Whoever had done this deed might almost as well have taken the young captain’s life. The “Restless” was a big part of that life.
“Oh, well,” muttered Hank, thickly, “whoever took the yacht must leave it somewhere. You can’t hide a craft of that size. We’ll hear from the ‘Restless’ all right, in a day or two—or in a week, anyway.”
“Whoever took the yacht away from here may know next to nothing about handling a boat,” choked Tom, hoarsely. “We may find the dear old craft again—yes—but perhaps 51 wedged on the rocks somewhere,—a hopeless wreck. O-o-oh! It makes me feel ugly and heartsick, all in one!”
“The ‘Restless’ can’t have broken loose during the storm, can it?” asked Hank Butts.
“No,” retorted Tom and Joe in the same breath, and with the utmost positiveness.
“Well, what are we going to do?” asked Hank.
The answer to the question was hard to find. Lonely Island lay five miles off the shore. Wireless communication was out of the question. They were out of the track of passing vessels, nor was any stray, friendly craft at all likely to show up on this dark, forbidding night.
“Come on back, fellows,” said Tom, chokingly. “There’s nothing we can do here, and Mr. Seaton must know the whole situation.”
The owner of the bungalow listened to them with a blank face when the Motor Boat Club boys again stood before him.
“I can’t even guess what to make out of this,” he confessed.