GOOD FOR EVIL
The yacht _Spray_, arriving home again in the harbour of Southport, two
days following the discovery made by Henry Burns, had created somewhat of
a sensation: first, because, on account of the storm, there had been felt
considerable alarm for the little boat, and, second, because of the story
that the boys had to tell.
The finding of the letter “E” confirmed their story, so that there could
be no room for doubt that the yacht _Eagle_ had been secreted there in
the Thoroughfare and refitted. The question now was, had the man who had
done this left the bay and gone on his voyage, or had he chosen, for some
purpose or other, to linger in some part of the great bay till a later
time.
Henry Burns now told the story of the man they had seen at the foot of
Grand Island, how he had sailed in and out of the harbour so
mysteriously, how he seemed to avoid them, and how there had apparently
been none other than he aboard the black yacht.
Most of the people of the village were inclined to the belief that the
man Chambers had gone out to sea as soon as he had altered his yacht so
that it would escape detection in such harbours as he would be obliged to
make. There was no possible reason why he should return, they said, and
every reason in the world why he should get away from that part of the
coast as soon as he could.
There were plenty of black yachts, they argued, that would answer the
general description of the yacht seen by the boys at the foot of the
island; and, as for sailing out and away in the night, that was a thing
commonly done among fishermen, to take advantage of wind and tide when it
was important that they should reach a certain port on time.
Still, there were one or two yachts that set out cruising about the bay,
on the chance of running into the mysterious craft, and they cruised
about for a week or more. Every strange sail that looked as though it
might belong to a yacht of the size of the _Eagle_ was pursued, until it
had either outsailed the pursuers and disappeared, or until a nearer view
had proven that it was not the hunted craft.
By the end of two weeks the village was well satisfied that Chambers and
the yacht _Eagle_ were far away, and had ceased to think of him, except
as a group gathered of an evening about the village grocery-store and
talked of that for lack of something better.
In the meantime, when the excitement was at its height, the Warren boys
in their yacht, and Tom and Bob in their canoe, took a hand in the
search. Even Henry Burns took an occasional spin on his bicycle down to
the foot of the island of an evening, and wandered along the shore in the
hope of catching a glimpse once more of the sail he had seen that night
in the harbour. Just what he expected to do in case he should see it, he
did not know, himself; still, it might be that he could spread the alarm
and start some of the boats out after any suspicious craft that he saw.
For the time being it was in all the air. Nobody talked of anything else.
It was really more because people dearly love a mystery than that they
actually believed the _Eagle_ was still in the bay; but the talk sufficed
to keep the boys at fever-heat, and Henry Burns firmly believed that he
had seen the _Eagle_ that night.
Tom and Bob were indefatigable for ten days in searching on their own
account. They would take their canoe in the afternoon, paddle down five
or six miles along the shore of the island, land in some lonely spot,
haul the canoe on shore, and then continue along on foot for a mile or
two, coming up cautiously to some cove with which they had become
familiar in their trips through the summer, only to find it empty of
sails, or some fishing-boat lying snug for the night, and which could by
no means be mistaken for the craft of which they were in search.
Again, they would paddle down to the Narrows, carry the canoe over into
the western bay, leave it hidden until sundown, and then go down along
the shore on that side of the island, repeating their walk along the
shore. Some days they left the canoe hidden for the night away down the
island, and came back to the village afoot along the road, going after it
afoot the next night, and retracing their search of the night before,
thus varying the search in a dozen different ways.
But the result was always the same. It seemed this time as though the
_Eagle_, if it had, indeed, ever lingered in the bay, had gone for good.
What might have been the result if those who sailed in search of the
mysterious craft had known that the description they now had of her was
at fault, can never be known. Be that as it might, the exact yacht that
Henry Burns and his friends had seen down at the foot of the island no
longer existed. In its place there sailed—somewhere, on some waters—a
handsome, black yacht, with a tall, slender, glistening topmast, white
sails, and gleaming brass, in place of the dingy, dirty fisherman. She
was as fine and handsome, and as polished as to deck and fittings, as the
_Eagle_ had been of yore, only her colour remained as it had been
changed—black.
Was this boat the _Eagle_? Those who sailed the bay in quest of her had
no means of knowing, for if they ever did get sight of her it was but a
far, fleeting, shadowy glance. They never came within miles of her, this
fleet, beautiful, and disappearing yacht. Across her stern in letters of
gold was the name _Sprite_. It may have been most appropriate, for now
and then a distant view of her tempted some bay craft to follow; but it
was like a dog pursuing a bird on the wing. She always drifted on and on,
out of reach, and disappeared.
Since the night when the man that rowed Jack Harvey across the bay had
climbed aboard this yacht and sailed southward, the yacht had never
ventured near Grand Island, nor within miles and miles of it. If the man
Chambers had any plan which he meant to execute, it did not suit his
purpose to attempt it at this time. He had, perhaps, achieved all he
desired now, in familiarizing himself with the waters of this coast.
Of all those who joined in the search for the strange yacht, there was
none more enthusiastic nor persistent than Jack Harvey. No sooner had his
own yacht been brought back from Bellport by the crew, than he stocked up
with a week’s provisions and began cruising day and night. To be sure, it
was a most uncertain chase, but Harvey was willing to take chances that
others would not; and if he should by mistake intercept some respectable
craft for a few brief moments, he would rely on his assurance to carry
him through and explain matters.
Harvey had, moreover, a critical eye for a good boat, and had noted the
_Eagle_, when it had been in the harbour, with more than passing
interest, and was certain now that he should know her again, even with a
change of rig. Besides, he had the description furnished by Henry Burns
and the other boys of the yacht they had seen, which corresponded in size
with the _Eagle_.
He had never been so aroused about anything before in all his life. The
adventure that Henry Burns and the others had had with the two men that
had been caught was an experience after his own heart. He would have
given his whole summer’s fun to take part in that capture. But all the
glory of that had been denied him; now he made a resolve that if any one
succeeded in finding the vanished yacht it should be he.
His activity was not destined to go all for naught, either, for on at
least one occasion he was satisfied in his own mind that he had met with
the yacht,—yes, and nearly come to close quarters with the man that
sailed it.
It was miles below Grand Island, for Harvey had for some days made up his
mind that the man he sought had left the bay, since he had scoured it
east and west and north and south in vain. It was down among some islands
that lay out of the much travelled part of the bay, and not far from the
Gull Island Thoroughfare. It was, in fact, just at the outer rim of the
bay, where several channels through a chain of islands led out to sea.
There were three of the crew aboard besides Harvey, only little Tim being
left ashore to guard the camp.
They had been cruising all evening among these islands, for it was a part
of the coast with which Harvey was very familiar. They were carrying no
lights, for the chances of being run down here were small, and, besides,
it was a part of Harvey’s plan to be able to approach any chance craft
unobserved.
It had come on rainy, and the crew were for putting in at some harbour
and lying snug, but Harvey would not hear of it. He had sailed until near
midnight for about a week, and did not like to give it up.
However, as a concession to his crew, and as it bade fair to blow up a
nasty sea before many hours, Harvey had consented to beat back and forth
under the lee of a small unnamed island, keeping a lookout down the bay
for the little distance they could see through the rain.
It seemed that some other craft was also willing to take the risk of
sailing without lights, for, along about ten o’clock, a yacht, that might
or might not be the one for which they sought, was beating up toward the
island, with all dark on board. All at once the man that sat at the wheel
left his boat for a moment to itself, so that it headed up into the wind
with sails flapping, while he darted down into the cabin.
He was gone only for a moment, but in that brief moment that he was below
a light flashed in the cabin,—only a fleeting gleam of light, and then
all was dark again.
This gleam of light, transient as it was, had sufficed, however, for the
sharp lookout aboard the _Surprise_.
Harvey seized Joe Hinman by the shoulder and whispered, as he steered the
_Surprise_ out from behind the end of the island: “Did you see that, Joe?
Did you see it? There’s something coming up. Everybody keep quiet now!”
There was an excited group that crouched silently in the cockpit of the
_Surprise_ as she swung out from under the lee of the island and headed
straight for the spot where they had seen the flash of light, running
almost before the wind.
Whatever the craft was, it seemed as if they must surely catch it,
leaping out as they had from the darkness. All at once they saw the dark
outline of a yacht almost dead ahead, and saw for a moment the shadow of
its sails, a faint blur through the rain.
Then the yacht veered about suddenly, and they saw the white crush of
water as it heeled over, and, running with the wind on its quarter, was
gone, like a boat that had vanished. So sudden and so silent was the
manœuvre that they could hardly realize that the yacht had, indeed,
turned like a flash and run away. They followed for a moment, but, seeing
how useless it was, Harvey soon gave up the chase and went back to
harbour, beaten but not discouraged.
“That was the man we want,” he said, as they came to in the nearest
harbour that night. “No other craft would have gone off its course that
way. And to think we were almost upon him.”
“Yes, but I don’t see what good it would have done us to have come up
with him, if it was the man,” replied Allan Harding. “We could only have
taken a look aboard. What else could we have done?”
“I’ll tell you what,” answered Harvey, emphatically. “It would have done
a lot of good. I tell you that wherever and whenever I meet that yacht,
whether it’s night or day, I’m going to run alongside, and you fellows
and I are going aboard. I’ve been doing things to be ashamed of long
enough,—not that I’m ashamed of them, either, as I know of. Only they
have been things that I didn’t dare tell of afterward, and I’m sort of
tired of it. I tell you, I want to do something for once that I can boast
of and that people won’t hate me for. That’s why I’m so anxious about
this, if you must know it.”
“Whew!” cried Joe Hinman. “That’s something new for you, Jack. I didn’t
suppose your conscience ever troubled you.”
“It don’t,” said Harvey, angrily.
But perhaps it did.
By the end of a few days more, Harvey had given up the search, convinced
that they had seen the last of the black yacht, if, indeed, they had seen
it at all.
“I give up,” he said. “I’m beaten, and that’s all there is to it.”
And so the idea of ever seeing the strange yacht again was given up by
all. The yachts came back to harbour, and the impression became general
that they had all been fooled; that what they had sought was a delusion.
Tom and Bob were the last to give up. Partly because they liked these
long paddles together and the long walks along the island roads, and
partly because they had helped start the renewed hunt for the yacht
_Eagle_, and did not like to admit that they had made a mistake.
So they did not wholly discontinue their evening paddles nor their lonely
rambles along the shore. It was good exercise, at all events, they
argued.
One evening they started right after supper, while it was yet light,
paddled down along the shore to the Narrows, carried across, and paddled
down the island for some three miles. Then they landed and hid their
canoe, as was their custom, and stretched themselves out on the beach to
rest and enjoy the lights far out on the water.
It was a clear starlight night, with the bay still and restful, save for
a quick gust of wind that came now and then, only to blur its surface for
a moment and leave it smooth again.
“I guess we have tried this thing about often enough, haven’t we, Bob?”
asked Tom, finally. “We don’t seem to be a success as man-hunters.”
“I’m about ready to quit,” answered Bob, yawning and stretching. “The
fact is, we really get enough exercise through the day. Here we’ve been
swimming, bicycling, helping the Warrens get up driftwood, paddled over
to the cape, all in one day,—and here we are at it again at night. Yes, I
think it’s time we gave this up.”
“Then supposing we do call it off,” said Tom. “I’ve had paddling enough
for one day. What do you say to going up along the beach for a mile or
two, and then taking the shortest cut home and coming down for the canoe
to-morrow? I think I’m kind of tired, myself, though I didn’t notice it
when we started out.”
“All right, that suits me,” replied Bob. “I don’t mind saying that I’m a
bit tired, too. That last mile came hard, and no mistake.”
So they rose and sauntered along the beach toward the Narrows, till they
had come to within about half a mile of it, and then sat down once more
for a brief rest before going home.
“It seems almost too bad to go home to bed such a beautiful night as
this,” said Bob. “These are the kind of nights that make me wish we had
the old tent back again, so we could lie on our bunks and look out on the
water, as we used to do before we went to sleep.”
The night was indeed singularly calm and peaceful. The bay was still, and
the water as it came up the beach with the tide made only a small
rustling, creeping sound, as it covered the sand inch by inch. As for the
island, it always seemed asleep after nightfall, and to-night there was
scarcely a sound of life anywhere to break the stillness.
But then, all at once, as they sat there looking out upon the water, out
of the silence there arose a cry, faint and smothered, but a cry for
help.
Then all was still again.
They sprang to their feet, startled, almost frightened for a brief moment
at the strange cry, coming from they knew not where.
Again the cry came, this time more distinctly, from somewhere out on the
water. They heard the words, “Help! Help!” uttered in a choking voice, as
of a man drowning.
The boys rushed down to the water’s edge and peered out over the bay,
straining their eyes to see whence the sound came.
“Hulloa! Hulloa! Where are you? What’s the matter? Call again!” cried
Tom.
They listened, and in a moment the voice came again weirdly over the
water, though they could not distinguish this time the words.
“Why, there it is,” cried Bob, all at once, pointing as he spoke. “Don’t
you see it, Tom? I declare, but it’s queer we didn’t see it before. Look,
there’s something floating only about an eighth of a mile out,—and
there’s something moving a little distance from it. Why, Tom, I’ll tell
you what it is. It’s a canoe—it’s Jack Harvey—and he’s upset—he’s
drowning. Just look, where I am pointing.”
“Yes, I see,” exclaimed Tom, excitedly. “I just saw a splash. He’s upset,
sure enough, and struggling. I say, Bob, we’ve got to swim out. Our canoe
is too far. Keep up! We’re coming!” he called, and began hurriedly to
strip off his clothing.
In a moment the two boys were in the water, striking out wildly toward
the object that seemed to be a canoe floating in the water.
“Hold on there, Bob,” cried Tom, presently. “We mustn’t try to be too
fast. We’ll only waste our strength. We’ll need it all when we get there.
Let’s calm down, now, and not get excited. We’ve got to keep our heads.”
Then, as they surged ahead, with long, powerful strokes, the voice again
came, calling chokingly for help. There could be no mistaking it now. It
was Jack Harvey.
“Quick!” he cried, “quick! I can’t hold on long. I’m hurt.”
They quickened their strokes, and in a moment more came in plain sight of
Harvey, struggling feebly to keep above water.
“Hold on for a moment, Jack,” said Tom, as they came up to him. “Don’t
grab us, now. Let us do the work. You just keep on paddling, what you
can, and we’ll save you.”
“I won’t grab you,” gasped Harvey. “Just get on each side of me and let
me put my hands on your shoulders for a moment, till I get my strength
back. I’ve swallowed a lot of water.”
The two swam up close, and Harvey reached up and rested a hand on each
shoulder.
“Swim for the canoe now,” said Tom. “We’ll let him get hold of the end of
that and cling on for a few moments till he gets his breath. He’ll be all
right, I think.”
Reaching the overturned canoe, they helped him to clasp one end of it,
and then supported him there, as they began to push it toward shore by
swimming with their feet and with a single hand each.
For a few moments Harvey managed to hold on, but then his strength seemed
to fail him and his hands slipped their hold.
“I can’t hold on,” he gasped. “Something’s hurting me.”
“Then lie over on your back and float,” said Tom. “Just lie still and
we’ll swim you in.”
Harvey groaned at the effort it cost him, but did as he was told, and
they left the canoe and struck out with him for the shore.
It was not such a long swim that they had before them, but they had
exhausted their strength more than they knew in their excitement, and
Harvey was well-nigh helpless.
Before they had swum a rod farther, their breath began to come hard and
their shoulders ached until it seemed as though they would crack.
Still they kept on.
“We’ll make it all right, Tom?” said Bob, finally, panting the words out.
“We’ve got to,” said Tom. “We’re bound to do it. Let’s swim on our backs
for a spell. Jack, we’re going to change the stroke. Don’t get scared.
We’re going to stick by you.”
The words seemed to rouse Harvey, who had apparently almost lost
consciousness.
“Let me go,” he gasped, faintly. “Let me go, I say. I don’t want you
fellows to drown, too. Let me——”
And then he seemed suddenly to lose control of himself, and clutched
frantically at them, with the frenzy of a drowning man.
They struck themselves loose from him, and he sank under water, but came
to the surface again, exhausted and helpless. Tom seized him then by the
hair. He lay motionless, as though dead, and they took hold once more and
struck out again for the shore.
When they had reached it—they scarcely knew how—and felt the sand again
under their feet, they had barely strength enough to drag Harvey a little
ways out of the water, and lay by his side on the beach, groaning with
every breath they drew.
This was from sheer exhaustion, caused by exerting themselves far beyond
their natural strength. They were not strangled with swallowing water, so
that after they had lain there flat on the beach for some five minutes
they had regained their strength sufficiently to be able to arise and
lift the half-unconscious Harvey completely out of the water and carry
him up on the bank. Then they sat down and rested once more, sitting by
Harvey’s side and chafing his hands. They lifted him up, although the
effort cost them all their strength, held him head downwards for a moment
to get the water out of him, then doubled his arms upon his breast and
extended them, over and over again, alternately, as they had learned was
the way to restore a man rescued from drowning.
Harvey, who had never fully lost consciousness, revived under their
treatment, till at length they perceived that he was out of danger, and
needed now as quickly as possible warmth and shelter.
There was no house near by, and it was clear that whatever was done for
Harvey must be done by them.
“We can’t carry him, that’s certain,” said Bob, finally. “We’ve got to
get our canoe and paddle him up as far as the Narrows in that. Then we
can get his crew over, and we can all carry him up to their camp.”
So Bob set out on a weary trot down along the shore to where they had
hidden their canoe. Tom waited by Harvey, trying to keep him warm, or,
rather, to restore warmth to him, by rubbing; but Harvey was chilled
through and through and shivered pitifully. It was fully an hour, and
seemed ten to Tom, before Bob appeared in sight again.
They lifted Harvey into the canoe and set out for the Narrows. Poor Bob
was well-nigh exhausted, and it was Tom who did about all the paddling.
They reached the Narrows, however, after what seemed an endless journey,
driving their paddles through the water with arms that almost refused to
obey the wills that forced them to work.
When they had reached the Narrows, Tom set out for Harvey’s camp, leaving
Bob to wait with Harvey. Tom had not gone more than half a mile, however,
when he ran into the entire crew, who had become alarmed at Harvey’s long
absence, knowing that he had gone out in the canoe, and had started out
in search of him.
Tom’s white face, pallid with weariness, filled them with terror, as he
rushed up to them and sank down on a knoll, breathless.
“Why, it’s Tom Harris,” exclaimed Joe Hinman. “For Heaven’s sake, what is
it? Did you see Jack? Is he drowned?”
He rattled off the questions excitedly, before Tom could find breath to
answer.
“He’s all right, I guess,” Tom said, in a moment. “He isn’t drowned. He’s
over there the other side of the Narrows; Bob’s with him. He is most dead
with cold, though. You better get him over to camp quick or he will die.”
They were off like mad, on the run for the Narrows, before he had
finished.
Tom waited to rest a few moments more, and then set off slowly for
Harvey’s camp. “There’s enough of them to bring him,” he said. “I guess
Bob and I have done about all we can to-night.”
When he had reached Harvey’s camp, however, he waited only to rest and
warm himself by the brands of a fire which the campers had left, before
he began to make what preparations he could to receive the boys when they
should return with Harvey.
There was a big pile of wood at hand, and he started the fire up afresh,
after having first pushed the brands nearer the tent, so that the fire
would send a comforting warmth inside. Then he brought out a pair of
blankets and put them near the fire to warm through. He hung a kettle of
water on the stick provided for it, and rummaged through the campers’
stock for the coffee.
Presently the sound of voices told him that the crew were at hand.
Stepping to the door of the tent, he saw the strange group approaching.
They had not taken Harvey from the canoe, but had let him lie there,
while they lifted the canoe and carried it along, two boys at either end,
bearing the weight with a stick stretched underneath to support it.
Alongside plodded Bob, holding to the gunwale, to assist in steadying it.
They approached and set the canoe down, just outside the tent door.
“Get his clothes off quick, now,” cried Tom. “I have the hot blankets
ready to wrap him in, and some coffee when he is able to take it.”
In a twinkling Harvey was stripped and rolled snugly in the blankets,
while Tom busied himself in rushing up with cloths heated hot, and
applying them to the soles of his feet. After a time he lifted Harvey up
and poured a few spoonfuls of the coffee down his throat. This seemed to
revive Harvey, for he opened his eyes, muttered something that was
unintelligible, and sank back to sleep.
“He’s all right now,” said Tom, passing his hand over Harvey. “He is
getting warm again. He’ll be all right now when he gets his sleep out.”
Tom and Bob were thoroughly tired. They lay stretched out before the fire
on blankets for a time, too weary to more than barely reply to the
questions of the crew as to the mishap that had befallen Harvey.
Presently Tom rose up and said: “Well, Bob, it’s late, and we’ve got to
be getting started or we’ll never get back to the cottage.”
“We shall be down again to-morrow to see how Harvey is,” he added,
turning to the crew, who sat a little apart, somewhat abashed by the turn
of affairs and the consciousness of the debt of gratitude they now owed
to the boys whom they had wronged. “We’ll send a doctor down if you want
us to, but I don’t think there’s any need of it. He’ll be all right by
morning. Good night.”
They were about taking their departure when Harvey struggled for a moment
with the clothing that enveloped him, lifted his head slightly from the
ground, and said, weakly, “Hold on.”
“What is it?” asked Tom, as they stepped inside the tent again and sat
down beside him.
“Don’t go,” said Harvey, huskily. “Please don’t go. I want you to stay
here to-night,—that is, if you will. I’ve—I’ve got something—something to
say to you in the morning. I can’t say it now. I’m too weak. But I want
the crew to hear it in the morning.”
Tom and Bob looked at each other in astonishment. Then they nodded, and
Tom replied to Harvey:
“All right, Jack. We’ll stay. Go to sleep now. You’re all right.”
The crew quickly spread some boughs for them, and brought more blankets
from the yacht.
“Tom,” said Bob, as they stood alone for a moment, while the crew were
busily engaged, “it looks like our revenge.”
And then, before they had the blankets half-wrapped about them, they were
sinking off to sleep,—to sleep in Harvey’s camp, alongside Harvey’s crew.