“This charming little island,” said he, pointing over his shoulder, toward the land, “is not an island, at all, it seems.  It is a cape, or promontory, or perhaps more properly a peninsula.  Its name, so the Squire tells us, is Briggs’s Nose.  Probably the man who gave it that name perished long ago,—­slain, no doubt, by the residents.  At any rate, it is so far from the nearest town on the mainland that we believe it will be safe to land the Squire there.  He can take the steamer this afternoon and get home before dusk.  All who wish to kiss the Squire good-bye should therefore get ready.  The line forms on the left.”

Gregory the Gauger was disposed to grumble at being set ashore.

“Fear not, Squire,” said Sprague, “crowns for convoy shall be put into your purse.  Many a ship’s crew would have marooned you on a desert island, or set you adrift.”

“With some ship’s bread and a beaker of water,” added Mr. Daddles.

“Quite so,” said Sprague, “only we couldn’t find a beaker on board,—­and wouldn’t have known one if we had found it.”

Pete and the silent Chief prepared to row Gregory ashore.  Just before they left Sprague gave the prisoner some money for steamboat fare, and Mr. Daddles presented him with the remains of the apple pie, begging him to keep some of it for breakfast next day.

Twenty minutes later our friends were on board again, and we were getting up the anchor.  Jimmy Toppan, the Chief, and Sprague went below to consult a chart, while the rest of us got the yacht under way.  When they came back on deck the Chief took the wheel, announcing: 

“Lanesport it is.”

“Why Lanesport?” asked Pete.

“It’s the nearest town on the mainland to Bailey’s Harbor,” said Jimmy Toppan.

“Then I should think you’d better steer clear of it.”

“Oh, they won’t have heard anything yet,” answered Sprague, lying down on a seat, with his banjo.  And he added:  “Assisted by Simon, I will now give you a little song.”

“Do you think we’ll find the ‘Hoppergrass’ at Lanesport?” inquired Ed Mason.

“We can but try.  We’ll do a little sleuth-work there, anyhow.”

“Who will you inquire from?”

“Oh, anybody.  Do not interrupt me again, or I will sing ’Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.’  Honest, I will.”

A little before noon, we sailed up the river to Lanesport.  The old town lay very still in the baking sun.  There were schooners in the stream, and one or two at the wharves.  A few sloop-yachts and cat-boats were at anchor in the river, but none of them was the “Hoppergrass.”  Old and dilapidated wharves ran down to the river, some of them deserted, and covered with grass.  There were tumble-down buildings at the water’s edge, and they were mostly black with age.  The town looked as if it had been sound asleep for a hundred years.

The Chief skilfully sailed our boat up to a wharf, where there was a landing-stage, and all of us, except our skipper, went ashore.  Half way up the wharf we found a man, painting a row-boat.  He knew nothing about the “Hoppergrass” and said he had never heard of it.