But he had lost time. The night had hindered him. By day, he could have laid a straighter course. And there had been delays. It was nearly half-past three when the yacht _Viking_, feeling its way into the harbour of Stoneland, rounded to off the wharves, and the anchor went down. Leaving his sail set, and giving the yacht plenty of sheet, to lie easy, Mr. Carleton lifted the skiff over the rail, jumped in, and rowed ashore. All safe and clear thus far. No sign of disturbance in the town, as he rowed in. No launch darting out to seize him. Only a few sluggish coasters lying near peacefully at anchor. Only a fishing-boat or two making an early start for the outer islands. Only, far down below, a red and a green light indistinctly to be seen, as of a small craft beating up to harbour. Mr. Carleton rowed in to the wharf, tied his boat in a slip, and vanished up into the town. A red and a green light, showing from port and starboard respectively, came to be seen more distinctly as the time went by. Close to, one might have seen now that it was a trim yacht, but beating in slowly, as one goes carefully in darkness, where shipping may lie. There was also to be seen—if there had been any one to look—that a weary youth sat at the wheel; that a smaller, but brighter-eyed, nimble youngster was standing up forward, peering ahead into the darkness. “I think we can anchor most anywhere here now,” said the boy astern. “I guess the water isn’t too deep to fetch bottom.” “Wait a minute, Joe,” answered the boy forward, rubbing one bare foot against his trousers leg. “I say, there’s a sail, on ahead a few rods. Luff up a little more, and we’ll run in near to that.” “All right, Tim, tell me when we’re heading right,” responded the other boy. But he stared at his small companion in astonishment, a moment later, when the latter, deserting his post, darted aft, uttering a warning “hush.” “What on earth is the matter with you, Tim Reardon?” exclaimed the boy at the wheel. “Let her come up and take a look for yourself,” was Tim Reardon’s reply. “It’s the _Viking_, as sure as you’re alive. They must be asleep. We’ll get aboard and give Henry Burns one good toot on the horn. He’s fond of that sort of thing, so he can’t say anything to us. But I wonder what they’ve left the sail up for. Won’t they be surprised to see us?” Joe Hinman, bringing the _Surprise_ up into the wind at the other’s words, himself gave an exclamation of surprise to see the sail set on the _Viking_. “That’s queer,” he said. “Tim, you take the tender and go aboard, while I hold the _Surprise_ where she is. Don’t be a fool, though, and blow any horn. If they’re as tired as we are, they’ll be mad enough to throw you overboard.” Tim Reardon made no reply, as he rowed alongside the _Viking_, but a mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes. When he had stepped softly aboard, however, and had crept down into the cabin, he darted swiftly on deck again.