"Come about, Mr. Jackson," said Harry, as calmly as though the long line of foaming, hissing breakers before him had been a mile away, instead of almost under the vessel's bows. His mind was so fully engrossed with the mysterious disappearance of the schooner, that he could think of nothing else. Where could she have gone? was a question he asked himself more than once while the Storm King was coming about. She could not have slipped by him, dark as it was, for there had been too many pairs of sharp eyes looking out for that. She could not have gone over the island, and she might as well have tried that as to attempt the passage of the shoals. She certainly had not been dashed in pieces on the rocks, for, in that case, he would have heard the noise of the collision and the cries of the crew, and, besides, he would have seen the wreck. Harry did not know what to make of it.
"Wheeler," said he, turning to the boatswain's mate, who happened to be standing near him, "what do you think of this?"
"Well, sir," replied the young tar, touching his cap and hitching up his trowsers, "I was just wondering if it was a schooner at all. She may be a small edition of the Flying Dutchman, sir."
If Harry had been superstitious he would have thought so too. The schooner's disappearance was so mysterious, so sudden, so unexpected! Just at the moment when the crew of the Storm King were waiting for the order to board her, she had vanished, and no one could tell where she had gone. The first lieutenant knew many an old sailor who, had he been on board the yacht at that moment, would have solemnly affirmed that they had been pursuing a phantom.
CHAPTER XV.
TOM HAS ANOTHER IDEA.
"Yes, sir," repeated the governor of the Crusoe band, in a tone of great satisfaction, "we're off fur our island at last. Them spooneys will never trouble you any more, cap'n. You're safe from Johnny Harding, an' I'm safe from Mr. Grimes, Bobby Jennings, an' all the rest of 'em. Hurrah fur us!"
Tom stood leaning over the schooner's rail, watching the Storm King, which was rapidly fading from his view, and thinking, not of Johnny Harding, but of the failure of his grand idea. He would not have been greatly disappointed if he had known that he should never see Crusoe's island. He had, of course, expected that when he should be comfortably settled in some remote corner of the world, far away from all the troubles and vexations that had made his life in Newport so miserable, he would realize his idea of supreme felicity; but one element in his happiness was to be the satisfaction of knowing that he had carried out his threat, and "squared yards" with every body; that he had destroyed the Storm King; that he had rendered the naval commission, in which Harry Green took so much pride and delight, perfectly useless to him, and that he had taken ample revenge upon his father and upon the principal of the military academy. With such thoughts as these to console him, Tom imagined that he would be perfectly content to pass the remainder of his days on some desert island, even in the company of such uncongenial fellows as Sam Barton and his men; but now he knew that could not be. His splendid scheme had failed. The yacht was still right side up, as swift and as handsome as ever, and as sound as a dollar, in spite of the charred and smoked wood-work in her galley. That was enough to banish all Tom's hopes of happiness. He could not enjoy a moment's peace of mind as long as the Storm King remained above water. He was a disappointed boy—an unlucky, ill-used, and unappreciated boy, too—whose life must henceforth be a desert and a blank. No more sport, no more enjoyment for him, and all because of that one unkind act of his father's.
This was the way the captain of the Crusoe band reasoned with himself as he leaned over the rail, gazing through the darkness toward the spot where he had last seen the yacht, and that was the way he would have told his story to any stranger who he thought would sympathize with him; but if such sensible fellows as Johnny Harding, Harry Green, and Bill Steele had been consulted, they would have shown Tom up in a different kind of light altogether. They would have cleared Mr. Newcombe, and placed all the blame right where it belonged—upon Tom's own shoulders. They would have described the home and surroundings of this "Boy of Bad Habits"—this "Rolling Stone"—who had gone from one thing to another in search of that which none of us find in this world—freedom from care and trouble—and would have proved that he ought to have been one of the happiest boys in Newport. They would have told that his sole object in life had been to avoid every thing that looked like work, and to establish himself in some easy, pleasant business, that would run along smoothly, without the least exertion on his part. They would have described him as a boy utterly wanting in firmness of purpose, except when he got one of his grand ideas into his head, and then he was as unreasonable and obstinate as a mule. They would have said that his numerous failures had not taught him wisdom, but had made him more determined; that he would not listen to any one's advice, and that he clung with bull-dog tenacity to his favorite belief that "nobody could teach him." And they would have come, at last, to the inevitable consequences of such a life as Tom had been leading, and told how he had been going down hill all this while, until he had at last got so low that no boy who had the least respect for himself could associate with him; that he was the leader of a band of rascals, the companion of burglars, a fugitive from justice, and one of the most miserable and despised of human beings. Tom could not help acknowledging to himself that such was his condition, but he clung to the idea that it was not his fault. His father was responsible for it all.