Harvey laughed. “You’ve got me there,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rude—but I’ve been disappointed. I didn’t know but you might be going to row across to the island, and I thought perhaps you might like to earn a dollar. I’ll help row, too, if you like. I want to go, the worst way.”
The man hesitated for a moment, started as though he were going to row away, and then paused again.
“Where do you belong?” he asked.
“Over on the island,” said Harvey. “I’m camping there.”
“What’s that?” said the man, putting his hand to his ear. “Say it again.”
“I’m camping out over on the island,” repeated Harvey.
The man looked stealthily in at him from under his eyebrows. “Camping there!” he muttered to himself, and began backing water slowly with his oars.
“I’ll take you across for—for a dollar,” he said.
“Good!” cried Harvey. “Come on, lively, then. It’s a good five miles, and I’m in a hurry to get across.”
The man, however, was in no hurry. He came in slowly, as though perhaps he might still be considering the matter, whether he should take this passenger aboard or not. He worked the boat inshore, finally, and Harvey sprang aboard.
“You are going to help row,” said the man.
“Yes,” answered Harvey. “Didn’t I say I would?” He took his seat toward the stern of the boat, where there were rowlocks for an extra pair of oars.
The man at the bow oars was a thick, heavy-set, middle-aged man, burned dark by sun and wind. He was roughly dressed in ill-fitting clothes, that looked as though they might have come from the dunnage-bag of a fisherman who had been long at sea. They were patched in one or two places with cloth that did not match the original garments. He wore a red, cheap-looking handkerchief tied loosely about his neck, and a rough beard of several weeks’ growth heightened the effect of his swarthy complexion.
They rowed for some time in silence, making good headway, for the wind had gone down with the sun, and the man in the bow pulled a powerful stroke, making even the sturdy efforts of Jack Harvey seem like child’s play.
The sun sank behind the hills and the shadows deepened across the water, fading out at length into the darkness that settled over all the bay. A few lights glimmered out from the shore of the island, some three miles distant, and the stars appeared in the sky.
“Lucky I fell in with you, just as I did,” said Harvey, as he slowed up his stroke. “Lucky for both of us, I take it. I should have been stuck there all night if I hadn’t met you; and I don’t suppose you mind picking up a dollar, as long as you were going this way.”
“No,” said the man, though there was a queer expression on his face. “I don’t mind,—and the fishing isn’t any too good these days.”
“Got a smack, have you?” inquired Harvey.
“No,” answered the other. “I don’t own any boat myself. But I sail with a man as owns his own boat, and I come in for a fair share of the fish.”
“Where does she lie?” asked Harvey.
The man waited a moment before answering. “She’s down among the islands somewhere,” he said, finally. “She’ll be in for me to-night or to-morrow. I’ve been visiting some relations of mine back of Bellport a few miles. So you’re a summer visitor at the island, are you?”
“Yes,” replied Harvey, “I spend my summers there.”
“Pretty quiet place, isn’t it?” said the man.
“Mostly,” returned Harvey, “but not so quiet this year. We’ve had some exciting times there.”
“Yes?” said the man. “How’s that?”
He had slowed up, himself, in his rowing now. And if by chance the conversation had turned whither he had intended it should, there was no way that Harvey should know of that, for his back was toward the man and he could not see his face.
“Why,” continued Harvey, “they caught the men that stole the Curtis diamonds over there; that is, they got two of them. A third one escaped. He was the worst of the three, they say.”
The man in the bow had paused in his rowing.
“The worst one got away, did he?” said he.
“He did,” said Harvey. “It seemed one of them had the diamonds hidden in a house that every one thought was haunted. He was stopping at the hotel as a regular guest. And no one suspected him but Henry Burns. Then, when his confederates came, the detectives were lying in wait for them in the cellar. They nearly beat the detectives, though, at that. For they smashed the lanterns out—that is, one of them did, and made a run for it. The other one was hurt.”
“Did he die?” asked the man, quickly.
“No,” replied Harvey. “He’s all right, waiting trial along with the other one. We got him, too, just as he was nearly down to shore, where the other man was waiting to take him off in a boat. The third man escaped in his yacht. We only captured two.”
The man in the bow had drawn his oars in, now, so that they rested along the side of the boat. His hands worked nervously together, and he half-rose in his seat.
“Who’s ‘we’?” he asked, huskily. “Who did it—did you have a hand in it?”
If, by chance, this moment was a crisis in the life of Jack Harvey, and if, by chance, he was in greater danger at this moment than he had ever been before in all his life, there was no shadow of it across his mind. He answered with a laugh:
“No, not I. No such luck. If there’s anything like that going on, I’m sure to miss it. No, ’twas the other camp and a crowd I have no liking for that did it all, that got all the glory and all the fun and the money, too. The reward, I mean. I’d rather have been there at the capture, though, than get the money for it. And I don’t know why, but I felt rather sorry for the two chaps that got caught, bad as they were.”
A good speech for you, Jack Harvey, if you did but know it!
“So you missed all the fun, did you?” said the man, quietly. “That was too bad; too bad.”
He had put his oars into the water once more now, and resumed his rowing. He did not pause to rest again, but pulled long and steadily. Evidently he did not care to row and talk too, for he lapsed into silence now, and Harvey could not draw him into conversation again. At the end of another hour they had come close to the Grand Island shore, and shortly they had pulled alongside a ledge, where Harvey could jump out. The man started to row away.
“Here, hold on, there,” cried Harvey. “Don’t you want your dollar? You’ve earned it, fair enough.”
The man came slowly back to shore.
“Indeed,” he said, as he stretched out his hand, “I ought not to forget that, with the fishing as bad as it is.” And then he added, quietly, as he started to row away again, “And it’s worth a dollar to you to get here, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” replied Harvey.
“Indeed it is,” said the man to himself.
Then he rowed down the shore for about a mile farther, turned into a sheltered cove, rowed his boat alongside a black sloop that lay moored there, climbed aboard, dragged the boat aboard, and waited for an hour or so, till a faint breeze stole across the water. Then he hoisted sail on the sloop and drifted slowly out of the cove; drifted slowly away from the island, and was swallowed up in the night.
The yachtSpray, arriving home again in the harbour of Southport, two days following the discovery made by Henry Burns, had created somewhat of a sensation: first, because, on account of the storm, there had been felt considerable alarm for the little boat, and, second, because of the story that the boys had to tell.
The finding of the letter “E” confirmed their story, so that there could be no room for doubt that the yachtEaglehad been secreted there in the Thoroughfare and refitted. The question now was, had the man who had done this left the bay and gone on his voyage, or had he chosen, for some purpose or other, to linger in some part of the great bay till a later time.
Henry Burns now told the story of the man they had seen at the foot of Grand Island, how he had sailed in and out of the harbour so mysteriously, how he seemed to avoid them, and how there had apparently been none other than he aboard the black yacht.
Most of the people of the village were inclined to the belief that the man Chambers had gone out to sea as soon as he had altered his yacht so that it would escape detection in such harbours as he would be obliged to make. There was no possible reason why he should return, they said, and every reason in the world why he should get away from that part of the coast as soon as he could.
There were plenty of black yachts, they argued, that would answer the general description of the yacht seen by the boys at the foot of the island; and, as for sailing out and away in the night, that was a thing commonly done among fishermen, to take advantage of wind and tide when it was important that they should reach a certain port on time.
Still, there were one or two yachts that set out cruising about the bay, on the chance of running into the mysterious craft, and they cruised about for a week or more. Every strange sail that looked as though it might belong to a yacht of the size of theEaglewas pursued, until it had either outsailed the pursuers and disappeared, or until a nearer view had proven that it was not the hunted craft.
By the end of two weeks the village was well satisfied that Chambers and the yachtEaglewere far away, and had ceased to think of him, except as a group gathered of an evening about the village grocery-store and talked of that for lack of something better.
In the meantime, when the excitement was at its height, the Warren boys in their yacht, and Tom and Bob in their canoe, took a hand in the search. Even Henry Burns took an occasional spin on his bicycle down to the foot of the island of an evening, and wandered along the shore in the hope of catching a glimpse once more of the sail he had seen that night in the harbour. Just what he expected to do in case he should see it, he did not know, himself; still, it might be that he could spread the alarm and start some of the boats out after any suspicious craft that he saw.
For the time being it was in all the air. Nobody talked of anything else. It was really more because people dearly love a mystery than that they actually believed theEaglewas still in the bay; but the talk sufficed to keep the boys at fever-heat, and Henry Burns firmly believed that he had seen theEaglethat night.
Tom and Bob were indefatigable for ten days in searching on their own account. They would take their canoe in the afternoon, paddle down five or six miles along the shore of the island, land in some lonely spot, haul the canoe on shore, and then continue along on foot for a mile or two, coming up cautiously to some cove with which they had become familiar in their trips through the summer, only to find it empty of sails, or some fishing-boat lying snug for the night, and which could by no means be mistaken for the craft of which they were in search.
Again, they would paddle down to the Narrows, carry the canoe over into the western bay, leave it hidden until sundown, and then go down along the shore on that side of the island, repeating their walk along the shore. Some days they left the canoe hidden for the night away down the island, and came back to the village afoot along the road, going after it afoot the next night, and retracing their search of the night before, thus varying the search in a dozen different ways.
But the result was always the same. It seemed this time as though theEagle, if it had, indeed, ever lingered in the bay, had gone for good. What might have been the result if those who sailed in search of the mysterious craft had known that the description they now had of her was at fault, can never be known. Be that as it might, the exact yacht that Henry Burns and his friends had seen down at the foot of the island no longer existed. In its place there sailed—somewhere, on some waters—a handsome, black yacht, with a tall, slender, glistening topmast, white sails, and gleaming brass, in place of the dingy, dirty fisherman. She was as fine and handsome, and as polished as to deck and fittings, as theEaglehad been of yore, only her colour remained as it had been changed—black.
Was this boat theEagle? Those who sailed the bay in quest of her had no means of knowing, for if they ever did get sight of her it was but a far, fleeting, shadowy glance. They never came within miles of her, this fleet, beautiful, and disappearing yacht. Across her stern in letters of gold was the nameSprite. It may have been most appropriate, for now and then a distant view of her tempted some bay craft to follow; but it was like a dog pursuing a bird on the wing. She always drifted on and on, out of reach, and disappeared.
Since the night when the man that rowed Jack Harvey across the bay had climbed aboard this yacht and sailed southward, the yacht had never ventured near Grand Island, nor within miles and miles of it. If the man Chambers had any plan which he meant to execute, it did not suit his purpose to attempt it at this time. He had, perhaps, achieved all he desired now, in familiarizing himself with the waters of this coast.
Of all those who joined in the search for the strange yacht, there was none more enthusiastic nor persistent than Jack Harvey. No sooner had his own yacht been brought back from Bellport by the crew, than he stocked up with a week’s provisions and began cruising day and night. To be sure, it was a most uncertain chase, but Harvey was willing to take chances that others would not; and if he should by mistake intercept some respectable craft for a few brief moments, he would rely on his assurance to carry him through and explain matters.
Harvey had, moreover, a critical eye for a good boat, and had noted theEagle, when it had been in the harbour, with more than passing interest, and was certain now that he should know her again, even with a change of rig. Besides, he had the description furnished by Henry Burns and the other boys of the yacht they had seen, which corresponded in size with theEagle.
He had never been so aroused about anything before in all his life. The adventure that Henry Burns and the others had had with the two men that had been caught was an experience after his own heart. He would have given his whole summer’s fun to take part in that capture. But all the glory of that had been denied him; now he made a resolve that if any one succeeded in finding the vanished yacht it should be he.
His activity was not destined to go all for naught, either, for on at least one occasion he was satisfied in his own mind that he had met with the yacht,—yes, and nearly come to close quarters with the man that sailed it.
It was miles below Grand Island, for Harvey had for some days made up his mind that the man he sought had left the bay, since he had scoured it east and west and north and south in vain. It was down among some islands that lay out of the much travelled part of the bay, and not far from the Gull Island Thoroughfare. It was, in fact, just at the outer rim of the bay, where several channels through a chain of islands led out to sea. There were three of the crew aboard besides Harvey, only little Tim being left ashore to guard the camp.
They had been cruising all evening among these islands, for it was a part of the coast with which Harvey was very familiar. They were carrying no lights, for the chances of being run down here were small, and, besides, it was a part of Harvey’s plan to be able to approach any chance craft unobserved.
It had come on rainy, and the crew were for putting in at some harbour and lying snug, but Harvey would not hear of it. He had sailed until near midnight for about a week, and did not like to give it up.
However, as a concession to his crew, and as it bade fair to blow up a nasty sea before many hours, Harvey had consented to beat back and forth under the lee of a small unnamed island, keeping a lookout down the bay for the little distance they could see through the rain.
It seemed that some other craft was also willing to take the risk of sailing without lights, for, along about ten o’clock, a yacht, that might or might not be the one for which they sought, was beating up toward the island, with all dark on board. All at once the man that sat at the wheel left his boat for a moment to itself, so that it headed up into the wind with sails flapping, while he darted down into the cabin.
He was gone only for a moment, but in that brief moment that he was below a light flashed in the cabin,—only a fleeting gleam of light, and then all was dark again.
This gleam of light, transient as it was, had sufficed, however, for the sharp lookout aboard theSurprise.
Harvey seized Joe Hinman by the shoulder and whispered, as he steered theSurpriseout from behind the end of the island: “Did you see that, Joe? Did you see it? There’s something coming up. Everybody keep quiet now!”
There was an excited group that crouched silently in the cockpit of theSurpriseas she swung out from under the lee of the island and headed straight for the spot where they had seen the flash of light, running almost before the wind.
Whatever the craft was, it seemed as if they must surely catch it, leaping out as they had from the darkness. All at once they saw the dark outline of a yacht almost dead ahead, and saw for a moment the shadow of its sails, a faint blur through the rain.
Then the yacht veered about suddenly, and they saw the white crush of water as it heeled over, and, running with the wind on its quarter, was gone, like a boat that had vanished. So sudden and so silent was the manœuvre that they could hardly realize that the yacht had, indeed, turned like a flash and run away. They followed for a moment, but, seeing how useless it was, Harvey soon gave up the chase and went back to harbour, beaten but not discouraged.
“That was the man we want,” he said, as they came to in the nearest harbour that night. “No other craft would have gone off its course that way. And to think we were almost upon him.”
“Yes, but I don’t see what good it would have done us to have come up with him, if it was the man,” replied Allan Harding. “We could only have taken a look aboard. What else could we have done?”
“I’ll tell you what,” answered Harvey, emphatically. “It would have done a lot of good. I tell you that wherever and whenever I meet that yacht, whether it’s night or day, I’m going to run alongside, and you fellows and I are going aboard. I’ve been doing things to be ashamed of long enough,—not that I’m ashamed of them, either, as I know of. Only they have been things that I didn’t dare tell of afterward, and I’m sort of tired of it. I tell you, I want to do something for once that I can boast of and that people won’t hate me for. That’s why I’m so anxious about this, if you must know it.”
“Whew!” cried Joe Hinman. “That’s something new for you, Jack. I didn’t suppose your conscience ever troubled you.”
“It don’t,” said Harvey, angrily.
But perhaps it did.
By the end of a few days more, Harvey had given up the search, convinced that they had seen the last of the black yacht, if, indeed, they had seen it at all.
“I give up,” he said. “I’m beaten, and that’s all there is to it.”
And so the idea of ever seeing the strange yacht again was given up by all. The yachts came back to harbour, and the impression became general that they had all been fooled; that what they had sought was a delusion.
Tom and Bob were the last to give up. Partly because they liked these long paddles together and the long walks along the island roads, and partly because they had helped start the renewed hunt for the yachtEagle, and did not like to admit that they had made a mistake.
So they did not wholly discontinue their evening paddles nor their lonely rambles along the shore. It was good exercise, at all events, they argued.
One evening they started right after supper, while it was yet light, paddled down along the shore to the Narrows, carried across, and paddled down the island for some three miles. Then they landed and hid their canoe, as was their custom, and stretched themselves out on the beach to rest and enjoy the lights far out on the water.
It was a clear starlight night, with the bay still and restful, save for a quick gust of wind that came now and then, only to blur its surface for a moment and leave it smooth again.
“I guess we have tried this thing about often enough, haven’t we, Bob?” asked Tom, finally. “We don’t seem to be a success as man-hunters.”
“I’m about ready to quit,” answered Bob, yawning and stretching. “The fact is, we really get enough exercise through the day. Here we’ve been swimming, bicycling, helping the Warrens get up driftwood, paddled over to the cape, all in one day,—and here we are at it again at night. Yes, I think it’s time we gave this up.”
“Then supposing we do call it off,” said Tom. “I’ve had paddling enough for one day. What do you say to going up along the beach for a mile or two, and then taking the shortest cut home and coming down for the canoe to-morrow? I think I’m kind of tired, myself, though I didn’t notice it when we started out.”
“All right, that suits me,” replied Bob. “I don’t mind saying that I’m a bit tired, too. That last mile came hard, and no mistake.”
So they rose and sauntered along the beach toward the Narrows, till they had come to within about half a mile of it, and then sat down once more for a brief rest before going home.
“It seems almost too bad to go home to bed such a beautiful night as this,” said Bob. “These are the kind of nights that make me wish we had the old tent back again, so we could lie on our bunks and look out on the water, as we used to do before we went to sleep.”
The night was indeed singularly calm and peaceful. The bay was still, and the water as it came up the beach with the tide made only a small rustling, creeping sound, as it covered the sand inch by inch. As for the island, it always seemed asleep after nightfall, and to-night there was scarcely a sound of life anywhere to break the stillness.
But then, all at once, as they sat there looking out upon the water, out of the silence there arose a cry, faint and smothered, but a cry for help.
Then all was still again.
They sprang to their feet, startled, almost frightened for a brief moment at the strange cry, coming from they knew not where.
Again the cry came, this time more distinctly, from somewhere out on the water. They heard the words, “Help! Help!” uttered in a choking voice, as of a man drowning.
The boys rushed down to the water’s edge and peered out over the bay, straining their eyes to see whence the sound came.
“Hulloa! Hulloa! Where are you? What’s the matter? Call again!” cried Tom.
They listened, and in a moment the voice came again weirdly over the water, though they could not distinguish this time the words.
“Why, there it is,” cried Bob, all at once, pointing as he spoke. “Don’t you see it, Tom? I declare, but it’s queer we didn’t see it before. Look, there’s something floating only about an eighth of a mile out,—and there’s something moving a little distance from it. Why, Tom, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a canoe—it’s Jack Harvey—and he’s upset—he’s drowning. Just look, where I am pointing.”
“Yes, I see,” exclaimed Tom, excitedly. “I just saw a splash. He’s upset, sure enough, and struggling. I say, Bob, we’ve got to swim out. Our canoe is too far. Keep up! We’re coming!” he called, and began hurriedly to strip off his clothing.
In a moment the two boys were in the water, striking out wildly toward the object that seemed to be a canoe floating in the water.
“Hold on there, Bob,” cried Tom, presently. “We mustn’t try to be too fast. We’ll only waste our strength. We’ll need it all when we get there. Let’s calm down, now, and not get excited. We’ve got to keep our heads.”
Then, as they surged ahead, with long, powerful strokes, the voice again came, calling chokingly for help. There could be no mistaking it now. It was Jack Harvey.
“Quick!” he cried, “quick! I can’t hold on long. I’m hurt.”
They quickened their strokes, and in a moment more came in plain sight of Harvey, struggling feebly to keep above water.
“Hold on for a moment, Jack,” said Tom, as they came up to him. “Don’t grab us, now. Let us do the work. You just keep on paddling, what you can, and we’ll save you.”
“I won’t grab you,” gasped Harvey. “Just get on each side of me and let me put my hands on your shoulders for a moment, till I get my strength back. I’ve swallowed a lot of water.”
The two swam up close, and Harvey reached up and rested a hand on each shoulder.
“Swim for the canoe now,” said Tom. “We’ll let him get hold of the end of that and cling on for a few moments till he gets his breath. He’ll be all right, I think.”
Reaching the overturned canoe, they helped him to clasp one end of it, and then supported him there, as they began to push it toward shore by swimming with their feet and with a single hand each.
For a few moments Harvey managed to hold on, but then his strength seemed to fail him and his hands slipped their hold.
“I can’t hold on,” he gasped. “Something’s hurting me.”
“Then lie over on your back and float,” said Tom. “Just lie still and we’ll swim you in.”
Harvey groaned at the effort it cost him, but did as he was told, and they left the canoe and struck out with him for the shore.
It was not such a long swim that they had before them, but they had exhausted their strength more than they knew in their excitement, and Harvey was well-nigh helpless.
Before they had swum a rod farther, their breath began to come hard and their shoulders ached until it seemed as though they would crack.
Still they kept on.
“We’ll make it all right, Tom?” said Bob, finally, panting the words out.
“We’ve got to,” said Tom. “We’re bound to do it. Let’s swim on our backs for a spell. Jack, we’re going to change the stroke. Don’t get scared. We’re going to stick by you.”
The words seemed to rouse Harvey, who had apparently almost lost consciousness.
“Let me go,” he gasped, faintly. “Let me go, I say. I don’t want you fellows to drown, too. Let me——”
And then he seemed suddenly to lose control of himself, and clutched frantically at them, with the frenzy of a drowning man.
They struck themselves loose from him, and he sank under water, but came to the surface again, exhausted and helpless. Tom seized him then by the hair. He lay motionless, as though dead, and they took hold once more and struck out again for the shore.
When they had reached it—they scarcely knew how—and felt the sand again under their feet, they had barely strength enough to drag Harvey a little ways out of the water, and lay by his side on the beach, groaning with every breath they drew.
This was from sheer exhaustion, caused by exerting themselves far beyond their natural strength. They were not strangled with swallowing water, so that after they had lain there flat on the beach for some five minutes they had regained their strength sufficiently to be able to arise and lift the half-unconscious Harvey completely out of the water and carry him up on the bank. Then they sat down and rested once more, sitting by Harvey’s side and chafing his hands. They lifted him up, although the effort cost them all their strength, held him head downwards for a moment to get the water out of him, then doubled his arms upon his breast and extended them, over and over again, alternately, as they had learned was the way to restore a man rescued from drowning.
Harvey, who had never fully lost consciousness, revived under their treatment, till at length they perceived that he was out of danger, and needed now as quickly as possible warmth and shelter.
There was no house near by, and it was clear that whatever was done for Harvey must be done by them.
“We can’t carry him, that’s certain,” said Bob, finally. “We’ve got to get our canoe and paddle him up as far as the Narrows in that. Then we can get his crew over, and we can all carry him up to their camp.”
So Bob set out on a weary trot down along the shore to where they had hidden their canoe. Tom waited by Harvey, trying to keep him warm, or, rather, to restore warmth to him, by rubbing; but Harvey was chilled through and through and shivered pitifully. It was fully an hour, and seemed ten to Tom, before Bob appeared in sight again.
They lifted Harvey into the canoe and set out for the Narrows. Poor Bob was well-nigh exhausted, and it was Tom who did about all the paddling. They reached the Narrows, however, after what seemed an endless journey, driving their paddles through the water with arms that almost refused to obey the wills that forced them to work.
When they had reached the Narrows, Tom set out for Harvey’s camp, leaving Bob to wait with Harvey. Tom had not gone more than half a mile, however, when he ran into the entire crew, who had become alarmed at Harvey’s long absence, knowing that he had gone out in the canoe, and had started out in search of him.
Tom’s white face, pallid with weariness, filled them with terror, as he rushed up to them and sank down on a knoll, breathless.
“Why, it’s Tom Harris,” exclaimed Joe Hinman. “For Heaven’s sake, what is it? Did you see Jack? Is he drowned?”
He rattled off the questions excitedly, before Tom could find breath to answer.
“He’s all right, I guess,” Tom said, in a moment. “He isn’t drowned. He’s over there the other side of the Narrows; Bob’s with him. He is most dead with cold, though. You better get him over to camp quick or he will die.”
They were off like mad, on the run for the Narrows, before he had finished.
Tom waited to rest a few moments more, and then set off slowly for Harvey’s camp. “There’s enough of them to bring him,” he said. “I guess Bob and I have done about all we can to-night.”
When he had reached Harvey’s camp, however, he waited only to rest and warm himself by the brands of a fire which the campers had left, before he began to make what preparations he could to receive the boys when they should return with Harvey.
There was a big pile of wood at hand, and he started the fire up afresh, after having first pushed the brands nearer the tent, so that the fire would send a comforting warmth inside. Then he brought out a pair of blankets and put them near the fire to warm through. He hung a kettle of water on the stick provided for it, and rummaged through the campers’ stock for the coffee.
Presently the sound of voices told him that the crew were at hand. Stepping to the door of the tent, he saw the strange group approaching. They had not taken Harvey from the canoe, but had let him lie there, while they lifted the canoe and carried it along, two boys at either end, bearing the weight with a stick stretched underneath to support it. Alongside plodded Bob, holding to the gunwale, to assist in steadying it. They approached and set the canoe down, just outside the tent door.
“Get his clothes off quick, now,” cried Tom. “I have the hot blankets ready to wrap him in, and some coffee when he is able to take it.”
In a twinkling Harvey was stripped and rolled snugly in the blankets, while Tom busied himself in rushing up with cloths heated hot, and applying them to the soles of his feet. After a time he lifted Harvey up and poured a few spoonfuls of the coffee down his throat. This seemed to revive Harvey, for he opened his eyes, muttered something that was unintelligible, and sank back to sleep.
“He’s all right now,” said Tom, passing his hand over Harvey. “He is getting warm again. He’ll be all right now when he gets his sleep out.”
Tom and Bob were thoroughly tired. They lay stretched out before the fire on blankets for a time, too weary to more than barely reply to the questions of the crew as to the mishap that had befallen Harvey.
Presently Tom rose up and said: “Well, Bob, it’s late, and we’ve got to be getting started or we’ll never get back to the cottage.”
“We shall be down again to-morrow to see how Harvey is,” he added, turning to the crew, who sat a little apart, somewhat abashed by the turn of affairs and the consciousness of the debt of gratitude they now owed to the boys whom they had wronged. “We’ll send a doctor down if you want us to, but I don’t think there’s any need of it. He’ll be all right by morning. Good night.”
They were about taking their departure when Harvey struggled for a moment with the clothing that enveloped him, lifted his head slightly from the ground, and said, weakly, “Hold on.”
“What is it?” asked Tom, as they stepped inside the tent again and sat down beside him.
“Don’t go,” said Harvey, huskily. “Please don’t go. I want you to stay here to-night,—that is, if you will. I’ve—I’ve got something—something to say to you in the morning. I can’t say it now. I’m too weak. But I want the crew to hear it in the morning.”
Tom and Bob looked at each other in astonishment. Then they nodded, and Tom replied to Harvey:
“All right, Jack. We’ll stay. Go to sleep now. You’re all right.”
The crew quickly spread some boughs for them, and brought more blankets from the yacht.
“Tom,” said Bob, as they stood alone for a moment, while the crew were busily engaged, “it looks like our revenge.”
And then, before they had the blankets half-wrapped about them, they were sinking off to sleep,—to sleep in Harvey’s camp, alongside Harvey’s crew.
It was late the following morning when Tom and Bob awoke. The sun was well up, and the light was streaming into the tent. Their eyes opened on unfamiliar objects and on strange surroundings.
“It gave me the strangest feeling,” said Tom, telling Henry Burns about it some time later. “At first, before I was fully awake, I had forgotten where I was, and I thought I was back in our own tent upon the point. Then it flashed over me that that was gone, and the next moment I remembered that I was down there in Harvey’s camp, and you can’t imagine what a queer feeling it gave me.”
Harvey and the crew had already arisen, and Tom and Bob could hear the crackling of a fire outside, where they were preparing breakfast. Harvey had awakened apparently as strong as ever, unharmed by his terrible experience of the night before.
“Hello, Bob,” said Tom, as they looked across the tent at each other. “Do you know where you are? Isn’t this a queer scrape? I wonder what will come of it.”
“Hello,” answered Bob, yawning and stretching. “Oh, but how I did sleep. I feel as though I had slept about a week. I never was so tired in my life. Say, this is queer, isn’t it? Who’d ever have thought we would be sleeping here, of all places.”
They arose and stepped outside.
The crew paused in their work and looked up, while Harvey advanced to meet his guests.
“Hello,” he said. “We thought we’d let you have your sleep out. You must have been played out.”
“Hello,” answered Tom and Bob. “We thought you were far worse off than we,” continued Bob, “but you seem to have come out of it all right.”
Harvey had by this time come up to them. He paused, hesitatingly, for a moment, while his face flushed. Then he put out his hand.
“Will you shake hands with me?” he asked.
“‘WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH ME?’ HE ASKED”“‘WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH ME?’ HE ASKED”
“‘WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH ME?’ HE ASKED”
Tom and Bob, for answer, extended each his right hand and grasped that of Harvey.
“Thank you,” said Harvey, simply. “I don’t deserve it, I know.”
There may have been the faintest suspicion of moisture about his eyes.
“Come over here,” he said, and led the way to a big log that lay near the fire, close by where the crew now stood. “I want to say something to you, and so do the fellows, too.”
There was an embarrassing moment as Tom and Bob seated themselves on the log, while the crew stood awkwardly by. They seemed uncertain what to do or say to these brave young fellows, whom they now knew had risked their lives to save their leader. With boy-like reticence, they were too ashamed to speak. Harvey broke the silence.
“The fellows and I don’t know hardly what to say to you,” he said. “The crew want to tell you how ashamed we all are for the way we have treated you, and they want to thank you for what you did for me; but they can’t begin to tell what they feel,—and no more can I,—but they want me to speak for them, too, as I’ve been their captain in all we’ve done, as well as aboard the yacht.
“They know what you did for me,” continued Harvey. “I told them the whole story this morning. There never was anything braver than what you did, and they all know it now as well as I do. They know you were as near drowning as I was, at the last, and you wouldn’t give up and let me go, but stuck to me till the end, and couldn’t have saved your own lives if there had been another rod to go.
“I wouldn’t be here now, if it wasn’t for you—”
“Well, you would have done the same for us, and so would the crew,” said Tom, eager to spare the other’s mortification as much as possible, and feeling his heart kindling toward his late enemy.
“I don’t know whether I should or not,” replied Harvey. “I don’t think I’m so much of a coward, even if Ihavebeen doing things that look that way. But that doesn’t make our position any the better. It isn’t what we would have done for you in the same danger that counts. It’s what we have been doing to you ever since you landed on the island that makes our case so bad.”
“I tell you,” Harvey exclaimed, vehemently, as he arose from the log, “we’ve been a lot of fools and we’ve been thinking all the time that we were smart. It just came to me like a flash, as I thought I was going down out there, all the mean things I’ve been doing and what a fool I’ve been. I knew it all the time, too, I guess, only I didn’t care. But you fellows have just brought it home to us hard, and we are going to try to square things up all that we can.
“Now, first,” continued Harvey, taking a long breath and speaking earnestly, “we’re sorry we stole that box of yours from off the wharf. We knew it was yours all the time, too, though I said we didn’t. Of course we couldn’t help knowing. We don’t blame you, either, for blowing up the cave—”
“We didn’t intend really to blow it up,” interrupted Tom. “That was my idea, to burn up some of the stuff, just to get even, and we were nearly scared to death when the explosion came off. We thought you were all killed.”
“Well, I believe you now,” said Harvey, “although I didn’t before. I can see just how it happened, too. The fact is, we had some powder and kerosene there, hidden away. That’s what caused it. Well, anyway, we don’t blame you for setting the fire, and we shouldn’t blame you now, if you had meant to blow up the cave, too. We deserved it.”
“We’re sorry it happened, anyway,” said Bob.
“Now,” added Harvey, “there’s another thing, and that’s the tent. Of course you knew we took it, although you couldn’t prove it. You hadn’t any doubt about it, had you?”
“Well,” replied Tom, “we did kind of think so, although we couldn’t be sure.”