In ten minutes Dickory was in his canoe, paddling to the town.  When he was out of the little inlet, on the shore of which lay his mother’s cottage, he looked far up and down the broad river, but he could see nothing of the good ship Sarah Williams.

“I am glad they have gone,” said Dickory to himself, “and may they never come back again.  It is a pity that Major Bonnet should lose his ship, but as things have turned out, it is better for him to lose it than to have it.”

When he had fastened his canoe to a little pier in the town with a rope which he borrowed, having now none of his own, Dickory soon heard strange news.  The man who owned the rope told him that Major Bonnet had gone off in his vessel, which had sailed out of the harbour in the night, showing no light.  And, although many people had talked of this strange proceeding, nobody knew whether he had gone of his own free will or against it.

“Of course it was against his will,” cried Dickory.  “The ship was stolen, and they have stolen him with it.  The wretches!  The beasts!” And then he went up into the town.

Some men were talking at the door of a baker’s shop, and the baker himself, a stout young man, came out.

“Oh, yes,” said he, “we know now what it means.  The good Major Bonnet has gone off pirating; he thinks he can make more money that way than by attending to his plantation.  The townspeople suspected him last night, and now they know what he is.”

At this moment Master Dickory jumped upon the baker, and both went down.  When Dickory got up, the baker remained where he was, and it was plain enough to everybody that the nerves and muscles of even a vigorous young man were greatly weakened by the confined occupation of a baker.

Dickory now went further to ask more, and he soon heard enough.  The respectable Major Bonnet had gone away in his own ship with a savage crew, far beyond the needs of the vessel, and if he had not gone pirating, what had he gone for?  And to this question Dickory replied every time:  “He went because he was taken away.”  He would not give up his faith in Kate Bonnet’s father.

“And Greenway,” the people said.  “Why should they take him?  He is of no good on a ship.”

On this, Dickory’s heart fell further.  He had been troubled about the Scotchman, but had tried not to think of him.

“The scoundrels have stolen them both, with the vessel,” he said; and as he spoke his soul rose upward at the thought of what he had done for Kate; and as that had been done, what mattered it after all what had happened to other people?

Five minutes afterward a man came running through the town with the news that old Bonnet’s daughter, Miss Kate, had also gone away in the ship.  She was not at home; she was not in the town.

“That settles it!” said some people.  “The black-hearted rascal!  He has gone of his own accord, and he has taken Greenway and his fair young daughter with him.”