The old gentleman walked quickly away, and then he as quickly stopped and shook his cane at the anchor buoy which marked the berth in which his schooner lay the last time he visited the dock.
“Now there’s that Coleman,” said he. “I’ll give him till dark to bring that boat back, and if he doesn’t do it, I’ll have the police after him. I will, for I can’t stand any such nonsense.”
“I have an idea,” said Don; and he also left the dock, performing a little problem in mental arithmetic as he hurried away. Given a five-knot breeze and a three-mile current, how far could a vessel like the Sylph (that was the name of Mr. Packard’s missing yacht) go in a narrow and crooked channel in nine or ten hours? That was the question he was trying to solve. While he was working at it, he entered a telegraph office and found the operator dozing in his chair. He held a few minutes’ consultation with him, which must have resulted in something that was entirely satisfactory to Don, for when the latter came out of the office and hurried toward the hotel, his face wore an excited and delighted look. He found the squad at breakfast, he being the last to report.
“What kept you?” demanded the captain, as Don entered and took his seat at the table.
“Business,” was the laconic reply. “Have any of you got a clue?”
No, they hadn’t. With all their trying they had not been able to gain any tidings of the deserters, who had disappeared in some mysterious way and left no trace behind. Their leader, whoever he was, had shown considerable skill in conducting their flight so as to baffle pursuit.
“You’re a wise lot,” said Don. “I have a clue.”
A chorus of exclamations arose on all sides, and the captain laid down his knife and fork and settled back in his chair.
“I know right where they were about the time we left camp this morning,” continued Don.
“Where were they?” exclaimed all the boys at once.