“Now,” he continued, “you get back to the shore as quick as you can, and keep a watch on the Viking, to see whether the boys go aboard. If they do, we’ll have our little joke some other night. If they don’t—ho! ho! I’m too old to play jokes like a boy—but I’m in for a good time. I’ll be down to the shore by ten o’clock.”
“He’s a queer sort of a man,” said Harry Brackett, as he started on a jog-trot back to the village.
“I wish I didn’t have to use him,” said Mr. Carleton, as he watched the retreating figure. “But I don’t dare keep watch, myself; and I need some one to help run the boat.”
It was a long and somewhat dreary wait for Harry Brackett, down by the shore. The sky was clearing, but it was wet and soggy underfoot, and the night was depressing. He almost fancied that he was sorry he had entered into the scheme, though he didn’t know exactly why. However, if Mr. Carleton, who had money to spend like a gentleman, and who was going to buy his father’s land, could indulge in such a prank, why shouldn’t he?
Yet he jumped, and sprang up almost frightened, when a hand was laid suddenly on his shoulder and a low voice spoke in his ear:
“Well, anybody appeared?”
Mr. Carleton had come very quietly. The boy had not heard a footfall.
“No,” he replied. “But how you startled me. What time is it?”
“A little after ten,” replied Mr. Carleton. “We’ll wait till nearer eleven, to make sure.”
He was not especially companionable, was Mr. Carleton, during their vigil. He screened himself behind a thin clump of alders, lighted a cigar, and smoked silently. Harry Brackett quivered with impatience. He wondered what it was about Mr. Carleton that so changed his appearance. Why, of course, it was the dress. Mr. Carleton, the night being bad, had discarded his light yachting costume, and wore a heavy, almost shabby-looking suit, with a rough felt hat.