“Oh, but isn’t that awful?” groaned Harvey, gazing ruefully at the litter of paper that filled the drawer. “Just think of all that money going to make a nest for mice.” “It’s what you might call extravagance,” replied Henry Burns. “I wonder how much there was. We’ll never know, though. But there was enough to make it worth while for Mr. Carleton to come down here after it.” “Say,” exclaimed Harvey, suddenly, “do you suppose that’s what the squire’s after?” Henry Burns smiled, and stood for a moment thinking, before he replied. “Possibly,” he answered. “But I don’t see how he could know of it. Where could he have learned of it? At any rate,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I don’t see as we are under any obligation to tell him about it. We don’t have to assume that he is hiring our yacht to steal something out of the cabin. He has told us what he wants the boat for. We’ll take him at his word.” “Oh, by the way,” he added, “did we throw those lobster shells overboard after we finished supper?” “All but one claw that I didn’t eat,” replied the astonished Harvey. “Why, what do you want of it?” In reply, Henry Burns, his eyes twinkling more than ever, and with a quiet smile playing about the corners of his mouth, went and got the lobster-claw from the ice-box. Emptying out the scraps of now worthless paper, he deposited the lobster-claw in their place, took the candle, and once more replaced the drawer in the secret chamber. Then he shoved in the larger drawer. “Whoever finds that may keep it,” he said, as he rolled himself in his blanket and blew out the lantern nearest him. CHAPTER XIX. 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.