“What!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, pausing for a moment. “I say, never mind the lock,” repeated Henry Burns. “We’ll attend to that, ourselves. We’d just as lieves you would keep away from the _Viking_ after this.” Mr. Carleton made no reply as he rowed away. “I wonder if we were too rough on him,” said Jack Harvey to his companion, a little later, as they were undressing, preparatory to turning in for the night. “I don’t see why,” answered Henry Burns. “That’s a pretty high-handed proceeding, to come aboard here and smash into our cabin.” “Well, perhaps he _was_ worried about that pin,” said Harvey. “Some persons do lose their heads just that way.” “Yes, but he isn’t one of the kind that lose their heads,” said Henry Burns. “And for my part, I can’t recall for the life of me ever seeing him wear any such kind of a pin.” CHAPTER XV. MR. CARLETON GOES AWAY Squire Brackett, having received sufficient encouragement from Mr. Carleton to warrant action on his part, hitched up his horse one afternoon and drove around the road back of the cove, turning off at length at the pasture lane that led in to Billy Cook’s farmhouse. Billy, barefoot, as usual, was busy hoeing in a small garden patch at a little distance from the house. “How d’ye do, Billy,” said the squire, sauntering out, with his hands tucked under his coat-tails. “Afternoon, squire,” responded Billy; and added, to himself, “Wonder what he’s up to.” “Quite a stranger, squire,” said he. “What brings you way ’round here?” “Oh, nothing,” replied Squire Brackett, seating himself on the handle of the wheelbarrow that was loaded with garden-truck. “I was driving by and thought I’d just drop in and say good day.” “Humph! guess not,” thought Billy to himself. He knew the squire was not in the habit of making social visits. “Well, glad to see you, squire,” he declared, cordially. “Nice summer we’re having. Wouldn’t like to take home a couple dozen fresh eggs, would you? Hens doing right well lately. I can spare you some, I reckon, store price.” “Why, yes, I should,” answered the squire. “Those hens of yours do lay the finest eggs I know of.” The squire, watching Billy at his work, discoursed of this and that; of the weather, the fishing, politics, and the prospect of the hay crop. “Wonder what he’s driving at,” was Billy’s inward reflection. “Have a smoke, Billy?” asked the squire, proffering the other one of Rob Dakin’s best and biggest five-cent affairs. “Don’t care if I do,” replied Billy, and made a further mental observation that something was coming now, sure. “By the way, Billy,” remarked the squire, presently, “how do we stand on that mortgage on the island down yonder?” He said it in an offhand way, just as though he didn’t know, even to the fraction of a cent, the amount of principal and interest due to that very hour.