George Warren scrambled up the stairs, at the risk of the lamp which the woman had handed to him, lighted. Inside the room, he took a handful of kindling from the wood-box, and soon had it ablaze, with the aid of a few scraps of old newspaper. Then he laid some larger pieces of driftwood across, and quickly had a cheerful fire roaring up the chimney.
He threw off his wet clothing, wrapped a blanket about him, and crouched by the fire to enjoy its warmth—for he had been chilled through.
The huge, old-fashioned fireplace would seem not to have been used for a long time; for, in the corners of it were odds and ends and scraps of paper, that had evidently been swept up from the floor and thrown in there, as the most convenient place for their disposal. George Warren poked some of this stuff into the fire and watched it blaze. He picked up a few scraps of paper and threw them in.
Then, as he repeated this action, there was the half of an envelope that the light of the fire illuminated, as he held it in his hand. Part of the address remained, and, even as he consigned it to the flames, he read it clearly:
“Carleton,“Bellport,“Me.”
“Carleton,
“Bellport,
“Me.”
“Hello! that’s funny,” he remarked. “That’s Mr. Carleton’s name—and he was over at Bellport, too. I thought he had gone away to Boston. I’ll have to ask about him in the morning.”
But, in his hurry next morning, George Warren forgot about the letter until he was a half-mile up the road.
“I’ll have to tell Henry Burns and Harvey about that, anyway,” he said, as he walked along. “Henry Burns likes mysteries. He’ll have some queer notion about why Mr. Carleton was down there, I’ll bet.”
But George Warren failed to inform either Henry Burns or any one else about his discovery; for he went on a week’s cruise, next day, and when he returned it had passed out of his mind. At least, he didn’t think of it till about two weeks later.
Squire Brackett sat in his office, deep in thought. To say that he was out of temper, would be putting it mildly. Something that he was trying to do baffled him; and, being thwarted, he was irritable and unhappy. Now when Squire Brackett was unhappy, he usually succeeded in making everybody else with whom he came in contact likewise unhappy. Therefore, when he betook himself to his office, of an afternoon, and sat himself down at his desk, to attempt to solve a certain puzzle, as he had done now for several weeks, at intervals, the members of his household kept discreetly aloof.
Before the squire, on the shelf of his desk, lay the paper on which he had pasted the scraps of Mr. Carleton’s letter. The first effort at a solution of the puzzle had been one more of curiosity than aught else on his part. He had thought it would be rather a smart achievement, to discover something which another man had attempted to destroy, though it probably would be of no particular importance to the discoverer. But, from that condition of mind, he had progressed to a state wherein he thought he saw, hidden in the fragments of the letter, something of more than ordinary import.
As Squire Brackett had arranged them, the words and parts of words now lay before him thus:
lockeymust besoundmbersaboard yachtstarboastillunderaysthird
lock
ey
must be
sound
mbers
aboard yacht
starboa
still
under
ays
third
The squire’s increase of curiosity had resulted largely from his interpretation of the first two fragments. At a casual glance, he had decided that the first four letters were a part of the word, “locker,”—which would be natural if the writer were referring to a yacht. But he arrived at a different and more exciting conclusion, when it suddenly dawned upon him that the first word was really complete as it stood; that it was the word, “lock.” This, because the next two letters clearly were part of the word, “key.”
“Of course,” he exclaimed. “If I hadn’t been stupid I’d have thought of that before. Aha! I have a whole sentence now, by simply supplying a few of the missing words.” He wrote as follows, picking out these words that the letter, as he had it before him, contained: “key — lock — must be still aboard yacht.”
“That’s plain enough for a boy to read,” said Squire Brackett. “The sentence was, ‘The key to the lock must be still aboard yacht.’”
“Hm!” he exclaimed, rubbing his forehead, reflectively. “That’s interesting; and it’s queer. Somebody knows a thing or two about that boat—and that somebody, whoever he is, has been writing it to Carleton. Still, I don’t see how that helps me. I can’t make much out of it.”
The letter, having yielded up this much of its secret to the squire, became immediately of greater interest to him; but, at the same time, an object of greater annoyance and perplexity. He couldn’t get the thing off his mind. It became a sort of continual nightmare to him. Why, he asked, should any one write to Mr. Carleton about a key to a lock aboard theViking?
Being somewhat heavy-witted, in spite of a certain natural shrewdness, the squire did not answer his own question readily.
On this particular afternoon, however, he advanced a step farther.
“Perhaps,” he said to himself, “that word, ‘sound,’ does not refer to timbers at all. It might be Long Island Sound, where this yacht has been at some time, probably. Oh, I wish I had the rest of the letter.”
“I tell you what!” exclaimed the squire, “this thing is queer. That’s what it is. Who should know anything about this yacht, and who would be writing to Mr. Carleton about it? It couldn’t be the men that had it before the boys got it. They were a band of thieves. What’s that? Hello! Why not? This man Carleton has cleared out. He didn’t buy that land of me. He never intended to; that’s what.”
“I’ve got it!” he cried, jumping up excitedly and thumping his desk with his fist. “Chambers! Chambers! That’s the man. He’s the man that set fire to the hotel. He’s the man that Jack Harvey captured down in the Thoroughfare. He’s the man that knows about theViking—and there’s his name in the letter—or a part of his name.
“Those letters, ‘mbers,’ don’t mean ‘timbers’ at all. They were a part of the name ‘Chambers.’ Yes, and those letters at the end of the list, ‘ays,’ don’t mean ‘stays,’ either, as I thought they did. That word is ‘says.’
“‘Chambers says’ something—now what does he say? I have it:
“‘Chambers says key to the lock must be still aboard yacht.’
“Wait a minute,” said the squire to himself. “That word, ‘starboard’ comes in here somewhere. Starboard—starboard—oh, I see; ‘starboard locker.’ That first word is ‘locker,’ just as I thought in the beginning.”
The squire wrote his translation of the letter, as he had thus far evolved it, as follows:
“Chambers says the key to the starboard locker must be still aboard yacht.”
“Now let me see,” reflected Squire Brackett, “that leaves only three more words—‘sound,’ ‘third,’ and ‘under.’ Well, I don’t know what they have to do with it. They probably referred to something else in the letter. But what on earth can that be in the starboard locker,—that’s what I’d like to know.”
Deeply agitated, he arose from his chair and strode up and down the room. He rubbed his hands together in a self-satisfied way.
“Looks like I’d get even with some of ’em yet,” he exclaimed, softly. “There’s something aboard that yacht that’s valuable—and what’s more, that man Carleton came all the way down here on purpose to get it. I see it—I see it. They had a locker where they hid valuables, and there’s something there yet worth getting. Oh, I wish I had the rest of that letter!”
The squire, forming a sudden resolve, put the precious paper in a drawer, locked it therein, and hurried down to the tent on the point. By good luck, he met Henry Burns coming away from it.
“How d’ye do, my boy?” he said, trying to smile agreeably and to conceal his excitement, at the same time.
“How do you do, Squire Brackett?” replied Henry Burns, reading easily something of more than ordinary significance in the squire’s shrewd face. “Nice day, sir.”
“Yes—yes, so it is,” returned the squire. “See here, I’d like to hire that yacht of yours for a few days—possibly a week. I won’t sail her, of course. I’m no skipper. I’ll get John Hart to run her for me.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, squire,” said Henry Burns, “but we can’t let theViking. The season is most over, you see, and we want to have some fun with her the rest of the time. We’ve begun cleaning her out and washing her insides, ready for painting. Perhaps the crew will let you have theSurprise, though. I guess Harvey will be willing.”
“Well, now,” said the squire, “supposing I pay you ten dollars for her, just for four days. I’ll take—”
“No, sorry to refuse,” said Henry Burns, “but I don’t see how we can do it. Besides, we’ve got lots of money, ourselves, you know. We’ve been mackereling.”
The squire continued his urging, but Henry Burns was obdurate. TheVikingcouldn’t be hired—by Squire Brackett, at least. He went home, fuming inwardly.
“If I only had the rest of that letter,” he kept repeating. “I don’t dare to offer them very much, on a mere chance. It might turn out like that land I bought of Billy Cook.”
The squire, having his mind thus tantalized, began to worry over the mystery and even to dream of it. One night he dreamed that he had hired the yacht, and that he had found a bag filled with twenty dollar gold pieces in it; and, when he woke up, he was so angry to find it was only a dream that he scandalized poor Mrs. Brackett with his exclamations.
Young Harry Brackett was made to feel the effects of his father’s mental disturbance. The squire assailed him with questions about Mr. Carleton, which puzzled the son exceedingly. Finally the squire demanded, point-blank, to know what Mr. Carleton had said to him when he commissioned him to buy the yacht.
“And you needn’t deny that he did get you to try to buy it, either,” he exclaimed, warmly, “because I know all about that.”
Harry Brackett, taken aback, but concluding that Mr. Carleton had told his father about it, admitted the commission, but could not recall anything in particular that Mr. Carleton had said at that time.
“Didn’t he want to know something about the yacht that he was intending to buy?” demanded the squire. “Now just wake those sleepy wits of yours up and try to think.”
Harry Brackett, much confused, endeavoured to obey.
“No, I don’t remember that he did,” said he, finally, “only he wanted to know, of course, if I’d heard anything wrong about the yacht—anything queer about her—or something of that sort—seems to me he asked if there was anything queer about the boat—anything ever discovered about her.”
The squire concealed a thrill of satisfaction by scowling, and exclaimed:
“Well, why didn’t you say so before? I might want to buy that boat, myself, sometime. I want to find out about her.”
A night or two after this, Squire Brackett awoke. He had had another dream: that he and Mr. Carleton had stolen aboard theViking, in the dead of night, and had broken into the cabin. There, after the strange and impossible fashion of dreams, they had discovered the man, Chambers, at work, tearing up the cabin floor. Then, the dream progressed to a stage wherein Mr. Carleton and Chambers were handing out bags of money to the squire, piling his arms full of them.
By degrees, these bags grew heavier, until the squire sank under their weight. But, to his horror, Carleton and Chambers did not cease heaping the bags of money upon him until he was smothering under them. They covered his face, his nose, the top of his head. He woke up in the midst of a vain endeavour to call for help, in which he could not utter a sound.
Possibly the squire’s dream was explained by the fact that he found himself submerged beneath the bed-clothes, which he had drawn completely over his head, almost stifling himself. His pillow, which he clutched tightly in his arms, rested also on his left ear, like one of the imaginary bags of gold.
“Oh! oh!” he groaned, freeing himself from the weight of clothing, “that was a terrible nightmare. Confound that yacht! I wish it was sunk in the middle of Samoset Bay, and I’d never set eyes on it again.”
But, with this awakening, the old subject of the mystery of theVikingreturned to torment him. He lay awake for a half-hour or more, vainly trying to forget it and go to sleep, but finding the paper with the cryptogram forever flitting before his eyes.
Then, of a sudden, he sprang out of bed, with a yell that awakened poor Mrs. Brackett in terror. Her first thought, naturally, was of burglars.
“I have it! I have it!” cried Squire Brackett, dancing about like a certain philosopher of old, “I have it—it’s ‘money!’”
“James Brackett!” exclaimed his wife, sitting up and glaring at him indignantly, “I believe you’re going crazy over money. That’s all you think about, is money—and all you talk about is money; and now here you are dreaming about money. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, jumping out of bed in the middle of the night and screaming ‘money,’ and frightening me almost to death? You come back to bed!”
But the squire did seem to have gone actually crazy, for it was evident he was fully awake. He continued to prance about excitedly, exclaiming, “It’s money! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” until poor Mrs. Brackett was at her wit’s end.
Ignoring alike her entreaties and her scornful remarks, he descended to his office, drew forth the mystical paper, eyed it triumphantly for a moment, and then wrote as follows:
“Chambers says MONEY must be still aboard yacht.”
“Hooray!” cried the squire. “There it is. Oh, I reckon I’m pretty deep, myself. Yes, and I see the rest of it now.” The squire finished the letter thus:
“Sound under third starboard locker.”
“That’s right,” he said. “That means there’s some sort of a secret chamber in one of the starboard lockers, and that by sounding, or hammering, on the right spot, it will echo hollow, or give some sound different from the other boards. Oh, I’ll get that yacht, no matter what I have to pay—and I’ll get the money, too. I reckon I haven’t cut my eye-teeth for nothing.”
The squire could hardly close his eyes for the rest of the night. By daybreak he was out alongside theViking.
“Look here,” said Squire Brackett, as he opened the doors of the cabin, and peered in at Henry Burns and Harvey, who were at breakfast, “I want you boys to do me a little favour.”
Harvey’s face betrayed his astonishment.
“Oh, I’ll make it worth your while, too,” continued the squire. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for it. You see, I’ve got a party of friends coming down the bay, and I want to meet them at Mayville and give them a few days’ cruising. I’ll admit there’s a little business in it for me, too. Now I want to do the thing up in good shape, and my boat isn’t fit for putting on style. I want theVikingfor just one week, and I’ll pay you twenty dollars for it.”
There was no immediate response. Henry Burns and Harvey looked at each other doubtfully. The offer was almost tempting.
“Well,” cried the squire, seizing the opportunity, “I’ll not stand at five dollars at a time like this. Say twenty-five dollars for a single week, and the money is yours.”
“In advance?” asked Henry Burns.
“Yes, sir,” replied Squire Brackett, “in advance—though I reckon my name on a piece of paper is good for that amount anywhere in this county. Yes, and I’ll do more. I’ll sign an agreement to deliver the yacht back to you in this harbour, one week from the time of hiring it, in as good condition as when I get it, or pay for the difference.”
Henry Burns looked at Harvey, inquiringly. Harvey nodded.
“Well,” said Henry Burns, “on those conditions I think we’ll let you have her—but only for one week. You’ll have to wait two days, though. We’ve got some fresh enamel on part of the woodwork, and some of the mahogany finish has been scraped and newly oiled, and it isn’t quite dry enough for hard usage yet. Let’s see, to-day is Wednesday. You may have her on Saturday morning, if you’ll bring her back the next Saturday, any time before night.”
“Here’s the money,” said Squire Brackett, promptly. “We’ll consider the bargain closed, eh?”
“Yes,” assented the two yachtsmen.
“Now what do you make of that?” exclaimed Harvey, as the squire rowed awkwardly ashore.
“Why, I think he has some land deal on hand,” replied Henry Burns, “and he wishes to make a grand impression on the persons he is going to meet. He calls them his friends, but he’s friendly to any one that he thinks he can make money out of. They probably are from the city, and he wishes to have them enjoy the sights of the bay in a fine boat. There’s money in it in some way for the squire, you can depend on it, or he wouldn’t do it.”
Henry Burns was certainly right, in part.
“Well, we will have the yacht in fairly good shape for him by Saturday,” said Harvey. “We’ll bring down the fine cushions and fixings from the Warren cottage, Friday night.”
The boys worked industriously through this and the two succeeding days, putting theVikingin shape. The outer body of the boat had not received hard usage, even in their fishing, and the decks had been kept carefully scrubbed. So, with the cleaning and painting and oiling of the cabin woodwork, and varnishing, where needed, they had got the yacht in fairly good condition before the squire had applied for her. Now, with the finishing touches, and the rubbing up of brass work, theVikingwas beginning to shine and glisten as of old.
“I am almost sorry we agreed to let the squire have her,” said Henry Burns, as he and Harvey lay rolled in their blankets, the former on the starboard, the latter on the port berth, in the midship section of the yacht, on Friday night. They had finished a hard day’s work, had extinguished the cabin lantern, and were having a quiet chat before going off to sleep.
“Oh, well, a week will soon pass,” said Harvey, “and twenty-five dollars will swell our bank-account and put a finishing touch to the season’s balance. We’ll have to go and figure up with Rob Dakin, pretty soon, and see how we stand.”
Rob Dakin, the storekeeper, was the boys’ banker. They had deposited their earnings in his safe, from time to time, keeping an account with him for groceries and rigging, and drawing out what they needed.
“Yes,” responded Henry Burns, “we’ve got a good balance coming to us—and we’ve had a good time, too.”
“I’ve had the best time I ever had here,” said Harvey, enthusiastically.
They were talking in this way, growing drowsy, and speaking in low tones, when Henry Burns suddenly uttered a warning “hush” to Harvey, and half arose, resting on one elbow.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Harvey.
Henry Burns laughed, softly.
“The boat is bewitched,” he said. “You needn’t get nervous, though. It’s just a funny little, squeaky kind of witch-noise. I heard it the other night when I was lying here; but, when I sat up and listened, the sound stopped.”
“What sort of a noise is it?” asked Harvey, not much interested.
“Why, I’ll tell you,” answered Henry Burns, “I suppose the witchcraft is really something loose about this berth, or about one of those shelves, or lockers; and that it works with the swinging of the boat in some way, and makes a squeaking noise.”
“I don’t see anything very mysterious about that,” muttered Harvey.
“I don’t, either,” replied Henry Burns. “Only the queer thing about it seems to be, that when I get up and listen for it, it stops.”
“Well, if any witches fly out of that locker, just wake me up to take a look at them,” laughed Harvey, preparing to roll up in his blanket again for the night.
Henry Burns, also, lay down again, and the cabin was still. In about five minutes more, Henry Burns reached down quietly for one of his shoes and rapped with it on the shelf, above his head.
“What’s that?” demanded Harvey, roused from the early stages of slumber—“some more of your witches? Say, you can’t make me nervous, so you better let me go to sleep.”
“Jack,” said Henry Burns, arising and stepping over beside his companion, “go over and try my berth awhile. Don’t go to sleep, but keep still, and listen—and tell me what you hear.”
Harvey, grumbling a little at his comrade’s oddity, complied, yawning ferociously.
“If I see a witch I’ll eat him up,” he exclaimed. “I’m dead tired.”
“Keep quiet,” was Henry Burns’s admonition. Harvey was silent, and again they lay still for almost ten minutes. Then, of a sudden, Harvey raised himself on an elbow. Henry Burns was all attention. “Did you hear it?” he asked, softly.
“Sh-h-h,” whispered Harvey. He lifted his head close to the door of the locker and listened intently. Then, presently, he burst into laughter.
“You’re right, Henry,” he cried. “They’re witches—four-legged ones—and we’ll have to clear ’em out of this cabin before they do any mischief. There’s a nest of young mice in there somewhere, and it’s them we hear squeaking.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I thought of that, too,” said Henry Burns; “but I didn’t suppose mice ever got into a boat like this in the summer-time, when it’s in use.”
“Well, I don’t know as I ever heard of it,” responded Harvey, “though I don’t see why they shouldn’t. The schooners and fishermen have them in the hold, often. But sure enough they’ve got in here somehow. Let’s have a look.”
The boys got up, lighted two of the cabin lanterns, and proceeded to investigate.
The berth on which Henry Burns had lain, and from which Harvey had just arisen, was in the middle of the boat. It was about six feet long by two feet wide, and sufficiently raised from the cabin floor to admit of two good-sized drawers occupying the space beneath. There was a locker in the side of the cabin, opening by a door close by the head, and one of the same size at the foot, of the berth. Between these was an alcove with some shelves.
The door of the forward locker was so disposed that, if one were lying on the berth with his head forward, the door could not be opened without its coming in contact with his head. Therefore, the sound, if it came from within the locker, would be immediately in the ears of any one occupying the berth.
Holding a lantern in one hand, Henry Burns opened the door of the locker and looked within. There was no sign of anything alive there.
“We gave this cabin a pretty good overhauling before, after that treasure,” said Harvey. “It looks just the same now as it did.”
“Well, it must be underneath, then,” said Henry Burns.
“Yes, and we looked there, too,” said Harvey.
“Well, we’ll do the job more thoroughly, this time,” replied Henry Burns. “Hand me one of those candles, and I’ll look underneath.”
So saying, he set down his lantern, and pulled out one of the drawers directly underneath the berth where he had lain. As he did so, he gave an exclamation of surprise.
“What is it?” asked Harvey, appearing with the candle.
“I think we’re on the right track,” said Henry Burns. “Look, there’s where the witches get through.”
Close to the cabin floor, where a support of the cabin roof came down, a few inches below the lower edge of the drawer, was a small hole, large enough to admit of a mouse.
“That looks like the front door, sure enough,” said Harvey.
They looked within the drawer, but there was no sign of occupancy there.
“We’ll take the drawer completely out,” said Henry Burns. “I don’t believe we did that, before. Perhaps it doesn’t fill the entire space.”
“All right, I’ll take the other one out, too,” responded Harvey. “We’ll look behind both.”
He drew the drawer out and set it down on the cabin floor. Henry Burns pulled out the drawer he had been examining, and set it down on top of the other. Then, as he glanced at them by the light of the candle which he held, he said, abruptly:
“Look there, Jack. We’ve found it. As sure as you live, this drawer is six or seven inches shorter than the other. There’s a chamber behind it. Say, you don’t suppose—”
Henry Burns did not conclude his sentence. Instead, he got down on hands and knees, held the candle under the berth, and peered within. As he did so, he uttered a cry of triumph.
“Here, Jack, look inside,” he said, hastily, withdrawing his head, and handing the candle to his companion.
Harvey ducked his head, and peered within.
What he saw, in the chamber behind the space taken up by the drawer, was a little boxlike object, fastened in some manner to the under side of the bottom of the locker.
Harvey, in turn, handed the candle over to Henry Burns.
“Here,” he said. “You found it. It’s your right to have the first look at whatever is there.”
Henry Burns, as near the point of actual excitement as he ever got, took the candle, eagerly, and looked again. The boxlike object was clearly a drawer of some sort, for, on closer scrutiny, there was revealed a tiny knob by which it might be drawn out.
“The mice are here, anyway,” said Henry Burns, as he reached in and set the candle down, preparatory to extending his arm at full length to draw out the box. “I see a hole in one corner where they can get in and out.”
Then, as he seized the knob and pulled the little drawer open, there darted out a small object that ran across his hand and disappeared in the darkness beyond the lantern lights.
Henry Burns laughed, the next moment, for he had dodged back, bumping his head and letting go of the knob.
“Run for your life, Jack,” he cried. “Here comes the witch.”
Then, before Harvey’s astonished eyes, Henry Burns drew forth into the light of the cabin lantern a little drawer; and, within it, a nest fashioned of odds and ends of paper and soft stuff; and, within the nest, a family of tiny mice, lying as snug as the proverbial bug in a rug.
The drawer was about a foot in length, six inches deep, and perhaps four inches in height. It contained no apparent treasure—only a litter of paper that mice had torn and gnawed into pieces. There was no gold nor jewels therein.
“Hm!” exclaimed Harvey, with an expression of chagrin overshadowing his face, “Don’t look as though there was anything there to make us rich—or to have warranted Carleton in breaking into our cabin, eh?”
“There isn’t now,” replied Henry Burns, calmly, but with a shade of disappointment in his voice. “There isn’t now, but there was. The mice have got here before us, that’s all.”
He held up to the light a scrap of the torn paper. It was no ordinary paper that the lantern-light revealed to the eyes of the astonished Harvey—far from it. It was the paper that no man may make for himself—the paper of a national bank-note—and there were, on this particular fragment, yet to be seen, a full cipher and the half of another. Harvey fairly gasped.
“That was a hundred-dollar bill!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, or a thousand,” said Henry Burns.
Harvey groaned.
“Better drop those mice overboard, hadn’t we?” said he.
Henry Burns scooped the family up in his hand and passed them over.
“I believe you said if you saw a witch you’d eat her,” he remarked, slyly.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Harvey, as he dropped the mice alongside. “Say, you take it coolly enough, don’t you?”
“Well, why not?” replied Henry Burns. “It isn’t our money that’s gone.”
“It would have been,” said Harvey.
“I don’t know whether it would or not,” responded Henry Burns. “We’d have to turn it over to the authorities, I suppose, to see if any one claimed it—hullo! what’s this?”
Running the litter through his fingers, he turned up from the very bottom a piece of the paper that had escaped entire mutilation. He held it up triumphantly to the light.
“We’ve got one prize,” he cried. “It’s the only one that isn’t destroyed—but it’s fifty dollars, and that’s something.”
“But there’s only a piece of it,” said Harvey.
“More than half,” said Henry Burns, joyfully. “That’s enough. We can redeem it.”
“Oh, but isn’t that awful?” groaned Harvey, gazing ruefully at the litter of paper that filled the drawer. “Just think of all that money going to make a nest for mice.”
“It’s what you might call extravagance,” replied Henry Burns. “I wonder how much there was. We’ll never know, though. But there was enough to make it worth while for Mr. Carleton to come down here after it.”
“Say,” exclaimed Harvey, suddenly, “do you suppose that’s what the squire’s after?”
Henry Burns smiled, and stood for a moment thinking, before he replied.
“Possibly,” he answered. “But I don’t see how he could know of it. Where could he have learned of it? At any rate,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I don’t see as we are under any obligation to tell him about it. We don’t have to assume that he is hiring our yacht to steal something out of the cabin. He has told us what he wants the boat for. We’ll take him at his word.”
“Oh, by the way,” he added, “did we throw those lobster shells overboard after we finished supper?”
“All but one claw that I didn’t eat,” replied the astonished Harvey. “Why, what do you want of it?”
In reply, Henry Burns, his eyes twinkling more than ever, and with a quiet smile playing about the corners of his mouth, went and got the lobster-claw from the ice-box. Emptying out the scraps of now worthless paper, he deposited the lobster-claw in their place, took the candle, and once more replaced the drawer in the secret chamber. Then he shoved in the larger drawer.
“Whoever finds that may keep it,” he said, as he rolled himself in his blanket and blew out the lantern nearest him.
Squire Brackett was for once in rare good humour, as he came down to the breakfast-table on Saturday morning. He was beaming like a harvest moon, and a look of satisfaction overspread his heavy face. He even smiled affably on his son Harry, and was, withal, so pleased with himself, and so off his guard, that his son took advantage of the opportunity to ask him for ten dollars—and got it. By the time Squire Brackett had repented of his generosity, young Harry had disappeared.
“The scamp!” reflected the squire. “Smart enough to see something is up, wasn’t he? Well, I reckon I’m glad of it. He comes by his smartness honestly, I vow. I wonder how the wind is.”
He was, indeed, a bit apprehensive on this score, for he was a bad sailor. He had, moreover, a vivid recollection of the last time he went threshing down the bay in Captain Sam’sNancy Jane, and of how sick and frightened he was.
“However,” he thought, “I guess I can stand it.” And he added, chuckling, “It will be worth my while, or my name isn’t Brackett.”
Mrs. Brackett was perplexed. She couldn’t, for the life of her, understand what had come over the squire, to induce him to venture forth on a yachting trip.
“Why, you just hate the water—you know you do, James,” she exclaimed, as the squire was bustling about, getting out his greatcoat and preparing otherwise for his departure. “You said, a year ago, when you got back from that chase after those boys, that you’d had enough sailing to last you the rest of your life. And I don’t see why you don’t use your own boat. Here you’ve been talking about selling her for the last three years, because every time you go out in her you’re dreadfully sick. You’d better get some use out of that boat while you have it.”
“Well! well!” responded Squire Brackett, somewhat impatiently. “This is a business trip. You can’t understand, because it’s business—important business. I guess I know my affairs, or I wouldn’t be the richest man on Grand Island. You just get that lunch ready, so I can start before the wind grows any stronger.”
Mrs. Brackett complied, obediently, but wondering.
“Morning! morning! Nice day, my lads,” said the squire with unwonted cordiality, some minutes later, as he appeared alongside theViking, accompanied by John Hart and Ed Sanders, who were to constitute his crew.
“Good morning, squire,” responded the yachtsmen, catching the painter of his boat and making it fast. “You’re going to have a glorious day to start off in.”
“Think so?” queried the squire. “Not going to blow much, eh?”
“Not this morning, by the looks,” replied Henry Burns; “just a nice little easy southerly that will take you up to the head of the island in fine style. Then all you’ve got to do is to beat down the western side, a mile or so, and you can stand right over to Mayville without touching a sheet—isn’t that so, Captain Hart?”
John Hart, having the prevailing contempt of the born and bred fisherman for the amateur sailor, grunted a curt affirmative.
“Well, take good care of theViking,” said Harvey, as the squire’s crew cast loose from the mooring and stood away, leaving the boys in their tender astern.
“We’ll do that,” replied the squire, assuringly. “And if we don’t, why, you’ve got it in black and white that I’ll make it good to you. A bargain’s a bargain. That’s my principle.”
TheViking, under a gentle breeze, was soon out of the harbour, clear of the bluff, and was running up alongshore. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns rowed ashore, to the tent, where Tom and Bob were awaiting them. Something that Henry Burns and Harvey confided to them, as they sat together on the point, sent the campers off into roars of laughter.
“Oh, but I’d give my shoes to see the squire when he finds that lobster-claw—if that’s what he’s after,” cried Tom, punching Henry Burns in an ecstasy of mirth. “Do you suppose that’s really what he’s hired her for, though?”
“Don’t know,” replied Henry Burns, solemnly. “No; Squire Brackett wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Well, let’s go up to the store and see how we stand,” suggested Harvey. “Come on, fellows. You’re interested in this.”
“How much do you think we have earned, Jack?” asked Henry Burns, as they walked up the street toward Rob Dakin’s store.
“Oh, more than two hundred dollars—quite a little more, before taking out expenses,” replied Harvey.
“Yes; nearer three hundred, counting Tom’s and Bob’s share, I think,” said Henry Burns.
“Well, that’s reckoning in the fifty dollars we found in the cabin, isn’t it?” asked Harvey.
“Yes, I guess it is,” said his companion. “It remains to be seen, of course, whether we can keep that or not. We’ll ask Rob Dakin what he thinks about that.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think about it,” said Rob Dakin, some minutes later, after the boys had seated themselves in his store. “You say you found that piece of a bill in a locker in the cabin of your boat. Now there are two things to consider about that:
“In the first place, if the owner of the boat—supposing she was stolen—put that money in there, and he should turn up and claim the money, why, you might have to give it up. Of course the boat was taken over by the sheriff and sold, according to law; and if the owner claimed the boat I reckon he’d have to pay Mrs. Newcome what it cost her. But nobody has ever claimed her, and there isn’t really any danger of that. So far as that goes, the money seems to be yours.
“Now, in the second place, the men that had this boat, and who were sent to prison, might have had this money. Well, if it was their own money, why, the State would take it and keep it and restore it to them after they are set free. If it was stolen money, and the owner couldn’t be found, I can’t just say whether you could keep it or whether it would belong to the State. I’m not quite lawyer enough for that. But if they should deny knowing anything about it, why, I reckon it would belong to you, as you found it aboard your own boat.”
“Well, we will figure it in, anyway,” said Henry Burns.
So, at their request to draw them up a statement of their affairs, real “shipshape,” as Henry Burns expressed it, Rob Dakin set to work and, after some minutes’ figuring, produced a sheet at which they gazed with pride and satisfaction. It was as follows:
LEDGER OF THE VIKING—FISHING SLOOPEarnings
1st trip to Loon Island$18.002d trip to Loon Island22.003d trip to Loon Island35.00Lobsters—apart from crew45.00Big mackerel catch80.00Other mackerel30.00Other fishing15.00Paid by the Squire25.00Found in the cabin50.00———Total earnings$320.00
1st trip to Loon Island$18.00
2d trip to Loon Island22.00
3d trip to Loon Island35.00
Lobsters—apart from crew45.00
Big mackerel catch80.00
Other mackerel30.00
Other fishing15.00
Paid by the Squire25.00
Found in the cabin50.00
———
Total earnings$320.00
Expenses
Tom’s and Bob’s share first three trips$25.00Tom’s and Bob’s share mackerel36.66Tom’s and Bob’s share other fish5.00Bait purchased9.50Anchor5.00Extra rigging15.00Hooks and lines10.00Provisions25.00Hire of tender10.00Paid Captain Sam for labour11.50Incidentals13.50———Total expenses$166.16———Balance$153.84Henry Burns’s share76.92Jack Harvey’s share76.92
Tom’s and Bob’s share first three trips$25.00
Tom’s and Bob’s share mackerel36.66
Tom’s and Bob’s share other fish5.00
Bait purchased9.50
Anchor5.00
Extra rigging15.00
Hooks and lines10.00
Provisions25.00
Hire of tender10.00
Paid Captain Sam for labour11.50
Incidentals13.50
———
Total expenses$166.16
———
Balance$153.84
Henry Burns’s share76.92
Jack Harvey’s share76.92
“Hooray!” cried Harvey, waving the paper, triumphantly. “I wonder what my dad would say to that. I’ll bet he’d be pleased. That’s the first money I ever earned.”
“Well, why don’t you write him about it?” suggested Henry Burns, with a wink at Tom. “You’re feeling pretty strong after the summer’s sailing.”
“Say, I never thought of that,” exclaimed Harvey. “I’ll do it—that is, I’ll do it some day—say—well, some rainy day when I’ve nothing else to do.”
“You like to write letters about as well as I do,” said Henry Burns, laughing. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You write to your father, and I’ll write and tell old Mrs. Newcome what we’ve done this summer with the boat. She’d be pleased to know about it.”