“Now fellows,” said Walter, as they rode along the carriage-way, “let’s divide the work, so that there may be no delay. Eugene, put the horses in the stable and feed them. Bab and Wilson, go down and pull the Banner out of the bayou, loosen the sails, and get everything ready for an immediate start. While you are doing that, Perk and I will go in and get on some dry clothing, and tell father and Uncle Dick what has happened. When we come down to the boat we’ll bring a couple of baskets of provisions with us.”

As soon as the boys reached the house they sprang from their saddles, and hurried off to perform the work assigned them. Ten minutes afterwards, when Walter and Perk, none the worse for their cold bath in the bayou, joined the rest of the Club on board the yacht, they found her all ready for sea. The hatches had been thrown open, the cabin unlocked, the binnacle lighted, the lamps hoisted at the catheads, the sails were loose and flapping in the wind, and the little vessel was held to the bank by a bow and stern line, both ends of which were made fast on deck so that they could be cast off without going ashore.

“Fellows, I am afraid that you have done all this work for nothing,” exclaimed Walter, as he and Perk sprang over the rail and deposited their baskets of provisions on deck. “Uncle Dick has not got back yet, and neither has father.”

The expression of disappointment that settled on the faces of the yacht’s crew, as well as the exclamations they uttered, showed that this was anything but a pleasant piece of news. Uncle Dick was just the man for the occasion. He would have entered heartily into their scheme—he was interested in everything his young friends did—and he would have carried it out successfully, too.

“They are still out looking for Featherweight,” continued Walter, “and haven’t been home since morning. I told mother where we are going and what we intend to do, and she says that when they return she will send them after us in the Lookout.”

The Lookout was Mr. Gaylord’s yacht. When the season closed she had been left at the village for repairs; and although the work on her was all completed, she had not yet been brought home. The boys would have been glad to make the cruise with her instead of the Banner, for she was a much swifter boat; but it required a crew of ten men to handle her, and that was a larger force than they could raise.

“Shall we wait for Uncle Dick, or go without him?” asked Walter, in conclusion.

“Let’s go now,” exclaimed Eugene. “There’s no knowing what we may lose by an hour’s delay. I’d as soon trust myself on the Gulf with you as with Uncle Dick.”

The other boys expressed the same unlimited confidence in their young commander, and urged an immediate departure; and Walter, who, like all modest young fellows, had a poor opinion of his abilities, turned to Perk, whom he had selected to act as his assistant, and rather reluctantly ordered him to get the yacht under way.

The members of the Club were in their element now, and if Featherweight had only been with them they would have been as happy as boys could well be. They loved their horses, and were quite at home in the saddle; but a staunch, swift vessel was what they most delighted in. The Banner suited them exactly. She was small—not more than one-fourth the size of the smuggling vessel—but she had been built under Walter’s own supervision, with an eye to comfort and safety rather than speed, and the boys knew that they could trust her anywhere.

In the forward part of the vessel, where the forecastle would have been located if she had had one, was the galley. It was a small apartment, of course, but it was well fitted up, and provided with everything in the shape of pots, pans, and kettles that any cook could possibly find use for. A door in one side of it opened directly into the cabin, which occupied the whole of the after-part of the vessel, no space being taken up with state-rooms. It was carpeted, and furnished with a small writing desk and chairs in abundance. Two lockers, one on each side, extended the whole length of it, and in them were stored away the hammocks in which the crew slept, the dishes, knives, forks and other things belonging to the table, and there was also plenty of space for the Club’s hunting and fishing accoutrements. The top and sides of the lockers were upholstered, and they were supplied with pillows so that they could be used as lounges or beds.

Under the hatchway, which opened into the cabin from the deck, was suspended a long, wide board, painted and varnished like the rest of the furniture. This was the table. When in use it was lowered into the cabin and kept in position—not by legs, like ordinary tables, but by polished iron rods which came down from the beams overhead. If that table could have found a tongue it would have told some interesting stories of the glorious times the Club and their friends had had while seated around it—of the quantities of roast duck, venison, oysters, catfish, quails, and other good cheer that had been placed upon it by old Sam, the cook, to be swept off by the hungry young yachtsmen; of the jokes that had been passed, and the funny things that had been said after the cloth was removed, and oranges, raisins, almonds and lemonade brought on; and of the speeches that had been made, the stories that had been told, and the hearty applauding blows that had been showered upon it by the Club as Featherweight finished singing one of his favorite songs. And not only the table, but everything else in the cabin was associated in the minds of the Club with some exciting cruise or some pleasing event. It was no wonder that they liked to be there, for a more cosy and comfortable apartment could not have been found anywhere.

In the hold of the schooner were stowed away the water-butts, the seven tons of stone-coal that served her for ballast, extra sails and ropes, two large anchors with cables complete, a chest of carpenter’s, calker’s, and sail-maker’s tools, an abundance of fuel for the galley—in fact everything that the little vessel could possibly need during a voyage could be found here. Walter, besides superintending the building of the yacht, had provided the outfit himself, and consequently there was nothing wanting. Everything was kept in the best order, too. There was never a rope out of place, or a drop of paint or grease on the deck. She was a model yacht. We have been thus particular in describing her because she is an old favorite of ours; and, as we shall have a good deal to say about her and her exploits, we want everybody to know how she looks.

“All hands stand by to get ship under way,” shouted Perk, repeating the order Walter had given him.

The boys sprang at the word, and in five minutes more the mainsail, foresail and jib had been run up, and the yacht began to careen as she felt the wind, as if impatient to be off. Eugene went to the wheel, Wilson and Bab cast off the lines, the Banner raised herself almost on her side, and taking a bone in her teeth, went tearing down the bayou at a terrific rate of speed.

“Now, I’ll tell you what’s a fact,” said Perk, pulling his collar up around his ears and moving back into the standing-room to get out of the reach of the spray which was dashing wildly about the bows, “this feels natural. It is perfectly delightful. Wouldn’t she stand a little more, Commodore—just an inch or two? We want to make good time, you know.”

Walter looked up at the masts and thought she would bear the topsails; but just as he was on the point of telling Perk that he might have them given to the wind, he recollected that Eugene was at the helm. Knowing that he was a very careless, and even reckless fellow, and that he would almost as soon carry away a mast or capsize the boat as to luff an inch, the young captain said he thought he would make the run with the canvas he had already hoisted.

“Well, then,” said Perk, “as the work is over until we reach the village, Eugene and I can sail her. You and Bab and Wilson consider it your watch below and turn in. I’ll call you when we come in sight of the wharf.”

Walter thought this good advice. He went down into the cabin and closing the door, thus shutting out all sounds of the wind and the waves, arranged a bed on the lee locker, and stretched himself upon it. Bab and Wilson came down one after the other, and before the yacht had left her anchorage a mile behind, all three were sleeping soundly. When Eugene came in to call them about one o’clock the lights on the wharf were in plain sight.

There was only one berth at the wharf in which a vessel could lie with safety during a high wind, and it was already occupied by a little schooner which was evidently getting ready to begin her voyage that night; for her crew were busily engaged in loading her. Walter would have been astonished had he know what consternation the sudden appearance of his yacht produced in the minds of at least three of that schooner’s company. A foremast hand, who was assisting another in rolling a hogshead of hams up the gang-plank, ceased his work the instant his eyes rested on her, and leaving his companion to himself, dived down into the hatchway. Two men who were walking up and down the quarter-deck, arm in arm—one dressed in broadcloth and the other in rough sailor garments—stopped and gazed at her with mouth and eyes wide open. They conversed a moment in low, hurried tones, and then the man in broadcloth beat a hasty retreat down the companion ladder; while the other pulled his tarpaulin down over his forehead, turned up the collar of his pea-jacket, and having by these movements concealed every portion of his face except his eyes and whiskers, thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered up to the rail.

“Schooner ahoy!” shouted Walter, as the Banner dashed up.

“Hallo!” was the reply.

“I’d like to tie up alongside of you for about five minutes.”

“Can’t do it,” answered the master of the schooner, for such he was. “We’re going to sail immediately.”

“All right. When you are ready to start, I’ll get out of your way. Will you stand by to catch a line?”

The captain of the schooner, although he heartily wished the yacht a hundred miles away, could not well refuse to listen to so fair a proposition as this. He caught the line as it came whirling over his head, and made it fast on board his vessel; and in ten minutes more the Banner was lying alongside the schooner, and Walter and Wilson were walking up the street as fast as their legs could carry them—one to call on Mr. Craven, and the other to find his father and Mr. Chase. The rest of the Club remained on board to watch the yacht. Perk and Bab paced the deck, talking over the exciting events of the day, and wondering what else was in store for them, while Eugene clambered over the rail and went on board the schooner. He took his stand at the forehatch and looked down into the hold, where some of the crew were at work stowing away an assorted cargo, and the first thought that passed through his mind was, that for a vessel of her size she had very little capacity. What would he have thought if he had known that there was another hold under the one he was looking into; that it was filled with a variety of articles that had that very afternoon been brought from New Orleans in wagons, and which were to be smuggled into Cuba; and that in a dark corner among those articles Fred Craven lay, still bound as securely as he was when we last saw him? If Chase had been there he could have told some strange stories about that schooner; but as none of the crew of the yacht had ever seen her before (the reason was that she always left and entered port during the night), they took her for just what she appeared to be—a trader.

While Eugene stood looking down into the hold, the master of the schooner, a short, thick-set, ugly-looking man, with red whiskers and mustache, came swaggering up and tried to enter into conversation with him. He wanted to know whose yacht that was, what she had come there for, where she was going, why Walter and Wilson had been in such haste to get ashore, and asked a good many other questions that Eugene did not care to answer. He could see no reason why he should tell the man the Club’s business; and the latter, finding that he could get nothing out of him, turned on his heel and walked off.

In half an hour Walter and Wilson returned, accompanied by Mr. Chase and Mr. Craven. Wilson’s father was out of town, and consequently he had not seen him. They were overwhelmed with astonishment at the stories the boys had told them, and Eugene thought as he looked into Mr. Craven’s face and glanced at the butt of the navy revolver which protruded from the inside pocket of his coat, that he wouldn’t like to be in Pierre’s place if Fred’s father ever met him. They were impatient to get under way. They hurried across the deck of the schooner—passing directly over the head of one of the boys they were so anxious to find, and so close to him that he heard the sound of their footsteps—and springing over the yacht’s rail lent a hand in hoisting the sails, and obeyed Walter’s orders as readily as any of the crew. The master of the schooner saw them as they stepped upon the deck, and pulled his collar up closer around his face; and when the yacht veered around and filled away for the Gulf, he hurried below to talk to the man in broadcloth.

Under a jib and close-reefed main and foresail, the Banner made good weather of it when she reached the Gulf. She skimmed over the waves like a bird, and, guided by Bab’s careful hands, never shipped so much as a bucket of water. As the lights in the village began to fade away in the distance, other lights came into view in advance of them—a red and a green light. Then the boys knew that they were not alone on the Gulf, for those lights were suspended from the catheads of some approaching vessel. Like old sailors, they began to express their opinions concerning the stranger. She was a sailing-vessel, because if she were a steamer they would see the lights in her cabin windows. She was not bound to New Orleans, for she was not headed that way—she was coming toward them. She was going to the village, and was, most likely, some small trader like the one they had left at the wharf.

“Better keep away a little, Bab,” said Walter. “We don’t care to go too close to her in this wind.”

Bab altered the course of the yacht a point or two, and in a few minutes the position of the lights changed, showing that the vessel in front of them had altered her course also, and that she intended to pass close to the yacht whether her captain was willing or not. Believing from this that the stranger had something to say to him, Walter brought his trumpet out of the cabin and walked forward. The lights continued to approach, becoming more and more distinct every moment, and presently a trim little schooner hove in sight and came up into the wind within hailing distance. Walter also threw the yacht up into the wind, and waited for the stranger to make known his wants.

“Schooner ahoy!” came the hail out of the darkness.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” replied Walter through his trumpet.

“What schooner is that?”

“The yacht Banner, from Bellville, bound for Lost Island. What schooner is that?”

“We want to send a boat aboard of you,” shouted the voice, without replying to Walter’s question.

“Very good, sir. What schooner is that?”

Still no reply. The stranger evidently did not care to tell who and what she was. Walter was amazed at this want of courtesy, and wondering why a vessel that he had never seen before should want to send a boat aboard of him, sprang down from the rail and looked at the schooner through his night-glass. All he could make out was that her hull was long and narrow and sat low in the water, that her masts were tall and raking, that her sails looked much too large for her, and that taken altogether she was a very handsome vessel, and plainly a swift sailer. While Walter was looking at her, her boat came into view. It was crowded with men, and as it approached within the circle of light thrown out by the lanterns that Perk and Eugene held over the side, Walter saw that they were dressed in the uniform of the revenue cutter service, and that they were all armed. Even the two officers who sat in the stern-sheets wore their swords. Walter, more bewildered than ever, looked toward Mr. Craven for an explanation; but the blank look on that gentleman’s face showed that he did not understand the matter any better than Walter did. Before either of them could say a word, the revenue officer boarded the yacht, followed by some of their men—the former staring at Walter and his crew with an air of surprise, and the sailors looking all around as if expecting an attack from some quarter.

“Who’s the master of this craft?” asked one of the officers.

“I am, sir,” replied Walter.

“You!” exclaimed the lieutenant. The surprise he had at first exhibited seemed to be greatly increased by this answer. He looked at his companion, then swept his eyes all around the vessel, and finally turned them upon the young commander, whom he scrutinized closely. “You’re beginning this business rather early in life, are you not? You are not just the sort of a fellow I expected to see, and neither are your crew the desperadoes I thought them.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Walter.

“You will soon enough. May I trouble you to show me your papers?”

“My papers! I haven’t any.”

“Ah! I thought so. Mr. Butler,” added the lieutenant, turning to his companion, “we’ve got them at last. Bring your men aboard and assume charge of the vessel. I will take the captain and these gentlemen on board the cutter, and the rest of the crew you will put under guard. Follow in our wake when we fill away for Bellville.”

Walter and the rest of the Club were struck dumb with amazement. The former looked at the lieutenant to see if he was really in earnest, then at the sailors who began to clamber out of the boat, and tried to protest against what he regarded as a most unwarrantable and high-handed outrage; but he could not find words strong enough to express his indignation. Mr. Craven, however, stepped forward and spoke for him.

“Mr. officer,” said he, “may I ask you to explain the meaning of this?”

“Certainly. We have a description of a smuggler that has been eluding us for a long time, and this vessel answers that description perfectly. We think you are the gentlemen we have been looking for, and we are going to take you back to Bellville with us.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Walter, drawing a long breath of relief; “but you have made a great mistake, a most ridiculous mistake.”

“You certainly have,” said Mr. Craven. “We are all well known in Bellville, and assure you that we and our vessel are all right. My brother is collector of the port.”

“I know him, but I don’t know you.”

“We don’t want to go back to the village,” continued Mr. Craven. “A matter of the utmost importance to this gentleman and myself demands our immediate attention. You never saw a smuggler fitted up like this yacht. Look about her, and you can easily see that she has no place for stowing away a cargo.”

“That is no part of my duty,” replied the officer. “I was told what to do under certain circumstances, and I must obey orders. I’ll trouble you to step into this boat.”

By this time the yacht was in full possession of the cutter’s men. The boy-crew had been ordered below, and were now in the cabin under arrest; a sailor had taken Bab’s place at the wheel, and Lieutenant Butler stood on the quarter-deck with Walter’s speaking-trumpet in his hand. It made Walter angry to see his beloved yacht under the control of strangers; but knowing that there was but one way out of the difficulty, he sprang into the boat, followed by Mr. Chase and Mr. Craven.

“Don’t take it so much to heart,” said the latter, addressing the dejected young captain. “This man is only a second lieutenant, and of course he is acting under orders. When we arrive on board the cutter we’ll talk to the captain. If he wants to find the smugglers we can tell him where to look for two of them.”

Walter caught at the encouragement thus held out, as drowning men catch at straws; but his hopes fell again as soon as he found himself in the presence of the captain of the cutter. The latter, who was a very pompous man, and for some reason or other seemed to think himself of considerable importance, listened to the report of his officer, and after telling him that he had done perfectly right, and that the prisoners looked like a desperate lot, turned on his heel, and ordered the first lieutenant to fill away for Bellville. Mr. Craven tried to gain his ear for a moment, but the captain told him rather sternly that he was very busy just then, and would attend to him after awhile.

Walter had not been long aboard the cutter before he became aware that he was an object of interest to her crew. The officer who had commanded the boat pointed him out to his mess as the captain of the yacht, and they all looked at him with curiosity, especially the young third lieutenants attached to the vessel, who congregated in the waist, and stared at him as long as he remained on deck. Walter was a handsome fellow, as neat and trim as the vessel he commanded, and the lieutenants told one another that he looked every inch a sailor; but they could hardly believe that he was the chief of the band of outlaws of whom they had heard so much. Walter was nettled by their close scrutiny, and, when the captain of the cutter, unbending a little from his dignity, intimated that, if his prisoners had anything of importance to say to him, they might step down into the cabin, he gladly accepted the invitation. He thought, however, that he and his friends might as well have stayed on deck and kept silent, for the captain wouldn’t believe a word of their story. He wasn’t going back to Lost Island on any wild goose-chase, he said. There might be two smugglers there with a boy prisoner, and there might not—he neither knew nor cared. When they reached the village he would go with Mr. Craven and his two friends to the collector of the port, and see if they were really what they represented themselves to be, and that was all he would do. That settled the matter; and Walter, greatly disgusted with the captain’s obstinacy, bolted out of the cabin, slamming the door after him.

The cutter stopped once on the way to the village long enough to overhaul a schooner that was coming out of the harbor. The second lieutenant boarded her, and when he came back reported that she was all right. She was the Stella, bound to Havana with an assorted cargo. But she was not all right, if the lieutenant had only known it. She had some articles on board that were not mentioned in her manifest, and among them was a boy named Fred Craven.

To Walter’s great relief the village was reached at last, and as soon as the cutter had dropped her anchor he stepped into the boat with the captain and the two gentlemen, and put off for shore to visit the collector of the port. Having business on hand that would admit of no delay, Mr. Craven did not hesitate to call him out of his bed to listen to their story and set them right with the captain of the cutter. The collector, little dreaming what had taken his brother into the Gulf at that time of night, laughed heartily at the idea of his being taken for a smuggler; and the revenue captain, finding that he had committed a blunder, apologized so freely and seemed to regret the circumstance so much, that Walter was almost ready to forgive him. Mr. Craven, however, was not so easily appeased, and neither was Mr. Chase. They had lost more than three hours by their forced return, and they did not know what might have become of their boys in the mean time.

We have no space in this volume to relate the further adventures of our heroes. It will be enough to say that the Banner sailed away from Bellville that very night—this time armed with documents that would carry her in safety through a whole fleet of revenue cutters—but her cruise did not end when she reached Lost Island. It extended hundreds of miles beyond it; and what she and her gallant young crew did during the voyage shall be told in “The Sportsman’s Club Afloat.”

THE END.