The Rival Campers Afloat: or, The Prize Yacht Viking

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

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

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

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

“Well, anybody appeared?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any skiffs along the beach?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry Brackett expressed surprise.

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

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

“It’s getting late,” he suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry Brackett stumbled below.

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

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

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

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

Harry Brackett rummaged some more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 —