“What did it say?” says I.
“It was to a man named Jonas P. Dunn in New York, and it said: ‘Followed them to Newport. Can’t lose them. Will act when advisable.’ And his name is House. That’s all.”
“It’s something,” says I. “I don’t like that part that they’ll act when advisable. It doesn’t sound cheerful. Wonder how they’ll act, and when it’ll be advisable.”
“That,” said Catty, “is for us to find out.”
It began to cloud up and get cold by the time we were getting back to the Albatross, and pretty soon it began to rain. The yacht began to roll a little, not so much because of the waves but on account of us laying at anchor with the wind blowing against us. I was pretty sleepy and so was Catty, so we went below and fixed up our berths and rolled in. It was the finest motion to go to sleep by that I ever felt. Regular rock-a-bye-baby, and before I knew it I was dreaming about pirates and desert islands and thingumbobs. I don’t know how long I slept, but all at once something waked me up and I lay still, kind of scairt. Then there came a sort of grinding bump and the Albatross rolled like a rolling pin, and I landed right out in the middle of the floor. Catty got there about the time I did.
“What’s the matter?” says he.
“Don’t know. Feels like we’re wrecked,” says I.
“How’s a boat going to get wrecked that’s lying at anchor?” says he.
“How should I know?” says I, and then Mr. Browning dashed out of his stateroom and up on deck, and we dashed after. It was raining like all git out. The wind was driving the rain along in a straight line, and it was so dark you couldn’t see the back of your neck. Just as we got there another bump came that threw me flat on the deck.
“Anchor’s dragging,” shouted Mr. Browning. “We’re drifting down onto somebody.”