“Well, it’s a shame. It ain’t the right thing to do, squire, as you ought to know, having a boy of your own. But, as you say, it’s my duty if you insist, and I’ll do it,—but it’s the hardest job I ever done in all my life.”
“Let’s go down to the tent first,” said Colonel Witham. “There’s always two of them down there, and sometimes more. If Henry Burns is there, I just want to get my hands on him. I suspect he’s been fooling me all along and playing his tricks on me, when I thought him in his room asleep.”
The dew was still heavy on the grass and the sun had not lifted its face above the distant cape when the three men walked down to the tent upon the point. Not a sound broke the early morning quiet, save the cawing of some crows in a group of pines, and the lazy swash of the sluggish rollers breaking on the shore.
“They’re fast asleep,” whispered Squire Brackett. “We’ll give them a little surprise—just a little surprise.” And he gave a hard chuckle.
Captain Sam, at this same instant, casting his eyes offshore and hastily surveying the bay with the quick, comprehensive glance of an old sailor, gave a sudden start, and, for a moment, an exclamation of surprise escaped him.
“What is it?” asked Colonel Witham. “Did you remark anything, Captain Sam?”
“Nothing,” answered Captain Sam. “I was just a-muttering to myself.”
And at this moment the squire threw open the flap of the tent, saying, as he did so, “If you boys will—”
But as he and Colonel Witham poked their heads through the opening, the sentence was abruptly cut short.
“Empty!” gasped the colonel.