub,” he said. “I know her as far as I can see her.”

But they received a greater surprise, the next moment. A man in some sort of uniform, passing along by the wharves, also uttered an exclamation and stopped short.

“Well, if that don’t beat me!” he said. “Of all fool things, to steal a yacht and bring her in here. That’s her, though: about thirty-eight feet; white; two jibs, and there’s the name, ‘_Viking_.’ Well, I never saw the like of this before.”

The man stepped to the edge of the wharf and jumped down on to the deck of the _Viking_.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

“I am,” replied Little Tim Reardon, emerging from the cabin.

The man laughed.

“You’re the youngest boat-thief on record,” he said, eying Tim wonderingly. “What put you up to it, boy? Been reading dime-novels?”

“Well, it’s all right, anyway,” replied Little Tim, who had, however, turned pale beneath his coating of tan. “They’re our friends that own the yacht. We’re waiting for ’em. Just let ’em know we’re here with the boat, and they’ll come down and tell you it’s all right.”

The man grinned.

“Say, you’re pretty slick, if you are small,” he said. “But the trouble is, your friends don’t happen to be in town. They sent a telegram from Bellport. I guess you’ll have to wait somewhere else for them.”

Little Tim’s eyes bulged out and his jaw dropped. But the next moment he was standing on his head, with his bare toes twinkling in the air, for sheer delight.

“Hooray; ’twas the man in the skiff that had her,” he cried—to the utter amazement of the stranger and of his own companions. “Just wait a minute, anyway, till that sailboat gets in. It comes from Southport, and perhaps Captain Sam can explain things.”

But there was some one besides Captain Sam aboard the good old _Nancy Jane_, to explain things. There were Jack Harvey and Henry Burns, standing up forward and peering ahead eagerly. And how they did yell when they saw the crew of the _Surprise_ standing on the wharf, waving to attract their attention.

And then, ten minutes later, when the _Nancy Jane_, waddling in like a fat, good-natured duck of a boat, had come alongside, and had let Jack Harvey and Henry Burns scramble aboard the _Viking_—almost with tears in their eyes—why then, Little Tim stepped forward and said he was under arrest for stealing the boat. And wouldn’t they please pardon him, and get the man to let him go; he wouldn’t do it again; oh, no. He had just found the yacht down below, with the sail up, and had run it up here for a joke—he was sorry—

But Little Tim didn’t get any farther, for Henry Burns had him lifted clear up on his shoulder. And Jack Harvey had him, the next minute, and between the two he was mauled and hugged and slapped till his shoulders smarted—and he was almost in tears, too, to discover what he had accomplished.

As for the official, who had made such an important discovery, he hardly knew at first whether to be angry or not, at finding that his discovery was really of a yacht that had already been recovered. But he finally relented, and patted Little Tim on the back, too, and said he was a good boy. Then he took Mr. Carleton’s description and hurried up into the town.

He got trace of Mr. Carleton, too, after a time, at the big hotel, where Carleton had succeeded in buying some provisions. He traced him from there, down through the town, to the wharf. Later, he found a man who had seen such a person come ashore from a skiff, and leave her adrift and run up the shore. And lastly, the station agent had seen a man answering that description take the early morning train out of town.

Mr. Carleton had, indeed, vanished—a disappointed, wrathful, frightened man. A strange and most complete disappearance, too, for neither Stoneland nor Southport heard of him more. True, there came a message from the police, a day later, that a man who was much like the missing Mr. Carleton, had had some trouble over a ticket with the conductor of a train entering Boston; but the man had got away from the station, and no arrest had been made.

But it was all one to Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, what should become of Mr. Carleton, when they had the _Viking_ back. And there, in the course of the afternoon, when they were preparing to depart, was a canoe to be seen, coming down alongshore. So they sailed up and met it, and had Tom and Bob aboard. And there was Little Tim, whom they had taken with them, to be congratulated. And then, there were the Warren boys in the _Spray_, to be hunted up among the islands, and told the good news.

Oh, yes, and there was Captain Sam, roaring like a sea-lion over the good news. And there were the two yachts, the _Viking_ and the _Surprise_, going up the bay together, to meet the _Spray_ wherever they should find her.

Then, late that afternoon, as Captain Sam was nearing Grand Island, on his return voyage, he espied in the distance, close to shore, a forlorn figure, rowing wearily in the direction of Southport.

“I’m blest if that don’t look like young Harry Brackett,” exclaimed Captain Sam. “It is, as sure as you’re alive. Ahoy, don’t you want a tow, there?”

But the boy, turning his head in the direction of the _Nancy Jane_, shook his head mournfully, and resumed his rowing.

“Well, you don’t have ter,” was Captain Sam’s comment.

Harry Brackett, sore, sleepless, and weary, had his own reasons for not wishing to face the captain.

One week later, Jack Harvey, sitting on the step of Rob Dakin’s store, received a letter. He opened and read:

“My dear Jack:—I’ve won the lawsuit and you shall have some money as
soon as things are settled. I wonder how you have got along this
summer. Too bad to cut you off, but I’ll make it up to you by and by.
Let me know how much money you need.

“Affectionately,
“Your father,
“William Harvey.”

For once in his life, Jack Harvey was prompt with an answer. This is what he wrote:

“Dear Dad:—Glad you won. Much obliged for offering me the money. I
don’t need it. I’ve been earning some, and if you want some ready money
I’ll lend you twenty-five dollars.

“Affectionately,
“Your son,
“Jack.”

They were all aboard the yacht _Viking_, one evening not long after—Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, the crew, Tom and Bob, and the Warren boys.

“Fellows,” said Harvey, “Henry’s got us all together to tell us a secret—something he’s discovered, he says. Come on, Henry, out with it.”

Henry Burns, holding one hand in his coat pocket, and looking as grave as though his communication was to be one of the greatest importance, turned to his companions, and said:

“I thought, because you were all such warm friends of Squire Brackett, you might like to know whether he was after that secret drawer in the _Viking_, and whether he found the lobster-claw.”

The outburst of elation and surprise that followed assured Henry Burns he was not mistaken.

“Well, I’ve found out,” said Henry Burns. “You see, when we got the yacht back we saw the drawer on the floor, and the claw, too. That was Carleton’s work, of course. I didn’t think about the squire’s having the drawer out, till later. We were all so upset, you know.”

“Jack,” he continued, “do you remember our eating that lobster—the one that owned the claw we put into the drawer?”

“Why, yes, of course,” replied Harvey.

“And do you remember saying that you’d have eaten both claws if the one you left hadn’t been so big?”

“Why, yes, I remember that, too,” replied the puzzled Harvey.

“Well, now, which claw was it that you didn’t eat, and that we put into the drawer?” asked Henry Burns.

“The right one,” answered Harvey. “I remember breaking off the left one to eat because it was smaller.”

“That’s just as I remember it, too,” said Henry Burns. “Now look here.” He withdrew his hand from his pocket and produced the claw they had found on the cabin floor. A roar of laughter greeted its appearance.

It was the left claw of a lobster that Henry Burns held up to view.

THE END.

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“No more amusing and attractive child’s story has appeared for a long time than this quaint and curious recital of the adventures of that pitiful and charming little runaway.

“It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it—honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.

“I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly.”—_Cyrus Townsend Brady_.

The Story of the Graveleys. By Marshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful
Joe’s Paradise,” “’Tilda Jane,” etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50

Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. From the kindly, serene-souled grandmother to the buoyant madcap, Berty, these Graveleys are folk of fibre and blood—genuine human beings.

PHYLLIS’ FIELD FRIENDS SERIES
_By LENORE E. MULETS_

Six vols., cloth decorative, illustrated by Sophie Schneider. Sold separately, or as a set.

Per volume $1.00
Per set 6.00

Insect Stories.
Stories of Little Animals.
Flower Stories.
Bird Stories.
Tree Stories.
Stories of Little Fishes.

In this series of six little Nature books, it is the author’s intention so to present to the child reader the facts about each particular flower, insect, bird, or animal, in story form, as to make delightful reading. Classical legends, myths, poems, and songs are so introduced as to correlate fully with these lessons, to which the excellent illustrations are no little help.

THE WOODRANGER TALES
_By G. WALDO BROWNE_

The Woodranger.
The Young Gunbearer.
The Hero of the Hills.
With Rogers’ Rangers.

Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, decorative cover, illustrated,
per volume 1.25
Four vols., boxed, per set 5.00

“The Woodranger Tales,” like the “Pathfinder Tales” of J. Fenimore Cooper, combine historical information relating to early pioneer days in America with interesting adventures in the backwoods. Although the same characters are continued throughout the series, each book is complete in itself, and, while based strictly on historical facts, is an interesting and exciting tale of adventure.

Born to the Blue. By Florence Kimball Russel.

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25

The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation.

The author is herself “of the army,” and knows every detail of the life. Her descriptions are accurate, which adds to the value and interest of the book.

Pussy-Cat Town. By Marion Ames Taggart.

Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
colors $1.00

“Pussy-Cat Town” is a most unusual, delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a pure Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois’s beautiful snow-white pet, and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the widow, Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really and truly cats, and Miss Taggart has here explained the reason for their mysterious disappearance all one long summer.

The Sandman: His Farm Stories. By William J. Hopkins. With fifty
illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson.

Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50

“An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year’s books for reading to small children.”—_Buffalo Express_.

“Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who take the little ones to bed and rack their brains for stories will find this book a treasure.”—_Cleveland Leader_.

The Sandman: More Farm Stories. By William J. Hopkins.

Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50

Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories has met with such approval that this second book of “Sandman” tales has been issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner, and many a little one will hail the bedtime season as one of delight.

Transcriber’s Notes

--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and
dialect as is).

--Rearranged front matter (and moved illustrations) to a more-logical
streaming order.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Rival Campers Afloat, by Ruel Perley Smith