“Islesborough,” answered Merry.
“But that is on the western side of Long Island. If you are going straight into the Eastern Bay, you must go round to the north of Long Island.”
“I am not going directly into the Eastern Bay. If the White Wings is not at Islesborough, I shall run down on this side of Long Island to Pulpit Harbor. The rascals might take her in there, as it would be a good hiding place. If she isn’t there, I shall strike round to the south of the island and over into the Eastern Bay that way. If they have set their course southeast, we may cut them off.”
So for Islesborough they headed and ran into the harbor there, where they made inquiries of some fishermen, but could learn nothing. The missing yacht had not been seen.
From Islesborough to Pulpit Harbor was not a very long run. They crept slowly in at the narrow entrance of the harbor, where it looked as if a vessel would be in danger of rubbing her sides against the rocky shores, but where, at the lowest water, no vessel could touch her keel.
Again they were disappointed. The yacht was not there, and no one at the harbor had seen or heard from her.
They did not waste time, but ran out past the “pulpit” again and were away like hounds seeking a scent.
“We are so near Camden we may as well run down there,” said Diamond. “The White Wings is known there, and, if anybody has seen her, we’ll be likely to hear of it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Frank. “It may be well enough to run in to Camden. We’ll go there, Dustan.”
So the launch was headed toward the distant mountains, under the shadow of which lies the village that hopes some day to rival Bar Harbor.