“But he is not on the boat.”
“Then he has drowned, for Silly Sam said he could not swim a stroke.”
“Let us take up the net.”
“Oh, no, leave it down, for his boat seems caught in it, and that will tell the whole story.”
The boat, a large fishing yawl with sails down, was rowed up to the capsized skiff, and every eye was turned over the dark waters, while several hailed to see if a swimmer was near.
The surf-skiff was caught in the net, which had been stretched to accomplish just what it had done, and, confident that their victim had perished, sail was set on the fishing yawl and it sailed away toward the town.
Then from out of the shadows swam Mark Merrill, and going to his upturned boat he removed the slender mast, righted the skiff, clambered in, and with his hat threw the water out.
Then the mast was stepped once more, the wet sail spread, and the surf-skiff held on her way homeward, while Mark mused aloud:
“I know two of the three who were in that boat; but I’ll not tell on them—oh, no! I’ll just keep my secret for future reference.”