The clock struck four, and he heard the footsteps of the watch upon the shore.

“Boat adrift!” shouted Ben, who was the officer of the watch.

The words were repeated several times, and in a few moments he heard Tim’s voice summoning his crew.  Then the Butterfly dashed down upon him, and his hopes died within him.  But he had the presence of mind to crawl back again to the cabin; and when Tim came onboard, he had the appearance of being sound asleep, so that the chief did not suspect his treachery.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE ESCAPE.

Monday was a cold, dreary, disagreeable day.  The wind continued northeast; a fine, drizzly rain was falling, and a thick fog had settled over the lake, which effectually concealed the camp of the Rovers from the main shore.

An excursion had been planned for the day by the two boat clubs; but the weather was so unpropitious that it was abandoned.  About nine o’clock, however, the members of the clubs began to assemble at their halls in search of such recreation as could be found indoors.

Frank opened the Zephyr’s boat-house as usual, and great was his dismay when he discovered that the boat was not in its berth.  Calling Uncle Ben from the stable, he announced to him the astounding intelligence that the Zephyr had been stolen!

“What does it mean, Uncle Ben?” he asked, in deep anxiety.

“I can’t tell you, Frank; only, as you say, it has been stolen.  It couldn’t have broken adrift.”

“Of course not; and one of the windows is open.”

“That accounts for it,” replied Uncle Ben, as he walked down the boat-house and looked out upon the lake.  “I will take the Sylph and hunt it up.”

“Let me go with you, Uncle Ben.”

“My eyes! but the Sylph is gone too!” exclaimed the veteran, as he perceived the moorings afloat where she usually lay.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

Uncle Ben scratched his head, and did not know what to make of it.

“Here comes Tony, running with all his might,” continued Frank.  “What’s the matter, Tony?”

“Somebody has stolen the Butterfly!” gasped Tony, out of breath.”

“And the Zephyr and the Sylph!”

Several of the members of the club now arrived, and the matter was thoroughly discussed.

“Who do you suppose stole them!” said Frank.

“Who? why, Tim Bunker of course,” replied Fred.

“But he must have had some help.”

“Perhaps not; he has done it to be revenged, because your father turned him out of the club.”

“Very likely.”

“May be he’ll smash them up,” suggested William Bright.

“Have you seen anything of Charles this morning?” asked Mr. Hardy, entering the boat-house at this moment.

“No, sir.”

“He did not sleep at home last night.”