“When the Golden Moose sunk in mid-ocean,” were Captain Morris’ first
words, “I believed that Jack Marcy, the boatswain, went down with the
ship.”
“Did he know of your plot, captain?” inquired Parker.
“He suspected it. I returned to Portland and filed my claim for the
insurance money.”
“Ship and cargo?”
“Exactly, although there was no cargo except a few empty casks and
boxes labeled merchandise. As I said, I supposed Marcy and Will Bertram
and Tom Dalton were drowned.”
“And they ain’t?” inquired one of the sailors.
“No. This boy returns and says they are still in the Arctic regions. If
so, we are safe.”
“But they are alive?”
“True; but I only want to keep the boy quiet a week and Marcy away, and
our plans will be completed.”
“You mean the insurance money?”
“Yes. That will be paid over soon. I have converted all my other
property into money, and we will leave Watertown before the truth
is known. This boy also spoke of the Albatross. When I returned I
reported that ship lost with all on board but myself. Instead, I had
made a bargain with the captain, who rescued me, to seize the oil the
Albatross had stored away, and we divided the profits.”
“You’re in a bad box, captain, if the truth gets out.”
“It mustn’t. This boy must be kept a close prisoner until the insurance
money is collected.”
Will was horrified at the cool villainy displayed by Morris. He only
hoped that ere his evil schemes were put into operation some of the
crew of the Albatross would return to Watertown.
Captain Morris visited him the next morning and endeavored to induce
him to tell more of Jack and his whereabouts.
Will, however, refused to do so.
“You’ll stay here till you do,” said Morris.
“I’d stay here even if I did,” replied Will, boldly. “You are sailing
in deep waters, Captain Morris, and you will yet regret all your crimes
and my detention here.”
His meals were brought to him regularly.
Twice he endeavored to force the door leading to the cabin, but was
unsuccessful.
The glass bull’s-eye might be easily removed, but he could not creep
through the aperture.
Besides, there was always some one of the crew in the cabin or on deck.
The yacht, which was moored at a rocky and isolated portion of the
coast, remained there for some days.
One morning the captain came into the cabin, where Parker was seated,
with an excited face.
“Any news, captain?” inquired the latter.
“Yes.”
“About the insurance money?”
“Exactly. A letter from Portland.”
“They will pay it?”
“On demand.”
“Then we sail?”
“This afternoon.”
Parker pointed to Will’s prison.
“What about the boy?” he asked.
“We’ll take him with us until the affair is settled.”
That afternoon the men made ready to start on their voyage up the coast.
Will’s heart sank as he realized that he was again leaving the vicinity
of home.
He had tried to patiently suffer his forced imprisonment, but he
grew sad and tearful as he thought of his parents, and all his happy
anticipations of meeting them dashed rudely to the ground.
The yacht started on its voyage, and, skirting the coast, crossed the
harbor channel at Watertown.
Will, through the little window, could discern in the near distance
many familiar land-marks.
As the yacht started on its course northward a stately ship passed up
the harbor.
The yacht barely cleared its bows.
Will, looking back, started, regarded the ship closely, caught sight
of several persons on the deck and uttered a wild ejaculation of
surprise and delight.
Then, seizing a heavy piece of wood broken from the hunk, he struck
desperately at the window.
The glass bull’s-eye was shattered into a myriad of fragments.
And, pressing his pale and excited face to the opening, Will Bertram
cried wildly in the direction of the passing ship:
“Help! Help! Help!”