Southport was very quiet of a Sunday morning, the sleepy aspect of its weather-beaten, low buildings taking on an even more drowsy appearance with the Sabbath calm, and without the sign of any activity along the shore and in the harbour to interrupt its rest. The faint tinkle of a cow-bell, or the mild bleating of a few sheep coming in from a near-by pasture, only served to accentuate the stillness. The whole island sparkled with the morning sunlight, the rain-drops of the night before gleaming on bushes and grass before they vanished under its warmth and with the drying wind. The waters of the bay rolled away clear and blue, ruffled a little by the freshening breeze, and here and there showing patches of a darker hue, where a wind-flaw bore down quick and sharp and flayed the water. On the point, in front of the tent, stood the boys that had dashed down from the Warren cottage, with Tom and Bob, rudely aroused from their morning nap, and hastily dressed in trousers and sweaters. There was no comfort nor hope in the view that extended before them. Down between the islands, a schooner was running to sea, winged out before the favouring breeze. Nearer, a coaster, light and drawing little water, was beating up the bay, bound for Benton, to load with lumber. Over toward the Cape was a fisherman, with stubby mast and no topmast, skirting alongshore. But there was no yacht, sailing or drifting. There was no yacht _Viking_ anywhere to be seen. Nor could she have sunk at the mooring, for at that depth of water her topmast would be showing. However, half suspecting some trick might have been played on them, and the yacht taken out into deeper water and sunk, they went out in a rowboat and the canoe, and examined the water for quite a distance, all about. “We’re losing precious time, though,” said Henry Burns. “The _Viking’s_ been stolen. The first thing we’ve got to do, is to run over to the mainland and send a telegram down to Stoneland—though I’m afraid, with this breeze blowing all night, she’s got past there long before this. We’ll telegraph on to Portland, and to Boston, too, and have the police on the watch.” “Oh, if the _Surprise_ was only here,” groaned Harvey. “We might stand some chance in a long chase. Confound the crew! Here they are, gone, at the one time in the whole summer that we need them most.” “Isn’t it just barely possible, though, that John Hart or Ed Sanders didn’t make her good and fast to the mooring, and that she went adrift? If that is so, she would have gone clear across to the islands in the night, or even past them, out to sea.” “That’s possible,” replied Henry Burns, “but it isn’t likely. That’s one thing a good sailor does, always, by sheer habit—leave a boat secure. We’ll get them out, though.”