Twice they had to head off fairly before the wind again, at the onrush of some enormous wave, but they got quickly on their course again, and, rolling frightfully, with the boys clinging far out to windward, the little yacht all at once felt the relief which the sheltering extremity of Gull Island afforded from the awful strain. Almost before they knew it, they were in smooth water once more, riding easily at the entrance to the Thoroughfare.
“Whew!” cried George Warren, as he dropped the tiller and shook his hands, which were numb and aching from the strain and the cold rain. “That was a ride for life that I don’t care to repeat again in a hurry. Didn’t the little Spray do well, though, eh, Arthur? She had a good excuse to founder if she hadn’t been staunch. If she was only a little larger she wouldn’t have minded this at all.”
“We did come flying across that bay and no mistake,” said Tom. “I thought we were going to founder twice or three times, though.”
“Looks as though we were stranded here for some days, that’s the worst of it,” said George Warren. “This storm has just begun, by the looks of it. It’s a lonesome hole, too, down in this reach. Nobody ever comes here, except a few fishermen in the fall and spring. The Thoroughfare is all right, but it doesn’t lead to any particular place in the course of vessels, so it isn’t a regular thoroughfare really, like those over to the eastward more. Now and then a yacht goes through, just for the sail, but one has got to know the channel very well, for it isn’t charted accurately,—at least, so Cap’n Sam says.”
“Well,” returned Arthur, “we are not making a race against time, so I don’t see as it matters much whether we stay here or some other part of the bay. We’ll just lie snug aboard here to-night, and then to-morrow we’ll get out and explore. There are some fishermen’s shanties around on the other side of some of those smaller islands, and we ought to be able to build up a fire in one of them and live there till the storm is over, so we won’t have to stay in this little cabin all the time.”
“I’ll be glad enough to go down there for awhile now,” said Henry Burns, “and get dry and warm. Come on, Bob, let’s you and me start some coffee and biscuit going. You do the cooking, because you know how, and I’ll look on. I’ll get the dishes out, anyway.”
There was scarcely room in the cabin of the Spray for more than four of them to sit and eat, so they threw the mainsail over the stub of the boom and made a shelter out of it against the rain. There, just outside the cabin, Tom and Bob sat as they all ate supper, with the rain pouring down all around and spattering in under the edges of the canvas. It was uncomfortable and dreary at best, and they were all glad when time came to turn in, which they did by all crowding into the cabin, where they could at least keep dry, although stowed away like sardines.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Henry Burns, as he awoke next morning, feeling stiff and sore. “I feel as though I was creased and starched and ironed, and every time I move I take out a crease. It will take me half a day to straighten out again, I’ve got so many kinks in my neck and back.”
They were all cramped and lame from the uncomfortable positions in which they had lain, for on fair nights they had been accustomed to make up two bunks just outside the cabin, in the cockpit. It was still raining hard, but as soon as they had had breakfast they set out to seek for new quarters.
With the scrap of a sail set, and with the use of the sweeps with which the yacht was provided, they worked their way about a quarter of a mile along into the Thoroughfare, till they got abreast of one of the smaller of the Gull Islands. The shores of this were very bold, the rocks going down sheer, without any outlying reefs or ledges, so that they were able to run the yacht close alongside, making her fast at bow and stern with ropes carried out on land.
“It seems good to stretch one’s legs again,” said Bob, as they all sprang out on to the rocks. They were indeed glad to be on land once more.
The island on which they now were was about three-quarters of a mile long and about half a mile wide, quite densely wooded with a growth of spruce and young birches. From a little elevation they could look out to sea toward the southward.
“The shanties are on the other side, if I remember rightly,” said George Warren. “I was down here once in the fishing season. We may as well strike directly across to the south shore. That’s where the fishermen build their weirs for the salmon that run in along the islands.”
They tramped across through the woods in the pouring rain. It was a relief to get even the shelter that the trees afforded from the driving storm. Presently they came in sight of the fishermen’s cabins, a cluster of four standing in a clearing at the edge of the woods, facing the sea. One of the huts was somewhat larger than the other three, and toward this they directed their steps.
“I don’t just like to break into other people’s property,” said George Warren, advancing toward the door, hatchet in hand, “but it only means forcing a staple, and we can replace that without any harm being done. It’s the only—hulloa! Why, somebody’s been here before us. The door is ajar.”
Somebody had, indeed, forced the door, and had not taken pains to refasten it. The staple, which had been drawn, lay on the ground by the door, just where it had been dropped. The boys threw open the door and stepped inside.
The one room, for a shanty of the kind, was fairly commodious. Along the two ends were ranged tiers of bunks, three at either end, making just enough for them.
“Looks as though they were built expressly for us,” remarked Henry Burns.
The bunks were rough, clumsily made affairs, a few boards knocked together, with a thin layer of hay thrown in at the bottom of each; but with the blankets from the yacht they would be comfortable.
In the centre of the room was a large sheet-iron stove, with a funnel running up through the roof. In one corner of the room—there was only one room in the cabin—was a sort of cupboard, on the shelves of which were piled a few tin dishes. A rusty axe was apparently the only tool left on the premises.
There was a scrap of kindling and one or two dry sticks of wood beside the stove, and with this they started a fire. Driftwood lined the shore, and a number of dead spruces, which had not yet rotted, furnished them with an ample supply of fuel. They piled the stove full, and soon had a fire roaring that turned the stove red-hot and which sent out a grateful warmth throughout the cabin.
“That will dry us out in good shape,” exclaimed Arthur, as the steam came from his wet clothing. “We’ll have this old shanty as comfortable as a parlour. This is a better house than Crusoe ever had.”
It was, in fact, a comfortable shelter against the storm. The roof and sides were shingled, so that it kept out the rain, and though the wind, which by this time was blowing a gale, shook it till it rattled, it stood firm.
After the boys had brought in a supply of firewood, enough to last them through the evening, and had stowed it near the stove to dry, they set out again for the yacht, and brought back each a blanket, the yacht’s two lanterns, and a supply of food.
“It’s lucky we put a good supply aboard,” said young Joe, as they stowed the stuff away on the cabin shelves. “Looks as though we were in for a couple of days here, at least. It wouldn’t have been any fun to have to fish for our suppers in this storm.”
“You would never have survived it, Joe,” returned Arthur, “though you did eat enough at that picnic to last you several days.”
“Well, here’s a funny thing,” cried Henry Burns, who had been rummaging about in the cupboard. “The parties who were here before us didn’t believe in starving. And they didn’t believe in living on fishermen’s fare, either.” And Henry Burns brought forth three empty wine-bottles and a half-emptied jar of imported preserves. “Here are some tins that contained turkey and some kinds of game,” he added. “The fishermen don’t buy that sort of canned stuff. It must have been a party of yachtsmen that used this place last.”
“They might have had the fairness to fasten the door after them, whoever they were,” said George Warren.
“Perhaps the wine accounts for that,” said Henry Burns.
“I’m glad they left us some preserves,” said young Joe.
They slept soundly in the shanty that night, with the wind howling about their ears and the rain dashing against the single window and beating like mad upon the roof. Nor did the storm abate the following day, nor the next night. Not till the third morning did the sunlight welcome them as they awoke, but then it poured through every chink and crack in the shanty, as though to make amends for the length of its absence.
When the woods had dried sufficiently so they could venture abroad, they set out to hunt for a young spruce that would do for a boom for the Spray. After cutting several and finding they had been deceived in their length, they finally secured one which would do. Then they brought up the stub of the boom from the yacht and got the exact measure of the old one from the sail, which they disentangled from the snarl of rigging, and spread out.
“I am afraid Captain Sam would laugh at this spar-making effort of mine,” said George Warren, as he trimmed away at the slender trunk of spruce, from which he had peeled the bark; “but it will do to take us on our cruise again. And what’s the use of going on a cruise if you don’t have adventures?”
When he had fashioned the stick as well as his one tool—a hatchet from the locker of the Spray—would admit of, he unscrewed the jaws from the old boom, fastened them upon the new, and the boom was done.
Then they set about mending several tears in the mainsail, with a needle and twine, also from the yacht’s locker, and by noon everything was in readiness for rigging the sail once more. This proved the most difficult task of all, for they found that it is one thing to know the running rigging of a sailboat, and another thing to reeve it when it has been displaced. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that they had the job completed, and then, as the wind was dying out, they decided it was useless to attempt to set sail till the following morning.
In the meantime, Henry Burns, finding that he was of no service in the work of rigging the yacht, had volunteered to get a mess of fish for supper. Accordingly he set out, equipped with a short alder pole and line and a basket, to try for some cunners and small cod off the ledges on the seaward side of the island. He succeeded in getting a fairly good catch, and then continued along the shore in search of mussels, as the tide was several hours ebbed.
His search brought him at length to the northernmost extremity of the island, where he sat down on the beach to rest. Then, as he started to resume his walk, he noticed that the receding tide had left bare a narrow sand-bar, that connected the island on which the cabins stood and the adjacent island, so that he could now pass from one to the other almost dry-shod.
Fondness for exploring was ever Henry Burns’s ruling passion, so he set out across the sand-bar to the neighbouring island, and was pleased to find that the mussel-beds were far more plenty there than he had found them before. This island was not so large as the other Gull Island. It was not more than a half-mile long and about a quarter of a mile across in its widest part. It had, however, the same characteristic of the other, in that its shores were abrupt, and deep water lay all around it.
There was but one small strip of beach, extending out into mud-flats, where Henry Burns could gather mussels; but he soon filled his basket here, and, setting it down in the shade of an overhanging rock, climbed the ledge that now barred his way, and started to make a circuit of the island along the edge of its steep banks.
Henry Burns had a habit of day-dreaming as he walked, unless he happened to be in search of some particular thing, when he was the most alert of youths. So, as he walked, his mind was far away just then, back in the town of Medford, where he pictured to himself familiar objects, and wondered what was happening there.
So it happened that he passed a certain tree close by the shore, only half-noticing that the end of a stout hawser was tied to it, and not paying any attention to it. When he had gone on a rod or two, it suddenly struck him that this was an odd thing, as the hawser was new, and so he went back to look at it. There was a short length of the rope dangling from where it had been made fast about the tree-trunk, and he noticed upon examination that the free end had been severed cleanly by the stroke of a knife.
“That’s odd,” said Henry Burns. “Fishermen don’t usually waste a good piece of hawser like that. Some one was extravagant and in a hurry, or impatient—By Jove! You don’t suppose—”
Henry Burns had lost his preoccupied air in a moment. Following the line from the rope to the edge of the bank, he scrambled carefully down over the face of the ledge to the water’s edge.
Henry Burns was not surprised to discover that the rock was smeared all over with spots of black paint. Moreover, if further evidence were needed that some one had been at work there, there lay in a niche of the ledge an empty keg in which paint had been mixed.
But what elated Henry Burns still more was a discovery he made by a closer examination of the ledge just under water. There at a depth of from one to two feet under water were rough, jagged edges of the rock which had been in contact with some object—an object that had left upon their surface unmistakable smearings or scrapings of paint which was white.
“Hooray!” cried Henry Burns, excitedly, for him. “There it is—the old and the new. There’s where he rubbed against the ledge as he made fast, and here’s the evidence all about on these rocks of his new disguise. And there, right close to the bank, are the trees to which he fastened his tackle. If it isn’t just as Miles Burton said, to the letter, then there’s no trusting one’s eyes.”
Henry Burns lay flat on a shelving bit of rock, with his face close to the water, and peered down to the bed below. The water was not very clear, but he could discern distinctly a deep, narrow trench in the hard sand, which might have been made by the keel of a boat, if the boat had touched bottom at low water.
Any one observing Henry Burns at this moment would have been puzzled indeed. He suddenly sprang up, tore off his jacket and trousers, bared himself in the quickest possible time, and, poising for one brief moment on the brink of the water, dived in. He swam to the bottom with two strokes, clutched at something that lay on the bottom, grasped it in his right hand, came to the surface, and, drawing himself out on land once more, stuffed the object into his trousers pocket and scrambled into his clothing again, as though his life depended on his haste. Then he started on a run for the sand-bar, crossed it, paused never a moment for his basket of fish and clams, and dashed back to the shanty as fast as his legs could carry him.
It was not constitutional with Henry Burns, however, to continue long in a state of excitement, and by the time he had regained his companions his composure had returned. Still, they were familiar enough with him to perceive that something unusual had happened.
“What’s the matter, Henry?” exclaimed George Warren. “We saw you running along the beach up there as if somebody was after you. We didn’t know but what you had found another burglar.”
“No,” replied Henry Burns, “it was the same one.”
It was their turn now to become excited.
“You don’t mean really——” began George Warren.
“Yes, I do,” interrupted Henry Burns. “Say, do you remember the strange black yacht that came into the harbour at the foot of Grand Island the other night, and that was in such a hurry to get out again when it saw us? Well, that was Chambers, and the yacht was the Eagle.”
“Well, but she was black,” said George Warren, “and she had no topmast. The Eagle was white.”
“Yes, but don’t you recall what Burton said about Chambers, what a hand he was for changing a yacht over so she’d look like a different craft? Well, that’s what he has done, and I’ve found the place where he did it. There’s the white paint back there on the edges of the rocks where the yacht rubbed alongside, and the rock is all covered with spots of black paint.”
Henry Burns rapidly recounted what he had discovered, including the end of hawser made fast to the tree.
“But that isn’t all,” exclaimed Henry Burns, triumphantly, as he fished a hand into his right trousers pocket. “See here, what do you make of this? I saw it shining down in the water just where the stern of the yacht must have laid.”
Henry Burns drew forth a glittering object from his pocket and held it up to their gaze.
It was a gilt letter “E.”
“‘E’ for ‘Eagle,’” cried Henry Burns. “This letter got away from him. It’s clear as daylight now. Say, fellows, let’s start for Southport early in the morning. That man Chambers is in the bay. He’s up to something, and we want to get them after him quick.”
“Fellows,” said Jack Harvey, one afternoon, a few days following the return of the Spray from its cruise, “I have decided to enter that free-for-all race over at Bellport. I’ve just heard that Ed Perkins isn’t going to race the Ella, after all; and, with her out of the race, we stand a good show. Let’s get the stuff aboard and start while there’s a wind.”
“Who’ll stay here and watch the camp?” asked Allan Harding.
“Well, I guess you’d better, now you speak of it,” responded Harvey, quickly. “There ought to be somebody here, sure. Camps have a way of disappearing around here, you know, Allan,” giving a huge wink as he spoke.
“I’d just as lieve stay, all right,” returned Allan, a little out of humour, in spite of his assurance. “But you can’t win the race without me, you know. You always said I was lucky—and there’s a good deal of luck in racing, after all.”
“Well, we’ll try to win without luck, that’s all,” said Harvey. “And, mind, we depend on you to have the camp still standing here when we get back. I shouldn’t think it would be nice to get back and find one’s camp gone, eh, Allan?”
“No,” replied the other, shortly.
The crew lost no time in stowing their blankets and camp-kit aboard the Surprise, and, leaving Allan Harding sullenly on guard, they sailed away for Bellport.
“Looks as though something was missing thereabouts,” chuckled Harvey, as they sailed past the spot where Tom’s and Bob’s camp had stood. “Doesn’t it strike you there used to be something there that’s gone now?”
This piece of humour on Harvey’s part seemed to tickle the crew vastly, for they shouted with derision as they sailed by.
“Guess they must have got tired of camping there,” roared Harvey, at which the others roared the louder.
Bellport, whither they were bound, lay about four miles down the coast of the mainland below Mayville. It was not so large a place as Southport, but was a favourite resort for yachtsmen, as the bay there was free of islands, and for ten or more miles there was a good sailing course.
The yacht Surprise did not reach Bellport till late that night, but Harvey and his crew were up bright and early the next morning, as the race was to come off at ten o’clock, and they wished to have everything ready for it.
“Hulloa, Harvey!” called a voice from a sloop a few rods away, as the captain of the Surprise came on deck.
“Hulloa, Jeff!” answered Harvey.
The speaker was Jeff Hackett, who ran a small sloop from the foot of Grand Island over to the mainland once a day to carry the mails.
“Are you in this race, too?” queried Jeff.
“Rather think I am,” responded Harvey. “Think I’ve got any chance?”
“Looks to me as though you had,” answered the other. “There are only eight yachts going to start. The others backed out because they didn’t think the handicapping was fair. It’s all right, though. You will have to give us fellows a trifle allowance, by just a rough measurement on the water-line; but you’ll get the same from the Bertha and the Anna Maud. They are the only boats that are bigger than yours. You want to get measured right away, too, or it will be too late.”
Harvey had soon complied with the requirements of the regatta committee, as the committee of summer guests chosen to act as judges were pleased to style themselves, and shortly before the hour for the race the yacht Surprise sailed out of the harbour at Bellport, and stood off and on before the starting-line with the others.
Harvey was in high feather, for, by his own estimate of the situation, he had a fair chance of winning. He knew most of the boats, either by reputation, or from having seen them sail, and the others he was able to judge of in a great measure by their general appearance.
The prize to be sailed for was a handsome silver cup, for which a subscription had been taken up among the summer residents of Bellport.
The Bertha, which conceded the greatest time allowance to Harvey’s boat, was a handsome sloop, about four feet longer than the Surprise, and carrying heavy sail. She had never been considered a fast boat of her size, but, owing to the discrepancy in lengths, had to allow the Surprise several minutes over the complete course of ten miles. This, as the Surprise was really fast for her size and rig, would make it quite an even race.
The Bertha was under charter by a party of young men from Benton, who had engaged a sailing-master to pilot her for them during the summer. This made them an object of contempt in Harvey’s eyes, and he wished all the more to “take the conceit out of them,” as he expressed it.
The Anna Maud was a big catboat, thirty-three feet long, carrying an enormous mainsail, and reputed to be one of the fastest boats of her size in the bay. She was owned and sailed by Captain Silas Tucker, a native of one of the islands at the foot of the western bay, that formed part of the main thoroughfare leading out to sea. He was generally accorded the distinction of being the best skipper on this part of the coast.
All the other boats, except one, were smaller than the Surprise. That one was the Sally, a sloop of exactly the same length as the Surprise, and apparently able to sail about on equal terms with her.
The starting-signal was to be a gunshot, the gun to be fired five minutes after a first warning shot. In the interval after the first shot the yachts could manœuvre about the starting-line, ready to cross when the second shot was fired. As soon as the second shot was fired, it was allowable for a yacht to cross the line, and all yachts were to be timed one minute after the second gun, whether they had actually crossed the line or not. So that it was to the advantage of all nine craft to be as near the starting-line as possible at the signal, and under headway and also up to windward as far as possible.
Harvey’s boldness stood him in good stead here. And, moreover, he certainly did know the working of his yacht to a nicety. After the warning gun had been fired, he made his calculations carefully, allowing for the tide which was running out to sea. The race was to be five miles straight out to windward, and a run home, off the wind. The ebb-tide, and the southerly breeze rolling a sea in to meet it, made an ugly chop, and the boats thrashed around, throwing the spray clear aboard.
Just before the second gun the relative positions of the four largest yachts were as follows: farthest up to windward was the Surprise; abeam of her, and a short distance to leeward, was the Bertha; then the Anna Maud, and then the Sally. The Sally, like the Surprise, had an amateur skipper, a youth of about Harvey’s age.
The Sally was a new boat, not long out of the shipyard, in fact. She was perhaps the prettiest craft there. Her hull was beautifully modelled, with a graceful overhang, bow and stern; her sails snow-white, and mast and spars were glistening. She steered with a wheel of ornamental mahogany and brass, and here and there about her cabin and furnishings brass and mahogany had been used, regardless of expense.
“Willie Grimes has us all beat for beauty,” remarked Harvey, as they neared the line, “but that boat is too new for racing; that is, he’s too scared for fear something will happen to her. Most everybody is that way. I used to be scared of the Surprise all the time for fear something would knock a bit of paint off somewhere. It takes about a year to get over that. He handles her as though he was afraid something was going to break. Just watch me take advantage of that.”
Harvey had seen that the Anna Maud and the Bertha would cross the line a moment ahead of him, but he did not mind that so much, thinking his time allowance would give him more than a good chance for the race, anyway. He had selected the Sally for his particular antagonist, and now prepared to get what advantage he could from the start.
Easing his sheet a trifle, he headed off the wind somewhat, allowing the two larger yachts to sail almost directly across his bows. Rushing out just astern of them, and heading diagonally for the starting-line, under full headway, Harvey bore down on the Sally, as though he meant deliberately to run her down.
If young Willie Grimes had not been so taken by surprise and so alarmed at this move of Harvey’s, he would have perceived that the manœuvre was only done to try his nerve; he would have realized that as good a sailor as Harvey would not deliberately foul another yacht, when that must lose him the race, as well as the boat he fouled.
But Harvey had reckoned on the other’s apprehension for his new boat, and the move was successful. Just at the point where a moment more would have sent his boom crashing aboard the other yacht as he headed up into the wind, Harvey threw his yacht quickly about, Joe Hinman hauled in rapidly on the main-sheet, Tim Reardon trimmed in the jibs, and away went the Surprise over the line, footing after the two other boats as fast as full sail would carry her.
At that same moment Willie Grimes, fearful of a collision, threw the Sally completely off the wind, so that when he had recovered his nerve and realized that he had been imposed upon, he was so far below the boat that marked the limit of the starting-line that he had to make another tack to reach it. Before this, the last gun had been fired to mark the taking of the time, and the luckless Sally crossed the line with one full minute counting against her.
The youth’s face burned with indignation, and he had hard work to keep the tears from springing to his eyes.
“Bye-bye, Willie,” sang out Harvey, looking back and waving his cap derisively. “Better courage next time. You don’t want to mind a little paint, you know.”
But the other had regained his spirits and paid no heed. “That’s what yachtsmen call ‘jockeying,’ I guess,” he said, quietly, to his two companions in the boat. “It’s within the rules, so I suppose we cannot complain. That’s like Harvey, from all I hear. He might have given us a fair show, though, as he knows this is my first summer running a boat by myself. Perhaps we won’t be far astern of him at the finish, at that.”
“You did that slick, Jack,” said Joe Hinman, admiringly. “We stand a good chance of winning this race, I think, with the allowance we get.”
“Didn’t he scoot, though, when he saw us coming?” laughed Harvey. “Thought his new boat was wrecked that time, sure. I’ve seen that trick played in big yacht races, but I never saw it work better than it did to-day, if I do say it.”
The yachts were now strung out in line along the course, tacking back and forth, and making for a small naphtha launch anchored down the bay at the five-mile mark. They made a picturesque sight, laying well over under all their canvas and throwing the water high over their bows.
It was soon evident that the Bertha, take it all in all, was the best boat for working up to windward in rough water and a good breeze. The Anna Maud was a very broad, beamy boat, and had a marvellous reputation for running free, but now she seemed to feel the waves more than the Bertha, pounding heavily and drenching every one aboard.
The Bertha took the seas cleaner and headed up higher. She was evidently gaining slowly but steadily. Moreover, although she carried an enormous club-topsail and a mainsail of big area, she heeled over the least of any of the boats. She had been built for heavy weather, and this was exactly the breeze she sailed best in.
The Surprise and Sally were, however, holding their own remarkably well, and it would not be clear for some time which would come out the winner.
“Hello!” exclaimed Jack Harvey, suddenly, in a tone of evident surprise. “What on earth—or, rather, on water—is Cap’n Silas doing? Look where he is standing. I’ve been looking for the last few minutes to see him tack, but there he keeps on away off toward shore.”
The Anna Maud had, strange to say, gone way off the course, apparently heading well over to the westward.
“Why, Jack, don’t you know,” said Joe Hinman, “how we’ve noticed the tide over along that shore? It makes a swing in there and runs like a mill-sluice. Don’t you remember one night how we tried to row against it, and what a time we had?”
“That’s true,” responded Jack Harvey, “and Cap’n Sile Tucker is clever enough to take advantage of it. He knows more about sailing in one minute than that captain of the Bertha does in a week. But there must be something more in it than the tide alone. I’ll tell you, the wind is changing. It’s heading more and more from the westward, and Captain Sile will get the full benefit of the slant when he gets down about a mile further. He knows what he’s doing. We’ll just head over and follow him.”
“Seems to me it’s taking long chances to go so much off the course,” remarked George Baker.
“Of course it is taking chances,” responded Harvey, quickly. “You have got to take chances in a contest of this kind. The fellows that take the chances are the ones that win. But it isn’t taking any great chances, following Cap’n Tucker. I tell you he knows these waters better than any man in the bay. He wouldn’t go over there unless he knew he was going to make something by it. Why, he has sailed that big catboat of his up and down along this coast for the last twenty years and more, that and other boats. The skipper in the Bertha comes from away up beyond Millville. He can sail his boat all right, but he don’t know this coast like Captain Sile.”
Harvey, accordingly, stood over to the westward, in the wake of the Anna Maud.
Only one other boat followed him. That was the Sally.
“I don’t know what they are standing away over there for,” said Willie Grimes to his companions. “I don’t know whether it is the best thing to do or not. It may be that they know something about the tide over there. But I know one thing, and that is, wherever Jack Harvey goes I’m going to follow. I wouldn’t care if every other yacht here beat me if I could only beat him. You never can tell, you know. Something may happen to him yet.”
The wisdom of Captain Silas Tucker’s departure from the straight course soon became apparent. The tide, indeed, at this point made a sweep inshore, for some reason, flowing far swifter in near the land than it did offshore. Again, too, the wind had slanted a little, and the yachts that had taken this course were soon in a better position relative to the stake-boat than the others.
Slowly the Anna Maud drew ahead of the Bertha, the captain of the latter boat realizing the advantage which the others were gaining too late to change his own course. As they neared the mark, even the Surprise and the Sally were leading the Bertha, which now seemed to be hopelessly out of the race.
The race, indeed, seemed narrowed down to these three yachts, with a slight advantage in the Anna Maud’s favour.
“Hooray!” cried Harvey, “we are holding the Anna Maud in fine style. She’s gaining ever so little, not enough thus far to cover our time allowance. They say she is fast off the wind, but so are we. That’s the best point of the Surprise. She sails better running free than any boat of her size I ever saw.”
“Cracky!” cried young Tim, “I hope we take that silver cup back to camp with us. We’ll march through the streets with it, if we get it.”
“Yes, if we get it,” replied Harvey. “It don’t do to be too sure, though.”
Now the Anna Maud was rounding the stake-boat and coming back over the course, not quite before the wind, owing to the slant to the westward that it had taken, but with her sheet well out.
“The wind is in our favour,” said Harvey, gleefully. “There’s just enough slant to it so our jibs will help us some. They will draw a little, and that gives us an advantage over that catboat. Let that sheet go, now, Joe, the minute we turn the mark.”
A moment later the Surprise rounded the stake-boat, with a good lead over the Sally, and still near enough astern of the Anna Maud to give her a good race.
“Up with that centreboard, now, George—lively,” cried Harvey. “It’s a big board, and we don’t want to drag it a minute longer than we have to. It counts a whole lot with this tide running against it. What’s the matter? What are you waiting for? Up with it!”
“Why, hang the thing!” exclaimed George Baker, “I’m trying to get it up as hard as ever I can. It won’t come. It’s stuck.”
“What’s that?” cried Harvey. “Stuck? Nonsense! Here, you, Joe, hold this wheel a moment. I’ll have it up in a hurry.”
He sprang forward, brushing George Baker out of the way impatiently.
“Let me get hold there,” he said.
Harvey seized the iron rod, which was fastened to the centreboard, and gave a strong pull. But the centreboard did not budge. He took a firmer hold and pulled with all his strength. It was of no avail. The board had stuck fast in its box.
“I’ll have it up or break something,” cried Harvey, beside himself with anger, and again he grasped the rod with both hands and gave a furious wrench. There was a most unexpected and baffling verification of his threat, for the rod, broken off short at its connection with the centreboard, did come up, so suddenly that Harvey sprawled over backwards, still grasping the rod with both hands clenched, and rolled over on the floor of the cockpit.
There was no such thing as getting the centreboard up now. It was down to stay.
Harvey, white with rage, sprang to his feet and hurled the rod into the sea. Then he took his seat sullenly at the wheel again.
“That settles it,” he said, as soon as he could speak for anger. “We haven’t a ghost of a chance now. I shouldn’t wonder, even, if the Sally overhauled us.” And he looked back helplessly at the yacht astern.
Slowly but surely the Anna Maud forged ahead. The distance between her and the Surprise grew ever farther and farther.
“That’s queer,” said Captain Silas Tucker, looking back at Harvey’s yacht. “I thought she was going to give us a harder run home than that. I’ve heard the boat was good off the wind, but she doesn’t seem to be doing well. It’s first prize for us this trip, and easily won. Well, your Uncle Silas hasn’t sailed around these parts all his life for nothing.”
Slowly but surely, too, the Sally was creeping up close astern of the Surprise, to the wild delight of Willie Grimes and his comrades.
“If I can only beat Jack Harvey,” he kept saying, “I don’t care about the other yacht’s beating us.”
“If Willie Grimes beats us, I’ll run him down and sink him some day,” muttered Harvey, grinding his teeth.
It was still a close race between these two as the finish-line was neared. The Sally had crept up until she was almost abeam of the Surprise, and was gaining, ever so slowly, but surely. Harvey, dogged to the last, waited until the Sally was nearly abreast of him, and then, as a last resort, tried once more to bully the race from his less experienced rival.
Throwing his wheel over slightly, he tried the tactic of crowding the other off the course.
But Willie Grimes was bound to win or sink this time. He kept his own boat off just enough to avoid the possibility of Harvey’s fouling him, maintaining the same relative distance between them, and all the while drawing ahead.
The judges, watching the close finish through their glasses, perceived this trick of Harvey’s, and were ready to disqualify him in case of any accident. But their determination was unnecessary. Less than a dozen rods from the finish-line the Sally had sailed clear of the Surprise, and now cut in on to the course, leaving Harvey astern, and crossed the line a rod to the good.
Then, as a storm of cheers rang out from the assembled boats, as a fluttering of handkerchiefs and waving of parasols, a tossing of hats and shrieking of whistles, saluted the victory of Willie Grimes over him, Harvey did not deign to cross the line. Angrily he swung out of the course, and stood over, without a word, for the town of Bellport.
“Takes his licking hard, doesn’t he, Willie?” called out a voice, and a chorus of laughter mocked at Harvey’s wrath as he sailed away.
The Anna Maud had won the race, but the honours were as much for the Sally as for the winner. They took substantial form, moreover, for, one of the committee, vowing the Sally should have a second prize, if he had to buy one himself, as there had not been any offered, the suggestion met with a ready response; and the owner and crew of the Sally rejoiced that night in the unexpected award of a handsome compass for their cabin.
“Now,” said Harvey, as the Surprise neared the landing at Bellport, “I want to get out of this town just as quick as I step foot in it. I don’t intend to stay here and have those chaps and those girls laugh at me. They’ve got altogether too good a chance. You fellows have got to stay here and take the Surprise up to Billy Coombs’s marine railway. She’ll have to be hauled out for a day and the ballast come out of her around that centreboard box. Tell him to put a new iron in, and you can pay for it, Joe, and I’ll pay you when you come back to camp.”
“But where are you going?” asked the others.
“I am going to foot it down the road for seven miles to Hackett’s Cove, and wait for Jeff Hackett to come down,” answered Harvey. “Then I’ll go across to the foot of the island with him in his sloop. I’d walk farther than that to get clear of the crowd that will be ashore here soon; but, for that matter, I want to get back to the island to-night, anyway. There’s a dance in the old town hall at Carter’s Harbour, and I’ll get there in time for that.”
“He’s all cut up over Willie Grimes’s beating him,” said Joe Hinman, as Harvey sprang out on the landing and walked rapidly away. “He won’t get over it for a week. Well, we shall have to catch it for him when the boats come in. However, we didn’t sail the boat. That’s one comfort.”
Late that afternoon, Jack Harvey, hot and dusty with his long walk, waited impatiently, seated on a pile of timber by the shore, for the arrival of Jeff Hackett’s sloop. Five o’clock came, and then six, and no sloop in sight. Harvey strolled up to the village store and bought some crackers and cheese for his supper.
“So you’re waiting for Jeff Hackett’s sloop to take you across to the island, are you?” said the storekeeper. “Well, you’ll wait till morning now, I reckon. Wish I’d known you wanted to go over sooner. You see, Jeff engaged Tom Crosby to make his trip this afternoon for him, and he’s been gone an hour now. You must have seen Tom’s boat off there.”
“I did,” replied Harvey, shortly, “but I had no idea he was going across. What can I do, now?”
“Nothing that I see,” said the storekeeper, “except to take it comfortable here to-night, and go over with Jeff in the morning.”
Harvey strode angrily out and walked down to the shore again.
A rod or two out a fisherman was rowing in a small boat.
“Here, you, where are you going?” sang out Harvey.
The man looked up, surprised, but did not answer.
“I say, there, where are you going? Can’t you hear?” cried Harvey, roughly.
The man stopped rowing. “What’s that to you?” he answered.