"Oh! If I ever get out of this scrape!" he cried.
Less than an hour afterwards, when Mary Darrell again entered the cavern, but this time in company with her father, to whom she had confided the whole story, Peveril had disappeared. There was no boat to be seen, and they were confident that none had been on the coast that day. The derrick, with its tackle, was just as Mary had left it, yet neither in the cavern nor on the ledge was a trace of the young man to be seen.
On the very day that the White Pine logging expedition had been so completely disbanded, the tug _Broncho_ had been sent up the coast in a hurry after a supply of timber. She reached Laughing Fish Cove in the evening after Peveril's departure from his camp, and spent the night there awaiting him. Her captain was greatly perplexed by the failure of any of the party to put in an appearance, and the more so when he learned from the fishermen that Peveril had returned alone only to depart again on foot soon afterwards.
By morning he dared not wait longer, for his instructions were to start back immediately with such logs as had been collected. He also imagined that, having picked up all the timber they could find, and becoming tired of waiting for him, the wreckers might have set out for Red Jacket on foot. So, taking in tow the raft that he found in the cove, he started down the coast, arriving at his destination that same evening.
Mike Connell, who had been anxiously awaiting Peveril's coming, was at the landing to meet his friend, and was much disappointed at his non-appearance. After gaining all the news concerning the missing party that Captain Spillins could give him, he hastened back to Red Jacket, and went at once to the Trefethen cottage with a faint hope that Peveril might be there.
The inmates of the little house had also pleasantly anticipated the return of the young man in whom they were so interested, and had made such simple preparations as came within their means for welcoming him. Now their disappointment at Connell's report was mingled with a certain anxiety that increased as they discussed the situation.
"I'm feared lad's got into some trouble along of they furriners," reflected Mark Trefethen, as he puffed thoughtfully at his short pipe. "Not but he'll find way outen it, though, for he's finely strong and handy wi' his fists. Still, there's always the knives and deviltry of they furriners to be reckoned with."