The messages were directed to the harbour-master at each port.
The boys, donning their sweaters, sat in the shade by the roadside, to rest. The pace had been so swift, and their intent so absorbing, that they had not fairly considered until now the real extent of the loss. But now they groaned with sympathy for their comrades.
“Isn’t it awful?” exclaimed Bob. “Just think of losing a boat like the Viking.”
“Yes, and think of the start he’s got,” replied Tom. “He’s had a smashing breeze all night. He must have got past Stoneland. Only the despatch to Portland or Boston will catch him.”
“Well,” said Bob, “what next?”
“Breakfast, the first thing,” said Tom. “Then let’s go down the bay toward Stoneland and see what’s happened.”
They had, indeed, eaten nothing since Henry Burns had awakened them with the dire news.
An hour later, they were paddling leisurely down alongshore.
In all the village of Southport, through which the exciting and unusual news had spread, there was but one man who regarded the loss of the Viking with anything approaching satisfaction. Having assured himself that no legal blame could attach to him, Squire Brackett was far from being downcast over the event. He thought of the secret drawer and the lobster-claw.
“I’m glad she’s gone,” he muttered. “Serves ’em right. And they can’t blame me for it. I brought her back all safe.”