“Yacht _Viking_; thirty-eight feet, six; sloop; foresail, two jibs; painted white; new sails. Stolen last night. Stop her.” The messages were directed to the harbour-master at each port. The boys, donning their sweaters, sat in the shade by the roadside, to rest. The pace had been so swift, and their intent so absorbing, that they had not fairly considered until now the real extent of the loss. But now they groaned with sympathy for their comrades. “Isn’t it awful?” exclaimed Bob. “Just think of losing a boat like the _Viking_.” “Yes, and think of the start he’s got,” replied Tom. “He’s had a smashing breeze all night. He must have got past Stoneland. Only the despatch to Portland or Boston will catch him.” “Well,” said Bob, “what next?” “Breakfast, the first thing,” said Tom. “Then let’s go down the bay toward Stoneland and see what’s happened.” They had, indeed, eaten nothing since Henry Burns had awakened them with the dire news. An hour later, they were paddling leisurely down alongshore. In all the village of Southport, through which the exciting and unusual news had spread, there was but one man who regarded the loss of the _Viking_ with anything approaching satisfaction. Having assured himself that no legal blame could attach to him, Squire Brackett was far from being downcast over the event. He thought of the secret drawer and the lobster-claw. “I’m glad she’s gone,” he muttered. “Serves ’em right. And they can’t blame me for it. I brought her back all safe.” And yet, if the squire had known it, he was, by reason of having a son, in that measure responsible for the _Viking’s_ strange disappearance. Since Mr. Carleton’s sudden departure from Southport, there had been a desultory correspondence carried on between him and young Harry Brackett, unknown to any one but themselves. Harry Brackett, indeed, felt rather flattered to receive attention from so important a person; and he had become convinced that Mr. Carleton did, in truth, regard certain things that the boy had done as practical jokes, instead of putting a worse interpretation on them. Moreover, in furtherance of this idea, Mr. Carleton in all his letters spoke of a certain indefinite time when, if occasion offered, he should return to Southport, and the two would have some quiet joke of their own at the expense of the yachtsmen. “And when I come, I shall stay into the fall,” he wrote, in one letter. “I expect to buy some land of your father. But say nothing to him about my coming. My plans might fall through and I should not wish to disappoint him.” Thus it had happened that when, on Thursday, Harry Brackett’s letter of the day before reached Mr. Carleton at Bellport, it was a letter of much importance to that gentleman. He sat on the veranda of the hotel, holding the letter in his hand, thinking deeply, and uttering his thoughts softly to himself.