Harry Brackett hesitated. Was it going a bit too far? “Hurry up, there!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, impatiently. “We mustn’t lose any time.” There was something in his voice that made Harry Brackett hesitate no longer. He took the hatchet and smashed the lock from the staple. “Now,” said Mr. Carleton, quickly, “we’re down ’most far enough. We’ll need some rope. There’s some light spare line up forward in the cabin, usually. You just go below and look for it. Don’t light a lantern, though. It isn’t safe yet.” Harry Brackett stumbled below. There were two reefs in the sail, but the wind was squally; and there was sail enough on to make the water boil around the stern, as the _Viking_ sped swiftly onward. Harry Brackett, fumbling and groping about in the cabin, could hear the rush of the water along the yacht’s sides. They were sailing fast. Moreover, had Harry Brackett been on deck, he would have seen, now, that they were not running down alongshore, but, instead, were standing directly out from it, and rapidly leaving it astern. “I can’t find any rope,” he called, at length. “Look again. It must be there,” replied Mr. Carleton. Harry Brackett rummaged some more. “Light a lantern if you want to,” called Mr. Carleton, finally. “We’re most ready to drop anchor now. But turn the wick down low first.” The light glimmered for a moment or two—and then Harry Brackett, dashing out of the cabin as though he had seen an evil spirit in some dark corner, and giving one wild, terrified glance across the waters, rushed up to and confronted Mr. Carleton. “Here!” he cried, “What does this mean? You’re not going down alongshore! Why, we’re half a mile out! What are you doing? Don’t you get me into a scrape—oh, don’t you!” The boy was trembling; and the chill night air, seeming to penetrate to his very marrow all at once, with his fright, set his teeth to chattering. In answer, Mr. Carleton, holding the wheel with his right hand, reached out suddenly with the other hand and clutched the boy by an arm. He held him in a powerful grasp. “See here,” he said, “you keep quiet. Do you understand? It’s a long swim from here to shore, and the water’s cold. One cry from you, and overboard you go. Sit down!” Harry Brackett fell upon the seat, all in a heap. He tried to speak; to beg; to implore this cruel, evil man that was now revealed to him, to stop—to let him go ashore. But something rose in his throat that seemed to choke him; while the tears rolled down his cheeks. He could only gasp and utter a few sobs. He shook and shivered as though it had been a winter’s night. “Get out of here!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, sharply. “Go below and stop that whimpering. You’re not going to be hurt. And when you get your spunk back, come on deck again. I need you to help.” Harry Brackett stumbled below and threw himself on a berth, groaning in anguish. The _Viking_, with Mr. Carleton sitting stern and silent at the wheel, sped on through the night.