THE LOSS OF THE VIKING
Squire Brackett was for once in rare good humour, as he came down to the
breakfast-table on Saturday morning. He was beaming like a harvest moon,
and a look of satisfaction overspread his heavy face. He even smiled
affably on his son Harry, and was, withal, so pleased with himself, and
so off his guard, that his son took advantage of the opportunity to ask
him for ten dollars—and got it. By the time Squire Brackett had repented
of his generosity, young Harry had disappeared.
“The scamp!” reflected the squire. “Smart enough to see something is up,
wasn’t he? Well, I reckon I’m glad of it. He comes by his smartness
honestly, I vow. I wonder how the wind is.”
He was, indeed, a bit apprehensive on this score, for he was a bad
sailor. He had, moreover, a vivid recollection of the last time he went
threshing down the bay in Captain Sam’s _Nancy Jane_, and of how sick and
frightened he was.
“However,” he thought, “I guess I can stand it.” And he added, chuckling,
“It will be worth my while, or my name isn’t Brackett.”
Mrs. Brackett was perplexed. She couldn’t, for the life of her,
understand what had come over the squire, to induce him to venture forth
on a yachting trip.
“Why, you just hate the water—you know you do, James,” she exclaimed, as
the squire was bustling about, getting out his greatcoat and preparing
otherwise for his departure. “You said, a year ago, when you got back
from that chase after those boys, that you’d had enough sailing to last
you the rest of your life. And I don’t see why you don’t use your own
boat. Here you’ve been talking about selling her for the last three
years, because every time you go out in her you’re dreadfully sick. You’d
better get some use out of that boat while you have it.”
“Well! well!” responded Squire Brackett, somewhat impatiently. “This is a
business trip. You can’t understand, because it’s business—important
business. I guess I know my affairs, or I wouldn’t be the richest man on
Grand Island. You just get that lunch ready, so I can start before the
wind grows any stronger.”
Mrs. Brackett complied, obediently, but wondering.
“Morning! morning! Nice day, my lads,” said the squire with unwonted
cordiality, some minutes later, as he appeared alongside the _Viking_,
accompanied by John Hart and Ed Sanders, who were to constitute his crew.
“Good morning, squire,” responded the yachtsmen, catching the painter of
his boat and making it fast. “You’re going to have a glorious day to
start off in.”
“Think so?” queried the squire. “Not going to blow much, eh?”
“Not this morning, by the looks,” replied Henry Burns; “just a nice
little easy southerly that will take you up to the head of the island in
fine style. Then all you’ve got to do is to beat down the western side, a
mile or so, and you can stand right over to Mayville without touching a
sheet—isn’t that so, Captain Hart?”
John Hart, having the prevailing contempt of the born and bred fisherman
for the amateur sailor, grunted a curt affirmative.
“Well, take good care of the _Viking_,” said Harvey, as the squire’s crew
cast loose from the mooring and stood away, leaving the boys in their
tender astern.
“We’ll do that,” replied the squire, assuringly. “And if we don’t, why,
you’ve got it in black and white that I’ll make it good to you. A
bargain’s a bargain. That’s my principle.”
The _Viking_, under a gentle breeze, was soon out of the harbour, clear
of the bluff, and was running up alongshore. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns
rowed ashore, to the tent, where Tom and Bob were awaiting them.
Something that Henry Burns and Harvey confided to them, as they sat
together on the point, sent the campers off into roars of laughter.
“Oh, but I’d give my shoes to see the squire when he finds that
lobster-claw—if that’s what he’s after,” cried Tom, punching Henry Burns
in an ecstasy of mirth. “Do you suppose that’s really what he’s hired her
for, though?”
“Don’t know,” replied Henry Burns, solemnly. “No; Squire Brackett
wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Well, let’s go up to the store and see how we stand,” suggested Harvey.
“Come on, fellows. You’re interested in this.”
“How much do you think we have earned, Jack?” asked Henry Burns, as they
walked up the street toward Rob Dakin’s store.
“Oh, more than two hundred dollars—quite a little more, before taking out
expenses,” replied Harvey.
“Yes; nearer three hundred, counting Tom’s and Bob’s share, I think,”
said Henry Burns.
“Well, that’s reckoning in the fifty dollars we found in the cabin, isn’t
it?” asked Harvey.
“Yes, I guess it is,” said his companion. “It remains to be seen, of
course, whether we can keep that or not. We’ll ask Rob Dakin what he
thinks about that.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think about it,” said Rob Dakin, some minutes
later, after the boys had seated themselves in his store. “You say you
found that piece of a bill in a locker in the cabin of your boat. Now
there are two things to consider about that:
“In the first place, if the owner of the boat—supposing she was
stolen—put that money in there, and he should turn up and claim the
money, why, you might have to give it up. Of course the boat was taken
over by the sheriff and sold, according to law; and if the owner claimed
the boat I reckon he’d have to pay Mrs. Newcome what it cost her. But
nobody has ever claimed her, and there isn’t really any danger of that.
So far as that goes, the money seems to be yours.
“Now, in the second place, the men that had this boat, and who were sent
to prison, might have had this money. Well, if it was their own money,
why, the State would take it and keep it and restore it to them after
they are set free. If it was stolen money, and the owner couldn’t be
found, I can’t just say whether you could keep it or whether it would
belong to the State. I’m not quite lawyer enough for that. But if they
should deny knowing anything about it, why, I reckon it would belong to
you, as you found it aboard your own boat.”
“Well, we will figure it in, anyway,” said Henry Burns.
So, at their request to draw them up a statement of their affairs, real
“shipshape,” as Henry Burns expressed it, Rob Dakin set to work and,
after some minutes’ figuring, produced a sheet at which they gazed with
pride and satisfaction. It was as follows:
LEDGER OF THE VIKING—FISHING SLOOP
_Earnings_
1st trip to Loon Island $18.00
2d trip to Loon Island 22.00
3d trip to Loon Island 35.00
Lobsters—apart from crew 45.00
Big mackerel catch 80.00
Other mackerel 30.00
Other fishing 15.00
Paid by the Squire 25.00
Found in the cabin 50.00
———
Total earnings $320.00
_Expenses_
Tom’s and Bob’s share first three trips $25.00
Tom’s and Bob’s share mackerel 36.66
Tom’s and Bob’s share other fish 5.00
Bait purchased 9.50
Anchor 5.00
Extra rigging 15.00
Hooks and lines 10.00
Provisions 25.00
Hire of tender 10.00
Paid Captain Sam for labour 11.50
Incidentals 13.50
———
Total expenses $166.16
———
Balance $153.84
Henry Burns’s share 76.92
Jack Harvey’s share 76.92
“Hooray!” cried Harvey, waving the paper, triumphantly. “I wonder what my
dad would say to that. I’ll bet he’d be pleased. That’s the first money I
ever earned.”
“Well, why don’t you write him about it?” suggested Henry Burns, with a
wink at Tom. “You’re feeling pretty strong after the summer’s sailing.”
“Say, I never thought of that,” exclaimed Harvey. “I’ll do it—that is,
I’ll do it some day—say—well, some rainy day when I’ve nothing else to
do.”
“You like to write letters about as well as I do,” said Henry Burns,
laughing. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You write to your father, and
I’ll write and tell old Mrs. Newcome what we’ve done this summer with the
boat. She’d be pleased to know about it.”
“All right,” said Harvey. “It’s a bargain—that is, some day when it’s
raining good and hard and nothing else to do. Perhaps you’ll let me read
your letter over first. It will sort of give me an idea what to say.”
“We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Dakin,” said Henry Burns, as they left
the store. “You keep the money for us till we go home. We’ll want a few
more provisions, too.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” responded Rob Dakin, good-naturedly. “You’re good
customers, and I’m glad to oblige you. I hope you can keep that fifty
dollars.”
And, to look ahead a little, they did keep it. Some days later, Mr.
Warren, who had been communicated with at Benton, and who had looked into
the matter, wrote them a letter that contained good news. It was, simply,
that the men in prison, questioned regarding it, had denied flatly
knowing anything about a secret drawer or hiding-place anywhere aboard
the _Viking_. Perhaps they had their own good reasons for doing this.
Perhaps it was, that they feared the consequences of the disclosure.
Perhaps the money had really been stolen and concealed there by them.
Perhaps they feared their admission of such a hiding-place would put them
at the mercy of the authorities—who might have unearthed more about it
than had been told—and that it might convict them of still another crime.
Whatever their reason, it was known to them alone. But their denial left
the money to the finders.
To return, however, to the day of their reckoning, the yachtsmen, in high
spirits, invaded the Warren cottage; and, later, the party, augmented by
the three brothers, travelled down to the camp of Harvey’s crew, where
they held carnival till late into the night.
Squire Brackett’s adventures throughout the day had been, on the whole,
rather more exciting than those of the campers and the yachtsmen. The
squire had gone aboard the _Viking_ with mingled feelings of exultation
and misgiving. But, as he had looked abroad over the surface of the bay,
his courage had been restored somewhat, for there were no waves of any
size discernible to his eyes, and the wind was still light.
He seated himself nervously near the stern, where John Hart was holding
the wheel, while Ed Sanders managed the jib-sheets. The jibs soon ceased
to draw, however, as they were beginning to run squarely before the wind;
so Ed Sanders contented himself with hauling up the centreboard, and then
betook himself to the cabin, for a nap.
This was a sad blow to the squire. He was fairly consumed with eagerness
to go below and hunt about in the cabin, undisturbed, and without
attracting attention. But he couldn’t do it while Ed Sanders remained
awake. So he was constrained to sit out in the sun, and listen to John
Hart’s explanations of the art of sailing—which didn’t interest the
squire at all—and hope for slumber on the part of Ed Sanders.
Finally there came a welcome sound to his ears, a hearty snore from the
cabin.
“I declare, that makes me sleepy, too,” said Squire Brackett, simulating
a yawn and stretching his arms above his head. “I believe I’ll go below
for a few moments, myself, and see if I can’t get a nap. It’s hot, this
morning.”
The morning was, in fact, unusually sultry for September, and the wind
showed no signs of increasing and cooling the air.
“Well,” replied John Hart, “this is a good morning to sleep, but I don’t
know as I would go below if I were you, squire. You know, if a man has
any tendency to be squeamish, that is apt to send him off.”
“Yes, I know,” answered the squire; “but it seems so nice and still that
I think it won’t disturb me. I’ll just drop off to sleep as easy as a
kitten.”
He accordingly descended the companion, looked sharply at Ed Sanders, to
satisfy himself that he was sound asleep, and went to the forward end of
the cabin.
“Let’s see,” he muttered, “I wonder if the ‘third starboard locker’ means
the third from the stern or the third from the bow.”
The squire began opening the lockers along the starboard side, at random,
and peering inside.
“We’ll see what sort of an equipment these youngsters have left us,” he
exclaimed, aloud.
But, just at this moment, the squire felt a queer sensation, like a
strange, quick spasm of dizziness, accompanied by a slight shiver. It was
gone the next moment.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed to himself. “Funny how a man’s imagination works
in a cubby-hole like this. I almost thought I was dizzy for a moment.
Confound that John Hart! I wish he hadn’t said anything about being
seasick. Of course a man can’t be seasick on a quiet day like this.
Pooh!”
The squire perhaps had not taken into account, as had John Hart, that,
whereas the sea was not ruffled by any chop-sea or breakers, there was
still an exceedingly long, almost imperceptible undulation of the bay; a
moderate but continuous heaving of the ground-swell, that swayed the boat
gently from beam to beam or rocked it slowly from stem to stern. The
squire did not realize that it was this that had set his brain
momentarily awhirl.
Like many another sailorman, John Hart, having given his advice and
finding it disregarded, considered it no longer his business whether the
squire fared well or ill. Likewise, he did not see fit to warn him of the
near approach of a big tramp steamer that was on its way, a little
farther out in the bay, to Benton, to load with spool-wood.
The big tramp was making time, with black smoke pouring out of its two
funnels; and, as it went along, it sent a heavy cross-sea rolling away
from its bows and stern.
A few moments later, just as the squire had opened the lower drawer
beneath the third locker from the starboard end of the yacht, something
extraordinary happened to him. His feet were suddenly knocked from under
him. At the same time, it seemed as though the cabin roof had fallen
down; for the squire’s head came in violent contact with it. Likewise, it
seemed as though the yacht was standing on its bowsprit and kicking its
stern into the air; and, likewise, as though it were performing, at the
very same instant, as violent a series of antics as the craziest bronco
that ever tried to buck its rider.
The immediate result was, that Squire Brackett first bumped his head
against the roof of the cabin. Then he fell over sidewise and hit a
corner of the centreboard box. Finally, he found himself lying on the
cabin floor, rolling about in highly undignified and uncomfortable
fashion.
But, saddest to relate, when he had in a measure recovered from his
amazement and endeavoured to pick himself up from the floor, his head was
swimming round and round like a humming-top. Poor Squire Brackett was,
indeed, as addle-brained as a sailor that has had a day’s shore leave and
has spent it among the grog-shops. With a groan of anguish, he
relinquished all hope of treasure-hunting and crawled upon one of the
berths, where he lay helpless, and muttering maledictions on the head of
John Hart for not warning him of what was coming.
“Hello, what’s the matter?” cried Ed Sanders, sitting up and addressing
the squire, whose sudden downfall had awakened him.
“The matter!” roared the squire, in a burst of energy and
indignation—“the matter is, that you were down here sleeping like a mummy
instead of attending to business on deck. Here’s a sea hit us and nearly
turned the yacht upside down, and my neck nearly broken.”
“Ho, we’re all right,” said Ed Sanders, intending to be reassuring. “Just
a little swash from a steamer, I guess. She’s rocking a little, but there
ain’t any harm in it.”
The squire was so unutterably disgusted that he couldn’t find words to
reply. What could he say to a man that assured him he was all right when
he was beginning to feel the qualms of seasickness? There were no words
in the language to do the occasion justice.
Nor was he mollified or comforted by the appearance, the next moment, of
John Hart at the companionway, also declaring that really nothing had
happened—nothing of any consequence—and that he would be feeling as fine
as an admiral in a few minutes.
The squire tried to reply, but could only choke and sputter.
“Nothing of any consequence, eh?” he groaned. “Oh, my head! O-h-h! If I
die I hope they’ll indict John Hart for murder, and hang Ed Sanders for
criminal negligence. Nothing of any consequence—but I know I’ll never
live to see the end of this voyage.”
The squire’s agitation was not abated with the rounding of the head of
the island; for, with this, what slight sea was running was soon
broadside on, so that it rolled the _Viking_ from side to side—not
roughly, but enough to cause him untold misery.
Finally, at John Hart’s solicitation, he was induced to return to the
outer air, where he sat, wrapped up in two heavy blankets, shivering, and
with his teeth chattering, although the day was exceedingly hot.
When, at the close of the afternoon, they had arrived at Mayville, the
squire had had enough yachting. He staggered ashore and took a carriage
to the hotel, rather than spend the night aboard the _Viking_.
“Well, sir,” said John Hart, some time the next forenoon, when the
squire, improved in appearance and temper, had come down to the dock,
“when do you expect that yachting party to arrive?”
“What yacht—” began the squire. He had forgotten for the moment the
alleged object of the trip to Mayville. “Oh, you mean my party?” he said.
“Why, they won’t be here until night. I won’t need you two at all to-day.
You can have the day off. Here’s fifty cents to buy both of you your
dinners. You needn’t come back until night.”
“Well,” said Ed Sanders as he and John Hart departed from the dock and
went on up the main street of Mayville, “I thought the squire wasn’t hurt
much by that bump he got yesterday in the cabin, but I declare if I don’t
think it injured his brain. Did you ever know of his giving anybody fifty
cents before?”
“No, never did,” answered John Hart; “but if getting seasick has that
effect on him, we’ll make him sick every time he goes out. Next southerly
we get, with the tide running out, we’ll sail into the worst chop-sea we
can find and give him a dollar’s worth.”
Squire Brackett, however, watched them disappear with a satisfaction
equal to theirs. He rubbed his hands like a money-changer, and stepped
from the wharf aboard the _Viking_ with the assurance of a buccaneer. He
almost imagined he was a sailor when a man on the wharf accosted him.
“Fine boat you’ve got there,” said the stranger—evidently from the city.
“She’s pretty good, if I do say it,” replied Squire Brackett, swelling
out his chest and looking nautical.
“Looks as though she might carry sail some,” continued the stranger,
admiringly.
“Ha!” exclaimed the squire. “The harder it blows the better we like it.
My men say to me, time and time again, ‘Most too much wind, Captain
Brackett; better reef, hadn’t we?’ ‘Not much,’ is what I say. ‘Let a
topsail go if it wants to. I’ll buy another when that’s gone. Keep her
down to her work. She’ll stand it.’ What’s the use of having a good boat
if you keep her in a glass case, eh, sir?”
“Well, I suppose that’s so,” replied the stranger, much impressed. “But
you’ve got to have the nerve to do it.”
“It’s nothing when you’re accustomed to it,” said Squire Brackett, taking
a nautical survey of the sky, and rolling toward the companionway like an
old salt.
Before he began operations, however, he returned on deck, took the
bow-line and drew the yacht close in to the pier, stepped off and cast
loose the end of the line where it was made fast to a spiling. There was
another line out astern, to which an anchor was attached, and which had
been dropped at some distance from the boat. This was to keep the yacht
from getting in too snug to the pier and scraping the paint from its
sides. The squire took hold of this rope and drew the yacht out farther
from the pier, so that no one could step aboard from there.
Thus safe from interruption, he again went below and sprang breathlessly
to the drawer.
“Here’s the third starboard locker from the bow,” he muttered. “‘Money is
still aboard yacht,’ eh? Ha! ha! I’ll show ’em a thing or two. He didn’t
intend to buy my land—the rascal. Well, I’ll get his treasure. They will
run down my sailboat, will they? Well, I’ll pull a prize out of their own
boat. They’re a smart lot, the whole of them; but I’ll show ’em who’s
smarter.”
Squire Brackett’s hand shook with excitement as he drew out the large
drawer.
He looked into it earnestly, but there was clearly nothing of value in
it, nor anything queer in its construction. He opened the door to the
locker, and pounded on the bottom of that.
“There’s nothing odd about that, so far as I can see,” he exclaimed.
“Well, it’s in behind there. That’s where it is. I’ll just get a light
and take a look.”
The squire hurried to the provision locker, rummaged therein, and found
the stub of a candle. He nearly burned his fingers in lighting it, so
wrought up was he.
Returning to the opening whence he had withdrawn the drawer, he got down
on his hands and knees and peered within. The candle-light flickered on
the little drawer that fitted snugly to the under side of the locker’s
bottom. The squire felt a queer, almost choking sensation come over him.
He thought of the jewel robbery of the year before, up at Benton. He
thought of the men that had had the _Viking_. The possibilities of his
find swept through his excited brain, till the fancy fired his
imagination beyond his hitherto wildest dreams.
In a delirium of expectation, and breathing short and quick like a man
that has run a race, the squire snatched at the tiny knob, grasped the
little drawer with eager hands, drew it forth, and rushed with it to the
cabin door.
For one brief, ecstatic moment he paused exultantly. Then a strange,
remarkable change came over him and he stood like a man stiff frozen. The
look of anguish, of rage, of disappointment, of amazement that distorted
his features was like that which an ingenious South Sea Islander might
give to an image he had carved out of a very knotty and cross-grained
junk of wood.
He held the drawer out at arm’s length, as though he was demanding that
some imaginary person should look and behold the contents. And the
contents, that the squire’s own eyes rested upon, were indeed not silver
nor gold nor precious jewels, nor even the tawdriest trinkets, but—of all
abominations—Henry Burns’s lobster-claw!
A moment later, the squire uttering an exclamation that shall not be
recorded here, lifted the drawer above his head, hurled it down upon the
floor, and crushed it with his heel. Once, twice, thrice he stamped upon
it, shattering it to pieces, and crunching the lobster-claw into a
shapeless mass. And then—why then, all at once, it flashed into his mind
that he had, in his fury, done precisely the wrong thing; the very thing
he should not have done.
If any one had put that claw in there for him to find, why, of course,
they would look for it when the _Viking_ was returned. It was bad enough
to be cheated, defrauded, robbed—thought the squire. But to know that
Henry Burns and Jack Harvey and all the rest of the scamps would look for
that drawer, and find it missing, and laugh themselves sick to think of
his discomfiture, why, that was not to be thought of.
Squire Brackett stooped down and gathered up the pieces of the shattered
drawer. Fortunately, they were of common pine, and were mostly wrenched
apart where they had been nailed together. The squire hunted for hammer
and nails in the yachtsmen’s stores, and hammered the drawer together as
best it would go. He cast loose the line astern and pushed the yacht in
to the pier again. Then he hunted around, outside of a boat-shop near by,
till he found, a small piece of wood that would do, with proper shaping,
to supply one of the parts he had broken.
Altogether, with his clumsiness in the matter of reconstruction, the
squire consumed the rest of the morning repairing the drawer he had
wrecked.
Then, when he had finished his work, he strode away up the street and
made a purchase. The purchase was a fine, big boiled lobster—just a shade
redder than the squire’s face as he paid for it. But, having paid for it,
he took it back to the yacht and ate it for his dinner—all but one claw.
That claw he wished to save. He was so careful of it, indeed, that he put
it away in a certain secret drawer under the third locker on the
starboard side.
“No, they’re not coming,” he said, that evening, to John Hart and Ed
Sanders, on their return. “Too bad. Got a telegram saying they can’t
come. The sailing party’s given up. Shame, isn’t it? However, I’ve got
some business I’m going to attend to before I go home. We’ll stay the
week out. Your pay goes on just the same. So you needn’t say anything to
the boys about my not using their yacht. They might think they got a
shade the best of me. It’s all right, though. I can make use of the
time.”
The squire, in truth, was too ashamed to return so suddenly. He spent the
week in Mayville; and of all miserable weeks in his existence, that week
was the most dismal of any.
Saturday came, and it was a day of fitful weather. Part of the day it
rained. Then there were signs of clearing, with the wind sharp and
squally from the west. They waited till mid-afternoon, and then the
weather improving a little, the squire gave the order to start. He
dreaded the sail, but he would wait no longer. They went across the bay
under two reefs, and the squire’s hair stood on end all the way.
It was shortly after supper, and Henry Burns and Jack Harvey sat with
their friends, the Warren boys, on the veranda of the Warren cottage. The
wind was still high, and now and then there came a brief rain-squall.
“I wonder if the _Viking_ will be in,” said George Warren.
“Possibly,” replied Harvey; “but, if she isn’t, we’ll give the squire
another day. It’s stiff wind for him to sail in. What worries me, is
whether the crew are all right or not. They’ve been gone a week almost,
and they’re way down ’round Stoneland somewhere.”
“Oh, they are all right,” said Henry Burns.
And yet, if Henry Burns could have seen the position of the good yacht
_Surprise_, at that precise moment, he might not have thought she was
exactly all right. For the yacht _Surprise_ was hung up on a sand-bar,
some ten miles below Stoneland, among the islands; and the crew had
already worked an hour, in vain attempts to get her off.
There came a driving squall of wind and rain, presently, and the boys
went inside.
“The _Viking_ won’t be in to-night, I guess, after all,” said Harvey.
Then, as it grew dark, they busied themselves till they were taken all by
surprise by a knock at the door. There stood Ed Sanders, his clothes
dripping.
“We’re in,” he said. “The squire sent me up to tell you. He’s gone home.
The _Viking’s_ fast at her mooring, and all right. Come out and you can
see her lantern that I set at the foremast. She don’t need a light, safe
in the harbour here, but I thought you might like to see it and know she
is there.”
“We’ll go down right away,” said Henry Burns. “Much obliged to you.”
“No, you won’t,” cried George Warren. “You don’t stir out of this house
to-night. You’re going to stay with us. The boat is all right.”
They stepped to the door and looked out upon the bay. It was clearing,
but it was not pleasant. Everything was soaked with the rain, and the
wind was blowing.
“What do you say, Jack?”
“Oh, I think we might as well stay,” answered Harvey.
So they stayed. And they slept soundly, too, with the night-breeze
whistling past their window. But it is certain they would not have slept
soundly, nor slept at all, if they had but known of a certain letter that
young Harry Brackett had written and sent to Bellport, three days before,
and of the significance it had to the man who received it.
It was about six o’clock the next morning that Jack Harvey, still
sleeping soundly, was rudely awakened. Henry Burns was shaking him
violently.
“Jack, wake up!” cried Henry Burns. “Wake up and get your clothes on.
There’s something the matter. The _Viking’s_ gone. Yes, she’s really gone
out of the harbour; for I’ve been clear down to the shore to see. It
isn’t any joke. Hurry up. I’ll get the fellows out.”
A few moments later, Henry Burns, followed by Harvey and the three Warren
boys, was running for the shore.