“Doesn’t seem to like our company,” said Henry Burns. “Guess he’ll have to have it, whether he wants it or not,” said George Warren. “There’s not wind enough to take him out again, as he will find when he gets the set of the tide at the entrance.” If the helmsman aboard the strange yacht had really intended to quit the harbour again, he found the tide to be as George Warren had said. After vainly trying to make out for a few moments, he left the wheel, ran forward, and the next moment they heard the splash of his anchor. Then the sail dropped and the man went below. “Whoever they are aboard there, they don’t seem inclined to be sociable,” said Henry Burns. “Well, they don’t have to be, if they don’t want to.” “Guess they’re afraid we’ll keep them awake,” said George Warren. “They are fishermen, by the looks. See, she carries no topmast, so she is not a pleasure yacht, though she looks from here like a fast boat. They make them good models now, since Burgess began it.” “I guess that’s so,” said Arthur Warren. “Those fishermen like to sleep nights, after a hard day’s work, without being disturbed. I remember one night we laid up in a harbour and began singing college songs, and a crew of them rowed over to us and threatened to lick us if we didn’t keep quiet. This fellow doesn’t want to be disturbed.” “I’ll hail him, anyway, if he comes on deck again,” said Henry Burns, “and find out where he is from. I like to know my neighbours.” But the man aboard the strange yacht was not inclined to be neighbourly. He did not appear on deck again. A thin wreath of smoke curled out of the funnel in his cabin, and they knew he was getting a meal. That was the only sign of life aboard. Sometime that night—he did not know the hour—Henry Burns awoke, conscious of some sound that had disturbed his light slumbers. Presently he became aware that it was the sound of a sail being hoisted. Getting up softly without disturbing his companions, he crept out of the cabin and looked across the water. The moon was shining, and he could see a lone figure aboard the strange yacht, getting the boat under way. Henry Burns saw him go forward and labour for awhile at the anchor rope. Then, for a wind had arisen, the man ran aft to the wheel, and Henry Burns saw the strange yacht go sailing out of the harbour. “That’s a queer thing to do,” muttered Henry Burns. “There’s something strange about it. He tried to get out before, the minute he saw us. Cracky! You don’t suppose—— No, that’s nonsense. I’m getting altogether too suspicious ever since I came across that man Craigie upon the roof of the hotel.” And Henry Burns went back to his bunk again. CHAPTER XIII. STORM DRIVEN