SQUIRE BRACKETT IS PUZZLED
Henry Burns was up early the next morning, as he had planned. He rowed
the dory quickly in to the landing-place, and was in Harvey’s room before
that young gentleman was out of bed.
“Why, I didn’t hear you get up,” said Harvey.
“That’s not so surprising,” replied Henry Burns, “seeing as I got up
aboard the _Viking_. I slept there.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Harvey. “I wonder how Mr. Carleton would like
that if he knew it. He needn’t have hired so big a room just for me. Say,
but he’s a jolly good fellow, though, isn’t he?”
“He is certainly a generous one,” answered Henry Burns.
Harvey smiled at his companion.
“What is it you don’t like about him, Henry?” he asked.
“Why, nothing,” replied Henry Burns. “Who said I didn’t like him? I never
did.”
“No, you didn’t,” admitted Harvey. “But I know you well enough by this
time to tell when you really like a person. Now, if I asked you if you
like George Warren, you’d come out plump and flat and swear he is a fine
chap, and all that. But you don’t seem quite sure about Mr. Carleton. I
think he’s the best man that ever came down here. He likes to have a good
time with us boys—which is more than most men do; he enters into things;
he buys everything, and he tells good stories. What fault do you find
with him?”
“Not any,” laughed Henry Burns. “He’s everything you say he is, and I
think he is one of the most generous men I ever met. There, don’t that
satisfy you? But I’ll tell you one thing, Jack. I was just thinking I
shouldn’t want to be in Mr. Carleton’s way if he had made up his mind to
do a certain thing. He’s the kind of a man that wouldn’t be interfered
with when once he was decided.”
“How do you make that out?” asked Harvey.
“Oh, just by a lot of little things,” answered Henry Burns, “not any of
them of any particular consequence of themselves. By the way, do you
remember inviting him to sail down the river?”
“Why, not exactly,” replied Harvey, somewhat puzzled.
“Well, you didn’t,” said Henry Burns, laughing quietly. “He invited
himself. He said, ‘I’ll sail down with you,’ or ‘I’ll go along with you,’
or something of that sort.
“And do you remember inviting him to go out sailing on this trip?”
continued Henry Burns.
“No,” replied Harvey, a little impatiently.
“That’s because he invited himself,” said Henry Burns, still smiling. “I
remember that he said, ‘I’ll go out sailing with you to-morrow.’ That
settled it in his mind.”
“Well, what of it?” asked Harvey.
“Nothing,” replied Henry Burns. “I’m just as glad as you are that he
proposed it. I’ve enjoyed his company and his generosity. I only say he
is a man that I’d rather have for a friend than an enemy.”
Jack Harvey laughed.
“Well, you may be right,” he said. “I never think of looking at anybody
as deep as that. If a man comes along and wants a sail and wants some
fun, and is willing to do his share, why, that’s enough for me. And if
he’s up to any tricks, why, he and I’ll fight and have it over with. I
don’t worry about what might happen.”
“Did you ever see me worry about anything?” asked Henry Burns.
“Why, no,” said Harvey, emphatically, “I never did. I meant that I don’t
think about things just as you do.”
Which was certainly true.
If Mr. Carleton had any notion in his head that he had, as Harvey had
suggested, hired a larger room for him and Henry Burns than was really
needed—or if he had any notion in his head that he had wasted his money
in hiring any rooms at all at the hotel—he showed no sign of it when he
appeared in the office and they went into the dining-room. Indeed, he
thought it a good joke on Henry Burns that he should have had to go off
to the yacht for the night, and he laughed very heartily over it, behind
his big moustache.
The wind was blowing fresh from the south as the party went out on the
hotel piazza. It had started up early in the morning, along with the
beginning of the flood-tide, which meant, in all likelihood, that it
would blow fresher from now on until sundown. There were already
whitecaps to be seen over all the bay, and the yachts that were out under
sail were lying over to it and throwing the spray smartly. It was a good
morning to show the fine sailing qualities of a boat, and they were eager
to be off.
They went down through the town, then, to where the dory was tied.
As they took hold to drag it down the beach, a fisherman, weather-beaten,
and smoking a short stub of a clay pipe, approached them. Addressing Mr.
Carleton, he said, good-naturedly, “Well, you got out and back safe, I
see. Found your own boat again all right, eh?”
Mr. Carleton, glancing coolly at the man that had accommodated him the
night before, said, carelessly, “Guess you’ve got the advantage of me,
captain. I’m afraid I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
The man slowly removed his pipe and stared at Mr. Carleton in amazement.
“Wall, I swear!” he ejaculated. “D’yer mean to say it wasn’t you that
borrowed my skiff last night to go out to your yacht?”
Mr. Carleton laughed heartily.
“Well,” he replied, “seeing as I haven’t any yacht to go out to, in the
first place, and seeing as I was up at the hotel all last night, I think
you must indeed have me mixed up in your mind with somebody else.
However, if anybody has been using my name around here to hire a boat,
I’m willing to pay, if you’re a loser.”
“Oh, no, sir,” said the man, apologetically. “I don’t want no pay. I just
accommodated somebody, and it looked surprisingly like you. Excuse me.
Guess I must have made a mistake.”
“Ho! that’s all right, no excuse needed,” said Mr. Carleton, lightly.
“You’re going to row us out, are you, Harvey? Well, I’ll push her off and
sit down astern. I’m the heaviest.”
They rowed out to where the _Viking_ was tossing uneasily at her line, as
though eager to be free and away from the lee of the land, amid the
tumbling waves.
It was quite rough outside, and the wind increasing every minute; so they
put a reef in the mainsail and set only the forestaysail and a single
jib. Then, with anchor fished, they were quickly in the midst of rough
weather, with the spume flying aboard in a way that sent them scuttling
below for their oilskins.
The harbour out of which they were now beating made inland for a mile or
two. The waters ran back thence in a salt river for several miles more,
before they grew brackish, and then were merged into a stream of fresh
water that had its origin in a pond back in the country. It followed,
that the waters of the harbour flowed in and out with much swiftness and
strength; and now, the flood-tide and the south wind being coincident,
coming in together strongly, it was slow working out, even with as good a
boat as the _Viking_. There was a heavy sea running, too, which served to
beat them back. They tacked to and fro, but they drew ahead of the
landmarks ashore very slowly.
“I say, my lad,” cried Mr. Carleton all at once, stepping aft to where
Harvey held the wheel, “let me take her a few minutes and see what I can
do, will you? Oh, you needn’t be afraid that I’ll upset you,” he added,
as Harvey somewhat reluctantly complied. “I’ve owned boats and sailed
them, too,—as good as this one, if I do say it.”
It was clearly evident, as he seated himself astride the helmsman’s seat,
that he was no novice. He held the yacht with a practised hand, and,
moreover, asserted himself with the rights of skipper.
“Haul in on that main-sheet a little more,” he said to Harvey.
“She won’t do as well with the boom so close aft in a heavy sea,” replied
Harvey.
“Oh, yes, she will,” answered Mr. Carleton, coolly. “You are right as a
general proposition, but I’ll show you something. I’ve been watching the
run of the tide.”
Harvey, not agreeing, still acquiesced in the order, and hauled the boom
aft.
“A little more,” insisted Mr. Carleton. “There, that will do. Now you
will see us fetch out of the harbour.”
To Harvey’s surprise, and that of the other boys, the yacht certainly was
doing better. Mr. Carleton held her so close into the wind that the sail
almost shook. Every now and then it quivered slightly. But they surely
were making better progress.
“Well,” admitted Harvey at length, “that goes against what I’ve been
taught about sailing. The sheet a little off in a heavy sea and keep her
under good headway is Captain Sam’s rule.”
“Quite correct,” said Mr. Carleton, smiling. “But, if you notice, the
tide sets swift around that point ahead and we get the full force of it.
Now, with the boat heading off as you had it, don’t you see we were
getting the head wind and head tide both on the same side—both hitting
the port bow and throwing her back? Now, do you see what we are doing?
She’s heading up into the wind so far that the force of the tide hits the
starboard bow. So we’ve got the wind on one side and the tide on the
other; and, between the two forces, we go ahead.”
Harvey’s respect rose for Mr. Carleton.
“That’s right,” he said. “I’ve heard something of that kind, too. But I
never thought much about it.”
“Well, the tide is three-fourths of sailing,” responded Mr. Carleton.
“Now as we clear this point we’ll start the sheet off once more a little.
It’s rougher, and we’ll need all the headway we can make.”
It was evident Mr. Carleton was no hotel piazza sailor. He was as happy
as a boy out of school, as he held the wheel with a firm, strong hand,
heading up for the deep rollers and pointing off again quickly, keeping
the yacht under good headway, and watching the water ahead, and the
drawing of the jib, with a practised eye. They had never seen him so
enthusiastic.
He was, somehow, a picture of particular interest to Henry Burns, who had
a way of observing how persons did things, and who conceived some
impression of them accordingly, beyond a mere surface one.
It being a fact, to a degree, that a boat has as many peculiarities—one
might almost say individualities—all its own as a human being, or a
horse, it was interesting to see how quickly Mr. Carleton took note of
them and handled his boat accordingly. He seemed to realize at once just
how she would take the wind; how stiffly she would stand up in a flaw;
just how much the jib and forestaysail needed trimming to be at their
best; just how to humour the boat in several little ways to get the most
out of her. And he did it all very confidently.
That he was a man of sharp discernment, and quick to learn things, was
the impression he made on Henry Burns. And if there should come a time
when Henry Burns, remembering many things which he now observed, but
attached no particular importance to, should put them all together and
form a conclusion regarding them and of Mr. Carleton, why certainly there
was nought of that in his mind now.
He did observe one thing, however, in particular, and it was in accord
with what he had told Harvey concerning Mr. Carleton. The man had
aggressiveness and determination. Mr. Carleton surely believed in holding
a boat down to its work. There was no timidity, even to a point that
bordered on recklessness, in the way he met the heavier buffetings of the
wind. Where a more cautious man would have luffed and spilled a little of
the wind, Mr. Carleton held the wheel firm and let the _Viking_ heel over
and take it, seeming to know she would go through all right; as though he
should say, “You can stand it. Now let’s see you do it. I’ll not indulge
you. I know what you can stand. You can’t fool me.”
Henry Burns rather liked him for this. There was something that he
admired in his skill and courage.
The yacht _Viking_ was weathering the seas grandly. She was a boat that
did not bury deep in a smother, and flounder about and pound hard and
lose headway, but rode the waves lightly and went easily to windward.
“Works well, doesn’t she?” cried Harvey, enthusiastically.
“Splendid, better than ever—better than she did coming down the river,
and yesterday,” responded Mr. Carleton. “She’d almost stand a
gaff-topsail even with this breeze. That’s a good clean stick, that
topmast. However, I guess we’re doing well enough. We won’t set it, eh?”
“Here, you take the wheel,” he said the next moment to Henry Burns, whom
he had observed eying him sharply. “Let’s see what kind of a sailor you
are.”
One might have thought it was Mr. Carleton’s own boat. He said it with
such an air.
Henry Burns acquiesced calmly and with that confidence he had when he
knew he could do a thing right. Here was another individual who could
learn things quickly, too; and if Harvey had had more experience than he
in actual sailing and handling a boat, Henry Burns more than matched him
in coolness and resource.
“You’ll do,” said Mr. Carleton at length. “I’ll risk my life with you and
Harvey any day. How’s the crew—are they pretty good sailors, too?”
“First class,” said Henry Burns. “We’ll show you there isn’t a lubber
aboard.” And he turned the wheel over first to Tom and then to Bob, who
acquitted themselves very creditably, showing they had picked up the
knowledge of sailing wonderfully well.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “That’s the way to run a boat. Give every
man a chance to get the hang of it. One never knows what’s going to
happen to a sailboat and who’s going overboard, or get tangled up in a
sheet, or something the matter; and then it pays to have a crew any one
of whom can take hold at a moment’s notice and lend a hand.”
So, having established himself in their confidence, and with mutual good
feeling aboard, Mr. Carleton declared himself well pleased with their
trip, as they beat up to Southport harbour. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so
much in years, he said. And he thanked them cordially for his good time,
as they rowed him ashore.
“We’re much obliged to you, too,” replied Harvey, “for the fun you’ve
given us.”
“Oh, that don’t amount to anything,” said Mr. Carleton.
Mr. Carleton, oddly enough, had occasion to make Henry Burns and Jack
Harvey an apology not many hours afterward.
The afternoon and evening had passed, and the two yachtsmen, leaving
Tom and Bob to spend the night ashore in their tent, had gone out
aboard the _Viking_. They had sat up reading until about half-past ten
o’clock,—rather later than usual,—when a most unexpected visitor
appeared. It was none other than Mr. Carleton, rowing alongside in a
small rowboat belonging to Captain Sam. He made this fast now and climbed
aboard.
“Really this is imposing on your hospitality,” he said, appearing at the
companionway. “But the fact is, I’m in a bit of a scrape. I’ve left my
key in another pair of trousers in Captain Curtis’s house, and the door
is locked there, and they’re evidently all fast asleep, as it’s getting
on to eleven. I hated to wake them up, so I came down on the point and
looked in at your friends’ tent. They were sleeping like good fellows,
too, and I couldn’t see any extra blanket to roll up in. Then I spied
your light out aboard here. Do you think you can spare me a bunk and a
blanket for a night?”
“We’ll be only too glad to return your favour of last night,” replied
Henry Burns.
“Though you didn’t make use of it yourself, eh,” said Mr. Carleton,
smiling.
They were off to sleep then in short order, Henry Burns and Harvey
occupying the cushioned berths amidships, and their guest one of the same
just forward, where Tom or Bob usually slept.
There was really nothing of consequence occurring in the night, to be
recorded, except a slight incident that showed Mr. Carleton to be a bad
sleeper.
Perhaps it was the strange quarters he was in that made him restless, so
that he lay for an hour or two listening to the deep breathing of the
boys, himself wide awake. Yet he was considerate, was Mr. Carleton, and
made no move to arouse them.
Even when he sat up, after a time, and threw the blanket off, and lit a
match under the cover of the blanket to read the face of his watch by, he
did it very softly. Perhaps, even then, he was solicitous lest their
sleep be disturbed; for he stole quietly along to where they lay, and
made sure he had not aroused them.
By and by, Mr. Carleton made another move. Taking the blanket that had
covered him, he pinned it up so that it hung from the roof of the cabin
as a sort of curtain. Then he lighted one of the cabin lamps, turning it
down so that it shone only very dimly.
“Hang it, I don’t know what makes me so wakeful,” he said, in a low
voice. “That light doesn’t disturb either of you boys, does it?”
There was no answer. But Mr. Carleton, apparently to make certain,
repeated the question two or three times, very softly, so as not to
arouse them if they were sleeping, but to be overheard in case one of
them should be awake. And he repeated also the remark several times about
his sleeplessness.
And also did he mutter to himself, so that none other could by any
possibility have overheard, “Perhaps a light will show. I couldn’t make
anything out by daylight.”
A moment or two after that, Henry Burns, opening one sleepy eye to an
unusual though faint ray of light, escaping from behind the blanket,
beheld the figure of Mr. Carleton moving about the forward part of the
cabin. He lay still for a moment wondering, drowsily, what was the
matter. Perhaps he might have observed the figure for some time in
silence, but of a sudden he was seized of an overpowering impulse to
sneeze, and did so lustily.
The figure with the lantern jumped as though it had received a blow.
Then, by the light of the lantern, the blanket being whisked aside, Mr.
Carleton was revealed, with a paper-covered novel in one hand, seating
himself in the attitude of one reading.
“That’s too bad,” he said, softly. “I thought the blanket would hide my
light. I got restless, you see, and have been reading a bit. I’m all
right now though, I think. I’ll douse the light and try again. Sorry I
disturbed you.”
The light went out. Hence neither Henry Burns nor any one else could by
any possibility have seen the look of anger and disappointment on the
face of Mr. Carleton as he turned in and lay down to sleep—this time in
earnest.
While thus living his boyhood over again with his new youthful
acquaintances, Mr. Carleton did not neglect to establish friendly
relations with older persons. Squire Brackett admired him greatly. As
matter of fact, to a designing person, the squire was the easiest man in
the world to win admiration from.
He had an inordinate vanity and love of flattery, which, united with a
pompous manner, made him unbearable to those of discrimination; and this
entrance to his good graces was quickly espied by Mr. Carleton. The
squire liked that quiet, but perceptible, deference that came to him from
a person of such apparent means.
There was, however, another reason that appealed even more strongly to
the squire why he should cultivate Mr. Carleton, and that was a hint the
squire had gained that his new acquaintance might prove profitable to
him.
“Squire Brackett,” said Mr. Carleton, seated for the evening on the
squire’s front porch, “that’s a pretty little island just below here,
close to shore, between here and where those four boys are camping. Do
you know, I’d like to own that. I have an idea a man could throw out a
neat, rustic bridge from shore, just big enough to take a horse and
carriage across, build a cottage out there, and have the most beautiful
place about here.”
“Well, why don’t you buy it?” replied the squire. “It would, indeed, be a
rare cottage site—prettiest spot around here, I say.”
“I think perhaps I will,” said Mr. Carleton; “that is, if it is for sale.
Do you know anything about that?”
“Why,” answered the squire, “I guess I come about as near as anybody to
owning it. You see, I hold a mortgage on it.”
“How much do you value it at?” asked Mr. Carleton.
“Why, let me see,” said the squire; “about twenty-five hundred dollars, I
should say.”
“Cheap enough!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “I’ll just write up to my lawyers
and see how some investments I have are turning-out. I think we can make
a trade later on.”
He said it as though it was a trifling matter, and the squire, who had
named an exorbitant figure, was sorry he had not put it higher. He also
had neglected to explain that his hold on the land was of the slightest,
consisting, as it did, of a mortgage of eight hundred dollars against
Billy Cook, the owner, who had paid off all but two hundred dollars of
the incumbrance. However, he had no doubt he could easily buy it of Billy
Cook—indeed, he had had it offered to him for only four hundred dollars
above the entire mortgage the year before.
“You ought to have a good boat to cruise around here with,” said the
squire. “You’re fond of sailing, I see. Reckon you know how to handle a
boat pretty well yourself.”
The squire knew he hadn’t any boat to sell that would suit Mr. Carleton,
calling to mind his son’s letter from him about the _Viking_; but he had
a purpose in suggesting the buying of one. He considered that if Mr.
Carleton should make such a purchase, and become fascinated with the
sailing about Southport, he would be more likely to want the land to
build a cottage on.
“Yes, I am very fond of sailing,” responded Mr. Carleton, “but I haven’t
got so far as to think about buying a boat just yet.”
“Oh, ho! you haven’t, eh?” said the squire to himself. “Reckon I know
something about that.”
The squire was vastly tickled. Here was a position that just suited his
crafty nature. It didn’t signify anything, to be sure, Mr. Carleton’s
dissembling,—probably that he might get a better bargain by keeping quiet
and not seeming anxious to buy,—but it pleased the squire to have this
little advantage in the situation.
“I think you might buy the _Viking_,” he suggested.
Mr. Carleton had his own doubts about this, having been informed by Harry
Brackett of the failure of his attempt, but he merely said, “That so?
Well, she might do. Ever hear of anything queer about her—any outs about
her?”
“No,” replied the squire, “nothing queer about her, except the way they
got her. I don’t know of any faults that she has.”
“Well, I might buy her if they didn’t hold her too high,” said Mr.
Carleton, meditatively. “I suppose she’s worth fifteen hundred dollars
easy enough.”
“Yes, and more if you had her up Boston way,” answered the squire. “You
haven’t had any idea of buying her, then?”
“No,” responded Mr. Carleton. “Still, I might like to. But please don’t
say anything about it.”
“Oh, no,” replied the squire, chuckling to himself. Mr. Carleton, bidding
him good night and taking his departure, was more than ever an object of
interest to the squire. Here was a man that spoke in the most casual and
nonchalant way of investing twenty-five hundred dollars in a piece of
land that he liked, and of buying a fifteen-hundred-dollar boat. The
squire’s curiosity, always keen in other persons’ affairs, was aroused.
He wondered—in the usual trend of such personal curiosity—how the other
man had made his money.
This curiosity was not abated, to say the least, by a comparatively
trifling incident that occurred a day or two following. The squire had,
in the cupola of his house, which he used as a vantage-point for
surveying the bay far out to sea, and the surrounding country up and down
the island, a large telescope. It was a powerful glass, with which he
could “pick up” a vessel away down among the islands, and read the name
on the stern of one a mile away. The squire had some interests in several
small schooners plying between the coast cities and Benton, and was in
the habit of going up to his lookout two or three times each day.
On this particular occasion, the squire, after sweeping the bay with the
glass, turned it inland and took a look down the island. He could
distinguish several familiar wagons passing along the main road, but
nothing unusual. But, when he happened to turn the glass almost directly
back inland from the direction of the town, he caught an object in its
sweep that arrested his attention. It was the figure of his new
acquaintance, Mr. Carleton, leaning against some pasture bars about a
quarter of a mile away, intently reading a letter.
There was surely nothing unusual nor exciting about this, and yet the
squire was interested. Perhaps it was due just to the novelty of
observing a man a quarter of a mile away, reading a letter, when he could
by no possibility be aware that he was being observed.
But if the squire’s attention was drawn to Mr. Carleton in the act of
reading the letter, it was certainly doubled and trebled when the latter,
having finished his perusal of it, waved the letter in a seemingly
triumphant manner about his head and then tore it into many little pieces
and dropped the pieces at his feet. Squire Brackett, through the
spy-glass, watched Mr. Carleton come down through the fields toward the
village.
He knew the exact spot to the inch where Mr. Carleton had stood. It was
at the bars that divided a pasture belonging to the postmaster and a
piece of town property. The squire shut the sliding glass windows that
protected his lookout, hurried out-of-doors, walked briskly up through
the fields, making a detour to avoid meeting Mr. Carleton, and arrived,
somewhat short of breath, at the bars. He gathered up the pieces of the
letter carefully. He put them into his coat-pocket, and walked briskly
back to his house.
He hadn’t got them all, for the wind had carried some away. But the
letter had evidently been a brief one. When the squire took the pieces
out that afternoon at his desk in a little room that he called his
office, there were only eleven scraps that he could assemble. Mr.
Carleton had torn the letter into small bits.
The squire was disappointed. He had hoped to gratify his curiosity and be
able to pry into Mr. Carleton’s private affairs a little. And withal,
there were two words that interested him greatly and made his
disappointment all the more keen. These were two words that followed, one
the other, in the sequence in which they had been written. They were the
words, “aboard yacht.” All the others had been so separated in the
destruction of the letter that the squire despaired of ever being able to
make anything out of them, or to restore them to anything like their
original consecutive form.
However, he arranged the words and scraps of words by pasting them on a
sheet of paper, as follows:
lock
ey
must be
sound
mbers
aboard yacht
starboa
still
under
ays
third
“Well, there’s a puzzle for you!” he exclaimed, dubiously. “How in the
world shall I ever be able to make anything out of that?” But the next
moment he gave a chuckle of exultation. “I’ve got part of it already!” he
cried. “Lucky I happened to set them down just this way. Those letters,
‘mbers’ must have been part of the word ‘timbers.’ So that, after the
first three scraps that I have put down, it reads, ‘sound timbers aboard
yacht.’ I’ll get something out of this yet. There’s ‘starboa,’ too.
That’s ‘starboard,’ of course. And ‘ays’ below may be ‘stays.’ That might
make ‘starboard stays.’”
A look of perplexity came over the squire’s face the next moment.
“The queer thing about this,” he said, reflectively, “is that somebody
away from here is writing him about this yacht. Perhaps they don’t mean
the _Viking_. However, I believe that is the boat referred to. Well, he
may be only getting advice from some one as to how to examine the
yacht—how to look her over. The remark about ‘sound timbers’ sounds like
that, anyway. So ho! he isn’t thinking about buying a yacht, eh?”
The squire chuckled.
“I’ll study this over at my leisure,” he said, as he placed the paper
with the letters pasted on it carefully away in a drawer. “I’ll figure it
out.”