“Yes, confound you!” roared the squire. “Take them both along. Do you think I buy lobsters to throw away? Clear out! And, look here, if I hear of your saying anything about this affair to any one, you’ll catch it.” Harry Brackett departed homeward, while the squire, muttering maledictions on Harvey, his crew, and Henry Burns, entered the village store. “Those boys have altogether too much information,” he said. “I’d like to know if that young Henry Burns put him up to that.” As for Henry Burns, his mind had been given over for some time to the consideration of a different matter. He, himself, couldn’t have told exactly just when and where he had formed a certain impression; but, once the idea had impressed him, he had turned it over and over, looking at it from all sides, and trying to recall any incident that would shed light on it. He had a habit of thinking of things in this way, without saying anything to anybody about them until he had made up his mind. And what he had been considering in this way, for a week or more, was nothing less than the yacht _Viking_, and their departed friend, Mr. Carleton. “Jack,” he said, as he and Harvey sat cooking their supper on the stove in the cabin, the evening following this same afternoon’s fishing, “do you know I believe there is something queer about the _Viking_.” “Not a thing!” exclaimed Harvey. “She’s as straight and clean a boat, without faults, as any one could find in a year.” “No, that isn’t what I meant,” said Henry Burns, smiling. “I almost think there’s something about her that we haven’t discovered. Did you ever think there might be something hidden aboard the boat that’s valuable?” “Cracky! no,” replied Harvey. “What in the world put that into your head?” “Mr. Carleton did,” answered Henry Burns. “Mr. Carleton!” exclaimed Harvey. “Why, I never heard him say anything like that.” “Neither did I,” said Henry Burns. “It’s what he did—breaking into our cabin, and that sort of thing.” “What sort of thing?” asked Harvey, somewhat incredulous, despite his having considerable faith in the ideas of his companion. “Why, he tried to do it once before,” said Henry Burns. “He did?” queried Harvey, in amazement. “You never said anything to me about it.” “No; because I didn’t think so, myself, at the time,” replied Henry Burns. “You see, it was over there that night at Springton. Do you remember the man on the beach next morning?” “Go ahead,” said Harvey. “Perhaps I’ll see it when you tell it.” “Well,” continued Henry Burns, “I mean the old fisherman that spoke to Mr. Carleton just as we were pushing off. Don’t you remember, he spoke about Mr. Carleton’s borrowing his skiff to go out to his yacht the night before? Now you just think how Mr. Carleton looks—tall and nicely dressed—and that big blond moustache—and then that heavy, deep voice of his. That fisherman wasn’t mistaken. He remembered him. It was only the night before, too, mind you.