"By the great horn spoon, yer've got it, my boy!" roared the captain. "And now yer come ter speak uv it, my mind misgives me that all ain 't right at the island. I didn't tell yer, but I left a tidy sum uv money in that old iron safe off the Sarah Jane, the last ship I commanded, and all this what's puzzled us so may be part uv some thievish scheme.

"I'm going ter hurry over ter the island and make certain sure," he went on the next minute. "The more I think uv it, the more signs uv foul weather I see. Good-by, my lad, and good luck. Will yer be out ter see me soon? The bluefish are running fine."

"We may be out this afternoon, captain," responded Rob. "I am curious myself to see if any mischief has been done on your island. If there has been," he added earnestly, "you can count on the Eagle Patrol to help you out."

"Thanks, my boy!" exclaimed the old man, who was bending over his gasoline tank. "Hullo!" he shouted suddenly. "I wasn't crazy! This boat was took out last night. See here!"

He held up the gasoline measuring stick which he had grabbed up and plunged into the tank. The instrument was almost dry. The receptacle for fuel was nearly empty.

"And I filled her before I started out!" thundered the captain. "Whoever took my boat must have run her a long ways."

Fresh fuel was soon obtained, and the captain, after more shouted farewells, started for the island to try to obtain some clue to the mysterious happenings of the night.

Rob, after watching him for a few moments, as he sped down the blue waters of the sunlit inlet, turned away to return to his home, just recollecting that, in their eagerness to search for the boat, both he and the captain had entirely forgotten about breakfast. He was in the middle of the meal, and eagerly explaining to his interested parents the strange incidents of the missing boat and the decoy note, when Merritt Crawford burst into the room unannounced.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" he apologized, abashed. "I didn't know you were at breakfast. But, Mr. Blake—Rob—something has happened that I just had to come and tell you about at once."

"Good gracious! More mysteries," Mr. Blake was beginning in a jocular way, when the serious look on the boy's face checked him. "What is it? What has happened, Merritt?" he asked soberly, while Rob regarded the spectacle of his usually placid corporal's excitement with round eyes.

"The uniforms are all gone!" burst out Merritt.

"What uniforms?"

"Ours—the Eagle Patrols'."

"What! Stolen?"

"That's right," hurried on Merritt. "I met old Mrs. Jones in a terrible state of mind. You know, Mr. Blake, she's the old woman who scrubs out the place in the morning. I asked what was the matter, and she told me that when she went to the armory early to-day, she found the lock forced and all the lockers broken open and the uniforms gone!"

"Have you seen the place?" asked Mr. Blake.

"Yes, I followed her up. The room was turned upside down. The locks had been ripped right off and the lockers rifled of everything. Who can have done it?"

"I'll bet anything Jack Curtiss and his gang had something to do with it, just as I believe they put up some crooked job on the captain!" burst out Rob, greatly excited and his breakfast entirely forgotten.

"Be careful how you make such a grave accusation," warned his father.

"I know it's a tough thing to say," admitted Rob; "but you don't know that bunch like we do. They'd—"

He was about to explain more of the characteristics of the bully and his cronies when a fresh interruption occurred. This time it was Hiram Nelson. He was almost as abashed as Merritt had been when he found that his excitement had carried him into what seemed a family conference.

"It's all right, Hiram. Come right in," said Mr. Blake cheerfully. "Come on out with your news, for I can see you can hardly keep it to yourself."

"It's going round the town like wildfire!" responded the panting boy. The others nodded. "I see you know it already," he went on. "Well, I think I've got a clue."

"You have! Come on, let's hear it quick," cried Rob.

"Well, I was up late with Paul Perkins last night, talking over the aeroplane model competition, and didn't start home till about midnight. As I was approaching the armory I thought I saw a light in one of the windows. I couldn't be certain, however, and I put it down to a trick that my eyes had played me."

"Well, that's all right as far as it goes," burst out Rob. "It probably was a light. I wish you'd investigated."

"Wait a minute, Rob," said his father, noting Hiram's anxious face. "There's more to come, isn't there, Hiram?"

"You bet! The most exciting part of it—the most important, I mean," went on young Hiram, with an important air.

"Oh, well, get down to it," urged the impatient Rob. "What was it?"

"Why, right after I'd seen the light," went on Hiram, "I thought I saw a dark figure slip around the corner into that dark street."

"A dark figure! Hum! Sounds like one of those old yellow—back novels," remarked Mr. Blake, with a smile.

"But this was a figure I recognized, sir," exclaimed Hiram. "It was Bill Bender!"

"Jack Curtiss' chum! They're as thick as two thieves," burst out Merritt.

"And I believe they are two thieves," solemnly put in Rob.

"Well," went on Hiram, "the next minute Bill Bender came walking round the corner as fast as if he were coming from somewhere in a great hurry, and was hastening home. He told me he had been to a birthday party at his aunt's."

"At his aunt's," echoed Mr. Blake. "Well, that's an important point, for I happen to know that his aunt, Mrs. Graves, is out of town. She visited the bank yesterday morning and drew some money for her traveling expenses. She informed me that she expected to be gone a week or more."

"I knew it, I knew it!" shouted Rob. "That fellow ought to be in jail. He'll land there yet."

"Softly, softly, my boy," said Mr. Blake. "This is a grave affair, and we cannot jump at conclusions."

"I'd jump him," declared Rob, "if I only knew for certain that he was the thief!"

"I will inform the police myself and have an investigation made," Mr. Blake promised. "We will leave no stone unturned to find out who has been guilty of such an outrage."

"And in the meantime the Eagle Patrol will carry on an investigation of its own," declared Rob sturdily. "What do you say, boys?"

"I'll bet every boy in the corps is with you on that," rejoined Merritt heartily.

"Same here," chimed in Hiram.

"The first step is to take a run to Topsail Island and see if all the queer things that happened last night have not some connecting link between them," suggested Mr. Blake. "I am inclined, after what you boys have told me, to think that they have."

"I am sure of it," echoed Rob.



CHAPTER IX

THE HYDROPLANE QUEERLY RECOVERED

Seldom had the Flying Fish been urged to greater speed than she was a short time after the discovery of the looting of the scouts' armory. She fairly flew across the smooth waters of the inlet and out on to the Atlantic swells, leaving a clean, sweeping bow-wave as she cut her way along. Her four young occupants, for Tubby had been called on and notified of the occurrences of the night, were, however, wrapped in slickers borrowed from the yacht club, so that the showers of spray which fell about them had little effect on them.

The run to Topsail Island was made in record time, and as they drew near the little hummock of tree and shrub-covered land the boys could perceive that something unusual had happened. A figure which even at a distance they recognized as that of Captain job Hudgins was down on the little wharf, and had apparently been on the lookout there for some time. A closer view revealed the captain waving frantically.

"Something's up, all right," remarked Tubby, above the roar of the motor-boat's engine.

The others said nothing, but kept their gaze riveted on the captain's figure. With the skill of a veteran boatman, Rob brought the Flying Fish round in a graceful curve and ran her cleanly up to the wharf without the slightest jolt or jar.

"Ahoy, lads, I'm glad yer've come!" exclaimed the captain, as he caught the painter line thrown out to him by Merritt, and skillfully made the boat fast.

"Why, what has happened?" demanded Rob, as he sprang on to the wharf, followed by the others.

"Happened?" repeated the captain. "Well, in a manner of speakin', about twenty things has happened at once. Lads, my spirits and emotions are in a fair Chinese tornado—every which way at once. In the first place, I'm seventy-five dollars poorer than I was last night; in the second, poor old Skipper's been given some kind av poison that's made him so sick I doubt he'll get over it."

"You've been robbed?" gasped Merritt.

"That's it, my lad. That's the word. My poor old safe's been scuttled and her hold overhauled. But I don't mind that so much—it's poor old Skipper I'm worried about. But come on up ter the house, lads, and see fer yerselves."

Followed by the sympathetic four, the old man hobbled up from his little wharf to a small eminence on which stood his neatly whitewashed hut. He opened the door and invited them in. A first glance discovered nothing much the matter, but a second look showed the boys poor old Skipper lying on the floor in front of the open fireplace which was filled with fresh green boughs—and evidently a very sick dog indeed. He gave the boys a pathetic glance of recognition as they came in, and with a feeble wag or two of his tail tried to show them he was glad to see them; but this done, he seemed to be completely exhausted, and once more laid his head between his forepaws and seemed to doze.

"Poor old dog," said the captain, shaking his head. "I doubt if he'll ever get about again."

The safe now engaged the boys' attention. It is true that it was a rickety old contrivance which might well have been forced open with an ordinary poker, but to the captain, up to this day, it had been a repository as safe and secure as a big Wall Street trust company's vaults.

"Look at that, boys!" cried the captain, with tragic emphasis, pointing to the door, which had been forced clear off its rusty hinges. "Just busted open like yer'd taken the crust off'n a pie! Ah, if I could lay my hands on the fellers that done this, I'd run 'em tip ter the yardarm afore a foc'sle hand could say 'Hard tack'!"

"Why, we think that—" began Tubby, when Rob checked him. The captain, who had been bending over his dog, didn't hear the remark, and Rob hastily whispered to Tubby:

"Don't breathe a word to anyone of our suspicions. Our only chance to get hold of the real culprits is to not give them any idea that we suspect them."

After a little more time spent on the island, the boys took their leave, promising to come back soon again. First, however, Rob and his corporal made a brief expedition to see if they could make out the tracks of the marauders of the previous evening. Whoever they had been, however—and the boys, as we know, had a shrewd guess at their identity—they had been too cunning to take the path, but had apparently, judging from the absence of all footmarks, made their way to the house through the coarse grass that grew on each side of the way.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?" Tubby inquired, as they speeded back toward home.

"Just what I said," rejoined Rob. "Keep quiet and not let Jack or his chums know that we suspect a thing. Give them enough rope, and we'll get them in time. I'm certain of it."

How true his words were to prove, Rob at that time little imagined, although he felt the wisdom of the course he had advised.

As they neared the inlet, Rob, who was at the wheel and scanning the channel pretty closely, for the tide was now running out, gave a sudden shout and pointed ahead. As the others raised their eyes and gazed in the direction their leader indicated they, too, uttered a cry of astonishment. From the mouth of the inlet there had stolen a long, low, black craft, gliding through the water at tremendous speed.

In the strange craft the boy scouts had little difficulty in recognizing Sam Redding's hydroplane.

"So he's got her back," exclaimed Merritt, recovering from his first astonishment.

"Yes, and she seems little the worse for her experience," remarked Tubby. "It doesn't appear, though, that they are going to profit by their lesson of the other day, for there they go out to sea again."

"Probably consulted the glass this time," remarked Rob. "It read 'set fair' when we started out."

"Well, that's the only kind of weather for them," commented Merritt; "though as both Jack and Bill can swim, I wouldn't mind seeing them get a good ducking."

"I suppose the coincidence has struck you fellows, too?" remarked Rob suddenly, as he skillfully twisted and turned the dancing Flying Fish through the devious ways of the channel at low water.

"What on earth are you talking about?" demanded Merritt.

"Why, that it seems rather queer that Sam, who was round town desperately trying to raise money with which to get his boat out of pawn suddenly manages to redeem her, and that on the very day after the robbery of Captain Hudgins hut."

"By hookey, that's right!" shouted Tubby. "I'll bet your guess was correct, Rob—that gang of Jack's robbed the old captain."

"And stole our uniforms," put in Merritt.

"Yes; but how are we going to prove it?" was Rob's "cold water" comment which silenced further speculation for the time being. Each boy, however, determined then and there to do his share in running down the persons responsible for the vandalism.

By the time they got back to Hampton the news had spread among the entire Eagle Patrol, and an indignation meeting was called in the devastated armory. Mr. Blake entered in the midst of it, and offered, in conjunction with the rest of the local council, to furnish new uniforms. On the matter being put to a vote, however, the lads all agreed that it would be better not to accept such an offer till they had made a determined effort to run down the plunderers.

"Very well," said Mr. Blake; "your spirit does you great credit, and if you need any help, don't fail to call upon me at any time."

"Three cheers for Mr. Blake and the members of the council!" shouted Merritt, jumping on a chair.

They were given with such roof-raising effect, that people outside in the street, many of whom knew of the robbery, began to think that the uniforms must have been recovered.

As the lads surged out of the armory, all talking at once about the robbery and its likely results, whom should they encounter on the street but Jack Curtiss and his two chums, evidently, from the fact that they carried waterproof garments over their arms, just back from their trip in Sam's newly-recovered hydroplane.

It might have been fancy, but as the eyes of the Boy Scouts met those of the three lads who would have so much liked to belong to the organization, Rob thought that a look of embarrassment spread over Jack Curtiss' heavy features, and that even Bill Bender's brazen face took on a shade of pallor. If this were so, however, it could have been only momentary, for the next minute Jack, with what seemed very much overdone cordiality, came forward with:

"Why, hullo, boys. I just heard about your loss. Any news?"

"No, not a word," chirped little Joe Digby, one of the few lads in the Eagle Patrol who had never run afoul of the bully.

"Well," went on Jack, affecting not to notice the silence with which his advances had been greeted, "I hope you find the fellows who did it, whoever they were."

"Same here," chimed in Bill Bender, now quite at his ease, "although, at that, I guess it was only a joke, and you'll get 'em back again before long."

"Do you think so, Bill?" asked Merritt, looking the bully's crony steadily in the eye. "I hope so, I'm sure. By the way, Hiram Nelson here says that he saw you hurrying up Main Street at just about the time the robbery must have taken place. You didn't hear any unusual sounds or see anything out of the way, did you?"

"I—why, no—I—you see, I was on my way home from my aunt's home," stuttered Bill, seemingly taken off his guard.

"Yes; your aunt, who left home yesterday afternoon to be gone a week," shot out Merritt.

"Queer that she should have changed her mind and come home in such a hurry."

"Oh, come on, Bill," stuck in Sam, seeing that things were getting very unpleasant. "We've got to hurry up if we're to get out to Jack's in time."

Without another word, the three hurried off, seemingly not at all unrelieved to escape from what Merritt was pretty sure were embarrassing questions.



CHAPTER X

WINNING THE CONTEST

The day which was to witness the tests of the aeroplane models for the prizes offered by the professor of aeronautics dawned still and fair. It followed several days of storm, in which the boys had been unable to make any excursions in their motor boat, or into the country, or, indeed, even to devote any time to the engrossing subject of tracing the theft of the uniforms to its source.

Early in the morning a small field in the rear of Mr. Blake's house was well filled with boys of all ages and sizes, watching the contestants in the model contest trying out their craft. The models were of all sorts and sizes. Some were freak craft that had been constructed in a hurry from pictures, without any attention being paid to scale or proportions, while others were carefully made bits of mechanism.

Among the latter class were Paul Perkins' monoplane—Silver Arrow, he called it,—Hiram Nelson's two models, the monoplane of Tom Maloney, a lad of about sixteen, and Ed River's little duplicate of a Curtiss biplane. The contest was to take place on the Main Street of the town, in front of the bank, and in the middle of the course two poles had been erected, one on each side of the street, between which a brightly colored tape had then been strung, forming a sort of aerial hurdle. The tape was fifty feet above the ground, and to qualify at all it would be necessary for the contesting models to clear it.

The lecture which took place in the village hall came first and was well attended, most of the young folks of Hampton being there. If the truth must be told, however, while the lecturer was expounding his subject, illustrating it on the blackboard with chalk drawings, the majority of his young hearers were wishing that it was over and the contest really begun.

Especially was this true of the boys of the Eagle Patrol, who were every one of them anxious to see what kind of aeroplanes Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender would have produced. The lecture, however, at last came to an end, and the gentlemen on the platform shook hands with the professor and the professor shook hands with them, and somebody called for three cheers for "Hampton's distinguished son."

Everybody then lost no time in filing out into the afternoon sunlight, where they found quite a crowd already on the streets, and a small wooden grand stand, which had been erected near what was expected to be the finishing line, seating several guests. The committee and the professor, led by the Hampton brass band, blaring away at patriotic airs, made their way to the front seats in the structure, and everybody was requested to line up on each side of the street, so as to make a clear lane for the models to fly in.

The starting line was about a hundred yards from the red tape, and the contestants were compelled to stand back of this. Mr. Wingate, the president of the yacht club and member of the Boy Scout Council, had already shuffled the numbers of the contestants in a hat, and they were to fly their models in the order in which they drew their figures.

Up to this time there had been no sign of Jack Curtiss or Bill Bender, but the boys now saw them hastening up to a member of the committee and whispering to him. A moment later a man, with a megaphone boomed out from the grand stand:

"William Bender announces that he has withdrawn from the contest."

"Aha! I'll bet Jack's got cold feet, too," whispered Hiram, nudging Paul, who was kneeling down and winding up the long rubber bands which drove the propellers of the Silver Arrow, an Antoinette model.

But a short interval showed him to be mistaken, for Jack, with his usual confident air, repaired to the buggy in which he had driven into town from his father's farm, and speedily produced a model that caused loud sighs of "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" to circulate through the juvenile portion of the crowd.

However he had managed to accomplish it, the bully had certainly produced a beautiful model. It was of the Bleriot type, and finished perfectly down to the minutest detail. Every wire and brace on it was silvered with aluminum paint, and it even bore a small figure at its steering wheel. Beside it the other models looked almost clumsy.

The faces of the Boy Scouts fell.

"If that machine can fly as well as she looks," said Rob to Merritt, "she wins the first prize."

"Not a doubt of it," was Merritt's reply.

"Oh, well," put in Tubby, for the three inseparables were standing together, "if he can win the prize fairly, don't knock him. He certainly has built a beautiful machine. You've got to give him credit for that."

And now, as Jack, with a triumphant smile at the glances of admiration his model excited, strode to the starting point, elbowing small boys aside, and drew from the hat, the man with the megaphone once more arose. He held in his hand the result of the drawing and the order in which the models would fly.

"The f-i-r-s-t model to com-pete for the big p-r-ize," he bellowed, "will be that of Thomas Maloney—a Bler-i-ot!"

Poor Tom might have called his machine a Bleriot, but it is doubtful if the designer of the original machine of that name would have recognized the model as having any more than a distant relationship to the famous type of monoplane. It was provided with a large tin propeller, however, and seemed capable of at least accomplishing a flight. In fact, at the trials in the morning it had flown well, and by some of the lads was regarded as a sort of "dark horse." As Tom was on the village team, as opposed to the Boy Scout contingent, he was greeted with loud cheers and whistles by his friends as he stepped to the starting line, and, holding his already wound up machine in his hand, made ready to launch it.

"Crack!" went the pistol.

At the same instant Tom, with a thrusting motion, released his model; but, alas! instead of darting forward like the Sparrow Hawk it was named after, the craft ingloriously wobbled about eccentrically, and finally alighted on an old lady's bonnet, causing her to exclaim as the propeller whizzed round and entangled itself in her hair:

"No good'll ever come of teaching lads to meddle with these here contraptions."

The model having finally been extricated, amid much laughter, and poor Tom having offered mortified apologies, the announcer made known that Hiram Nelson's Doodlebug monoplane would essay a flight.

As the pistol sounded, Hiram launched his craft, and amid cheers from the crowd it soared up, and, just clearing the red tape, settled gracefully down a few feet the other side of the two hundred foot line.

"Good for you, Hiram!" exclaimed Ernest Thompson, the bike scout, who was acting as a patrol on the course. "Whose turn next?"

"You kids wait till I get my Bleriot started," sneered Jack. Several small boys near him, who were mortally afraid of the big fellow and rather admired him as being "manly," set up a cheer at this.

"Wait for Jack's dandy model to fly!" they cried.

"Edward Rivers—model of a Curtiss biplane!" came the next announcement through, the megaphone.

Another cheer greeted this, as young Rivers was also on the "town team."

The little Curtiss darted into the air at the pistol crack and flew straight as an arrow for the red tape. It cleared it easily and skimmed on down past the grand stand, and alighted, fluttering like a tired butterfly, beyond Hiram's model.

"Three hundred feet!" cried the announcer, amid a buzz of approval, after the measurers of the course had done their work.

"Paul Perkins—Bleriot!" was the next announcement.

A hum of excitement went through the crowds that lined the track. It began to look as if the record of Ed Rivers' machine would be hard to beat, but from the determined look on his face and his gritted teeth it was evident that Paul meant to try hard.

Before the report of the pistol had died out, the yellow-winged Dragonfly soared upward from Paul's hand and darted like a streak across the red tape, clearing it at the highest altitude yet achieved by any of the models.

"Hurrah!" yelled the crowd.

On and on sped the little Bleriot, while Paul watched it with pride-flushed cheeks. It was evident that it was going to out-distance the record made by Ed Rivers' machine. The Boy Scouts set up their Patrol cry:

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"

As the little machine settled to the ground, far beyond the grand stand, the officials ran out with their tapes, and presently the announcement came blaring down the packed ranks of the onlookers:

"Three hundred and fifty feet!"

What a cheer went up then.

"I guess you've got it won. Congratulations!" said Ed Rivers, pressing forward to Paul's side.

"Thanks, Ed," returned the other; "but 'there's many a slip,' you know, and there are several others to be flown yet."

Now came in rapid succession several of the smaller models and freak designs. Some of these wobbled through the air and landed in the crowd. Others sailed blithely up toward the red tape and just fell short of clearing it. Another landed right on the tape and hung there, the target of irreverent remarks from the crowd.

While this was going on, Bill Bender, Jack Curtiss and Sam were in close consultation.

"Remember, you promised that if you won the prize you'd give that money back," Sam whispered to Jack, "and for goodness' sake, don't forget it. I half believe that those boys suspect us already."

"Nonsense," returned the bully. "And what if they do? We covered up our tracks too well for them to have anything on us. They can't prove anything, can they?"

"I—I—I don't know," stammered Sam, and was about to say more, but the clarion voice of the announcer was heard informing the crowd that:

"John Curtiss' Bleriot model will now make a flight for the great prize."

With a confident smile on his face, Jack stepped forward and held his model ready. The murmur of admiration that had greeted its first appearance was repeated as he held it high in the sunlight and the afternoon rays glinted and shimmered on its fittings and wings.

"That's the model for my money," remarked a man in the crowd.

"It's going to win, too," said Jack confidently.

Just at that moment the pistol cracked, and Jack released his much-admired air craft.

Its flight showed that it was as capable of making as beautiful a soaring excursion as its graceful outlines and careful finish seemed to indicate. In a long, sweeping glide, it arose and cleared the red tape by a greater margin than had Paul Perkins' model.

"Jack Curtiss wins!" yelled the crowd, as the machine soared right on and did not begin its downward swoop for some distance. After it had alighted and the measurers had laid their tapes on the course, the announcer megaphoned, amid a perfect tornado of roars and cheers:

"The last flight, ladies and gentlemen—and apparently the winning one—accomplished the remarkable distance of four hundred and fifty feet—four hundred and fifty feet."

"Three cheers for Jack Curtiss!" shouted Bill Bender, slapping Jack heartily on the back and giving most of the cheers himself.

"I guess those cubs won't be quite so stuck up now," commented Sam, shaking Jack's hand warmly.

"I was pretty sure I'd win," modestly remarked the bully, as he began shouldering his way through the press toward the judges' stand. He was closely followed by the boys, as it looked as if Paul Perkins might have won the second prize and Ed Rivers the third.

Urged by Bill Bender, the band began puffing away at "See, the Conquering Hero Comes," and Jack, nothing averse to appearing in such a role, bowed gracefully right and left to the admiring throngs.

The professor shook hands warmly with the victorious Jack, and remarked:

"You are to be congratulated, young man. I have rarely seen a better model, and your skill does you great credit. Are you thinking of taking up aeronautics seriously?"

The bully, his face very red, stammered that he had entertained some such thoughts.

The professor was about to reply, when there came a sudden sound of confusion among that portion of the crowd which had surrounded the delegates deputed to pick up the aeroplanes and bring them to the stand. This was in order that they might be exhibited as each prize was awarded. A small boy with a very excited face was seen struggling to get through the mass, and he finally gained the judges' stand. As he faced the congratulatory professor he stuttered out:

"Please, sir, there's something wrong about Jack Curtiss' machine."

"What do you mean, you impudent young shaver!" shouted the bully, turning white, nevertheless.

"Let the lad speak," said Mr. Blake, who as one of the committee was standing beside the professor. "What is it, my boy? Let me see. You're Joe Digby, of the Eagle Patrol, aren't you."

"Yes, sir; and I live out on a farm near Jack Curtiss. I was watching him fly his machine this morning, from behind a hedge, and I heard them saying something about 'their store-made machine beating any country boy's model.'"

"He's a young liar! Pay no attention to him," stammered Jack, licking his dry lips.

"Silence, sir!" said Mr. Blake gravely. "Let us listen to what this boy has to say. If he is not speaking the truth, you can easily disprove it. Go on, my boy."

"Well, I guess that's about all I know about it: but I thought I ought to tell you, sir," confusedly concluded the small lad.

"You young runt, I'll half kill you if I catch you alone!" breathed Jack, under his breath, as the lad sped off to join his companions.

"Of course, you are not going to pay any attention to that kid's—I mean boy's—story," demanded Jack, addressing the professor. "It's made out of whole cloth, I assure you."

In the meantime the machines had been brought to the grand stand and were being examined. Naturally, after young Digby's statement, Jack's was one of the first to be scrutinized. The committee turned it over and over, and were about to pass on it, when Mr. Wingate, who had been bending attentively over the bully's model, gave a sudden exclamation.

"Look here, gentlemen," he cried, pointing to a small tag which Jack had evidently forgotten to remove, "I think this is conclusive evidence. Here is the label of the 'Manhattan Model Works' pasted right under this wing."

"Somebody must have put it there. It's a job those Boy Scouts put up on me," protested Tack. "I made that model every bit myself."

"I regret to say that we must regard the price tag as conclusive evidence that this machine comes from a store," said the professor sternly, handing Jack his unlucky model. "You are disqualified for entering a machine not of your own workmanship.

"Stand back, please," he went on, as Jack tried to protest. "I want to say," he went on in a loud tone, holding up his hand to command attention, "that there has been a grave mistake made. The machine which actually flew the longest distance is disqualified, as it was made at a New York model factory. The first prize of fifty dollars, therefore, goes to Paul Perkins, of the Boy Scouts, the second to Edward Rivers, of Hampton, and the third to Hiram Green, also of the Boy Scouts.

"Hold on one minute," he shouted, as the crowd began to cheer and hoot. "There is an additional announcement to be made. The committee has decided to offer a further reward of five dollars to Thomas Maloney, whose model shows evidence of praiseworthy and painstaking work."

As the cheers broke loose once more, Jack Curtiss and his cronies slunk off through the crowd, and having placed the rejected model in the buggy, drove off into the country in no very amiable or enviable frame of mind.

"Well, you made a fine mess of it," grumbled Bill Bender savagely. "I told you to look carefully and see that all the tags were off it."

"It's no more my fault than yours," grated out Jack, lashing the horse savagely, to work off some of his rage. "It's all the fault of those young cubs of Rob Blake's. Let them look out, though, for I'll get even with them before long, and in a way that will make them sit up and take notice."

"Don't forget that young mischief maker, Joe Digby," suggested Bill Bender. "It was all his fault—the young spy!"

"Oh, I'll attend to him," Jack assured his chum, with a grating laugh that boded no good for the youngest member of the Eagle Patrol.



CHAPTER XI

A FORTUNATE DISCOVERY

"Want to go fishing?" Rob inquired over the telephone of Merritt Crawford a few days later.

"Sure," was the response.

"We can run into Topsail Island and get a site for the camp picked at the same time," suggested Rob.

"Bully! I'll meet you at the wharf. Going to bring Tubby?"

"You bet! We'll be there in ten minutes."

"All right. Good-by."

At the time set the three boys met on the wharf of the yacht club, and were speedily ready to start on their trip. Rob brought along bluefish squids and lines, and Tubby—never at a loss to scare up a hurried lunch—had a basket full of good things to eat.

The run to the island was made without incident, and the boys were glad to see that, contrary to the captain's fears, his dog Skipper was all right again, for the animal came bounding and barking down the wharf as they drew near, in token of his gladness to see them.

Attracted by his dog's barking, the old captain, who was at work in a small potato patch he cultivated, came hobbling to meet the boys as they tied up and disembarked.

"Well, well, boys; come ter stay?" he cheerily remarked, as the three lads shook hands.

"No, we're off after 'blues,"' said Rob; "but we thought we'd drop in and see how things are coming along with you, and if you have heard any news yet concerning the robbery."

"Not a thing, boys, not a thing," said the old man. "In fact, I haven't left the island since my old safe was busted open. Skipper, as yer see, got over his sickness. It's my belief that them fellers fed him poisoned meat or something."

"I shouldn't wonder," remarked Rob dryly. "It would be quite in their line."

"By the way," exclaimed the old man suddenly, "a queer thing happened the other day. Skipper had been a-skirmishin' round the other side uv the island after rabbits and critters, and he brought home this— Wait a minute and I'll show it to yer."

After some fumbling in his pocket, the old man produced a torn strip of yellow material with a brass button attached to it.

"I wonder where that come from," he remarked, as he handed the fragment to Rob for his inspection.

"Why, it's khaki," exclaimed Rob, as he felt it. "And, by hokey!" he ejaculated the next instant, "it's a piece of a Boy Scout uniform!"

Old Skipper was jumping about in great excitement, and endeavoring to sniff the bit of torn material as Rob examined it, and a sudden idea struck the boy.

"I wonder if Skipper could pilot us to where he found this bit of material."

"Are you sure it's a bit of uniform?" asked Tubby doubtfully.

"Certain of it. No one else wears khaki in these parts. Hey, Skipper, hey, good dog! Sic 'em, sic 'em!" cried Rob, holding up the khaki for the intelligent creature to see.

The animal seemed to be greatly excited and gave short, quick barks as he danced about the boys.

"Well, we might try and see if he will lead us anywhere." remarked Merritt somewhat dubiously. "At any rate, there's no harm done, except wasting a little time; and if we can get on the track of our uniforms, it's not such a much of a waste, after all."

"He sure wants ter be off somewhere," observed the old captain, watching the antics of his dog, whom he regarded in the light of a human being. "He never acts nor talks that way unless he's got suthin' on his mind. Yer boys follow him, and I'll bet he'll lead yer ter suthin'. It may be nothin' more than a dead rabbit, and it may be what ye think. I'll stay here an' dig my pertaters, fer my rheumatiz is powerful bad today."

"Very well, captain. We shan't be long," rejoined Rob, calling to the dog. "Hey, Skipper, hey, old boy! After 'em, Skipper—after 'em!"

The dog bounded on ahead of the three boys, occasionally looking back to see if they were following and then plunging on again.

"As the Captain said, he 'sure has got suthin' on his mind'!" laughed Merritt.

After traversing about a mile of beach, the dog suddenly bounded into a thicket overhanging the shore and began barking furiously.

"He's treed something, all right," remarked Rob, pushing the branches aside.

The next minute he gave a loud shout of triumph.

"Look there, boys! Old Skipper sure did 'have suthin' on his mind'!"

Peering over Rob's shoulder, the other two were able to make out two hidden sacks, the mouth of one of which had been torn open, evidently by the investigating Skipper.

From the aperture appeared the torn sleeve of a Boy Scout's uniform, and a brief searching of the sacks after they had been lugged out on the beach revealed the entire stolen equipment.

"Bones for you, Skipper, for the rest of your life!" promised Tubby, as the dog, evidently well pleased with the petting he received and the admiration showered upon him, pranced about on the beach and indulged in a hundred antics.

The only one of the uniforms damaged was the one that Skipper had torn. The others were all intact, but badly crumpled, having been hastily thrust into the sacks, and, as it appeared, tamped down to make them fit more compactly.

"Well, what do you know about that?" was Merritt's astonished exclamation, as one by one Rob drew forth the regimentals and laid them on the beach.

"You mean what does Jack Curtiss and Company know about that," seriously returned Rob.

"However, we found them—that's one thing to be enthusiastic over," observed Tubby sagely.

"I'd like just as well almost to find out exactly who hid them there," was Merritt's reply.

"The same folks that stole the old captain's seventy-five dollars, I guess," returned Rob, thrusting the garments back into the sacks preparatory to carrying them to the boat. "Here, Tubby, you carry this one—it'll take some of that fat off you to do a hike along the beach with it. I'll shoulder this one."

"Well, boys, yer certainly made a haul, thanks ter old Skipper here," declared Captain Job, after the delighted boys had made known their discovery. "He's a smart one, I tell yer. No better dog ever lived."

"That's what we think," agreed Merritt warmly, patting old Skipper's black and white head.

The recovery of the uniforms had quite put all thoughts of blue or any other fishing out of the boys' heads, and after bidding farewell to the captain, who promised to point out to them a good site for a camp on their next visit, they made their best speed back to Hampton. On their way to the armory they spread the news of their discovery broadcast, so that in a short time the town was buzzing with the information that the Boy Scouts' lost uniforms had been found under most surprising circumstances; and the editor of the Hampton News, who was just going to press, held his paper up till he could get in an item about it.

It was this item that caught Jack Curtiss' eye, the next morning as he and Bill Bender and Sam were seated in Bill's "club room."

"Confound those brats, they seem always to be putting a spike in our schemes!" muttered Jack, as he handed the paper to Bill for that worthy's perusal. "Which reminds me," he went on, "that we haven't attended to the case of that young Digby yet."

"I wish you'd leave those kids alone for a while, Jack," objected Sam, in his usual whining tones. "You've had your fun with them. They've had to do without their uniforms for a long time. Now let up on them, won't you?"

"Oh, you're feeling friendly toward 'em, now, are you?" sneered Jack.

"Oh, no, it isn't that," Sam hastened to assure him; "nothing of the kind. What I mean is that we are liable to get into serious trouble if we keep on this way. I saw Hank Handcraft the other day, and I can tell you he's in no very amiable mood. He wants his money for the other night, he says, and he intimated that if he didn't get it he'd make things hot for us."

"He'd better not," glowered Bill Bender, looking up from his paper. "We know a few things about friend Hank."

"Yes, and he knows a good deal about us that wouldn't look well in print," retorted Sam gloomily. "I wish I'd never gone into that thing the other night."

"Pshaw, it was just borrowing a little money from the old man, wasn't it?" snorted Jack. "We'll pay it back some time."

"When we get it," rejoined Sam more gloomily than ever; "and I don't see much immediate chance of that."

"Oh, well, cheer up; we'll get it all right somehow," Jack assured him. "And in connection with that I've got a scheme. Why shouldn't we three fellows go camping after the motor-boat races?"

"Go camping—where?" asked Bill, looking up surprised.

"Well, I would have suggested Topsail Island, but those pestiferous kids are going there, I hear. However, there are plenty of other islands right inside the Upper Inlet. What's the matter with our taking possession of one of those?"

The Upper Inlet was a sort of narrow and shallow bay a short distance above Topsail Island, and was well known to both Bill and Jack, who had been there in the winter on frequent ducking expeditions.

"We might as well do something like that before school opens," said Sam. "I think that Jack's suggestion is a pretty good one."

"I don't know that it's so bad myself," patronizingly admitted Bill; "but what connection has that with your scheme for getting money, Jack?"

"A whole lot," replied the bully. "I'm going to get even with that young Digby if it takes me a year. He cost me the fifty-dollar prize, and, beside that, all the kids in the village now call me 'cheater,' and hardly anybody will have anything to do with me."

"Well, how do you propose to get even by going camping?" inquired Bill.

"I plan to take that Digby kid with me," rejoined Jack calmly.

"You're crazy!" exclaimed Bill. "Why, we'd have the whole country after us for kidnapping."

"Oh, I've got a better plan than that," laughed Jack coolly, "and we won't need to be mixed up in it at all. It'll all come back on Hank Handcraft, I owe him a grudge for bothering me about money, anyhow, the old beach-combing nuisance!"

"But where do we come in to get any benefit out of it?" demanded Sam.

"I'll explain that to you later," said Jack grandiloquently. "I haven't quite worked out all the details yet; but if you'll meet me here this evening I'll have them all hot and smoking for you."



CHAPTER XII

JACK FORMS A PLOT

The next morning Jack lost no time in making his way toward Hank Handcraft's tumble-down abode. He found its owner in, and likewise disposed to be quarrelsome.

"'Oh, here you are at last!" exclaimed the hairy and unkempt outcast, as the bully approached heavily through the yielding sand. "I'd about given you up, and was seriously contemplating making a visit to your home—"

"If you ever did," breathed Jack threateningly.

"Well," grinned Hank impudently, with his most malicious chuckle, "if I did, what then?"

"I'd have you thrown out of the house," calmly replied Jack, seating himself on a big log of driftwood, once the rib of a schooner that went ashore on the dangerous shoals off Hampton and pounded herself to pieces.

"Oh, no; you wouldn't have me thrown out!" chuckled Hank, resuming his task of scaling a mackerel. "Cause if you did, I'd go to the chief of police and tell him something about the robbery of the armory and the cracking of old man Hudgins' safe."

"You wouldn't dare to do that!" sneered Jack. "You are implicated in that as badly as we are."

"That's a matter of opinion," rejoined Hank, industriously scraping away at his fish, and showing no trace of any emotion in his pale eyes. "Anyhow, what I want right now is some cash. You agreed to pay me well for what I did the other night, and I haven't seen the money yet."

"Be a little patient, can't you?" irritably retorted the other. "Money doesn't grow on trees. Now listen, Hank. How would you like to get a nice little sum of money—more than I could give you—for camping out on Kidd's Island, in the Upper Inlet, for a few days?"

Hank's fishy eyes showed some trace of feeling at this.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Is this a new joke you're putting up on me?"

"No, I am perfectly serious. You can make a good sum by following our directions, and I'll see that you get into no trouble over it."

"Well, if you can do that, I'll keep my mouth shut," chuckled Hank in his mirthless way; "but if I don't get some money pretty quick, I'm going to make trouble fer somebody, I tell you!"

"Haven't you got some place where we can talk that is less exposed than this?" said Jack, looking about him apprehensively.

"Sure, there's my mansion," grinned Hank, pointing over his shoulder with a fishy thumb.

"That's the place," said Jack, "although I wish you'd clean it out occasionally. Now listen, Hank, here's the plan—"

Still talking, the ill-assorted pair entered the ruinous shack.

* * * * * *

Motor-boat engines were popping everywhere. The club house was dressed in bright-colored bunting from veranda rail to ridge pole. Ladies strolled about beneath their parasols with correctly dressed yachtsmen, asking all sorts of absurd questions about the various boats that lay ready to take part in the various events. It was the day of the Hampton Yacht Club's regatta.

Among the throng the Boy Scouts threaded their way, watching with interest the events as they were run off, one after the other. But their minds were centered on the race for the trophy which, although there were several other entries, had been practically conceded to Sam Redding's hydroplane.

"She's a wonder," said one of the onlookers, pointing from the porch to the float, where Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Sam were leaning over their speedy craft, stripping her of every bit of weight not absolutely necessary. On the opposite side of the float the crew of the Flying Fish, the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore were equally busy over their craft.

"Douse the engine with oil," directed Rob, as Merritt gave the piece of machinery a final inspection; "and how about that extra set of batteries?"

"They're aboard," rejoined Tubby, who was perspiringly removing cushions and other surplus gear from the fleet boat.

"That's right; if it comes to an emergency, we may need them," said Rob. "Nothing like being prepared."

"Do you think we have any show?" asked Tubby, who was to be a sort of general utility man in the crew. Rob was to steer.

"I don't see why not," rejoined the other, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste. "The race is a handicap one, and we get an allowance on account of our engine not being as powerful as the hydroplane's."

The course to be run was a sort of elongated, or isosceles triangle. The turning point was at the head of the inlet, a buoy with a big red ball on it being placed just inside the rough waters of the bar. It made a course of about five miles. The race for the Hampton Motor Boat Club's cup, for which the boys and the others were entered, was twice round.

The waters about the club house were so dotted with motor craft which darted about in every direction that Commodore Wingate of the club and the other regatta officials had a hard time keeping the course clear for the contestants. On the threat, however, that the races would be called off if a clear course was not kept, order was finally obtained.

The boys were too busy to pay much attention to the results of the other races, but a member of the club who had won the Blake trophy for the cabin cruiser boats, warned the boys to beware of the turn above the far buoy.

"It's choppy as the dickens there," he said, as he made his way to the club house, "and you want to take the turn easily. Don't 'bank' it, or you'll lose more than you gain."

The boys thanked him for his advice, and laid it to heart to be used when the race was on.

Sam's boat having been tuned up to the last notch of readiness, Jack Curtiss strolled consequentially about on the float, making bets freely on the hydroplane's chance of winning.

"I'll bet you twenty-five to any odds you like that the hydroplane wins the race," he said, addressing Colin Maxwell, the son of a well-to-do merchant from a neighboring town. Young Maxwell had heard nothing of Jack's mean trick in the aeroplane contest, and therefore didn't mind talking to him.

"I like the look of the Flying Fish pretty well," was the response, "and I'll take you up. You'll have to give me odds, though."

"Oh, certainly," responded the bully, with a confident grin; "twenty-five to thirty, say."

"Make it thirty-five."

"All right; done," said Jack. "You know me, of course; no necessity of putting up the money."

"Oh, not the least," rejoined the other politely, though had he known the state of Jack's finances he might have thought differently.

The bully went about making several bets at similar odds, until finally Bill Bender came up behind him and in a low voice warned him to be careful.

"What are you going to do if we lose?" he breathed. "You haven't got a cent to pay with."

"Oh, it's like taking gum from a busted slot machine," rejoined the bully, with a laugh. "They can't win. We know what their boat can do, and the race is practically conceded to us. Besides—" he placed his hand close to Bill's ear and whispered a few minutes. "I guess that's a bad scheme, eh?" he resumed in a louder tone, though his voice was still pitched too low for those about to hear him. "If it's done right, we'll ram them and it'll never be noticed."

"Hum, I'm not so sure," grunted Bill. "However, if we really perceive we are losing, I don't see what else we are to do. Are you going to steer?"

"Sure. Sam lost his nerve at the last moment—like him, eh? It's a good thing, though, I'm to be at the wheel, because I don't think Sam would have had the courage to carry out my plan."

"Not he," said Bill, with a shrug. "He's got the backbone of a snail."

More of this interesting conversation was cut short by the "bang" of the pistol which warned the contestants of the racing boats to get ready.

"The race for the Hampton Yacht Club's trophy will take place in five minutes!" cried the announcer.

The five contestants cast off from the float and slowly chugged out to a position in the rear of the starting line and behind the committee boat. Then came the nervous work of awaiting the starting gun. The boys had all donned slickers, and the crew of the hydroplane wore rubber coats which covered them completely. A sort of spray hood had been erected over the hydroplane's engines.

"That means she's going to do her best," remarked Rob, pointing to this indication that great speed was expected. "That's what we want to do, too, isn't it?"

At last came the gun that started off the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore, which were all of about the same speed.

"Our turn next," said Rob, who had previously received his instructions from the committee.

"Well, I'm all ready," said Merritt, nervously twisting a grease cup.



CHAPTER XIII

THE "FLYING FISH" ON HER METTLE

"Bang!"

With a nervous twitch, Rob threw in the first speed clutch, for the engine had been kept running on her neutral speed, and was able to take up way as soon as the propeller began to "bite."

Rapidly the boy increased the speed up to the third "forward," and the Flying Fish darted through the water like a pickerel after a fat frog.

"Bang!" came behind them once more, as the sound of the cheers which greeted them as they shot across the line grew faint.

"Crouch low!" shouted Rob back to his crew. "We'll need every inch of advantage we can get."

The white spray shot in a perfect fountain from the sharp bow of the Flying Fish, and her every frame and plank quivered under the vibration of her powerful engine.

"She's doing better than she ever did!" shouted Merritt to Tubby, who crouched in the center of the boat, ready to take any part in an emergency.

The other nodded and kept his eyes ahead on the white wake of the other three craft.

Suddenly the Albacore began to fall back. As the Flying Fish roared by her, Rob heard a shout of something about "missing fire."

A steady downpour of spray was drenching the occupants of the racer, but they paid scant heed to it. Rob dived in his pockets and put on a pair of goggles. The spray was blinding him. He waved to Tubby to go further astern and keep the rear part of the boat well down when they made the sharp turn at the red buoy.

In an incredibly short time, it seemed, the turning buoy faced them. Rob set his wheel over and spun the Flying Fish through the rougher water at the mouth of the inlet at as sharp an angle as he dared. In a few seconds more they had passed the Snark and the Bonita, which were racing bow and bow. The crew of the Flying Fish, though, knew that both boats had a time allowance over them, so that the mere passing didn't mean much, unless they could increase the lead.

Faster and faster the boy's craft forged ahead. A thrill shot through Rob's frame. The Flying Fish was showing what she was made of.

But as he turned his head swiftly he saw that the hydroplane had rounded the stake and was coming down the straight stretch of water like an express train. A great wave of water shot out on either side of her bow. So low in the water had her powerful engines dragged her that she seemed to be barely on the surface, and yet, as the boys knew, she was actually "coasting" over the surface.

Try as he would, Rob could not get an ounce more speed out of the Flying Fish, and as the speedy hydroplane roared by them they heard a mocking shout from her crew.

Rob, more determined than ever to stick it out, sent the Flying Fish plunging at top speed through the wash of the speedy craft, hoping to keep up the distance between them at least equal. But as he saw the hydroplane gradually drawing away and heard the great roar that went up from the thrilled spectators as she shot by the club house, his heart sank.

It looked as if the Plying Fish was beaten. And now the club house loomed near once more.

"Go on, Plying Fish, go on!"

"You've got a time allowance on her!"

"Push along, Rob!"

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"

A tumult of other shouts roared in Rob's ears as they tore past the crowded porch.

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" screamed back Merritt and Tubby, with waves of the hand to the brown uniformed figures they could see perched on every point of vantage.

Suddenly the Flying Fish began to creep up on the hydroplane, which had slowed down for some reason.

"Hurrah! We've got'em now!" shouted Merritt, as he saw, far ahead, Jack and the other two occupants of the seeming winner leaning over the craft's engine, the hood having been raised.

Rob said nothing, but with burning eyes clung to the wheel and shot the Flying Fish straight ahead on her course.

As they thundered past the hydroplane, the slender craft lay almost motionless on the water, with a great cloud of blue smoke tumbling out of her exhausts.

"Looks like they've flooded her cylinder," said Merritt, observing these signs.

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"

It was Tubby giving utterance triumphantly to the Eagle scream.

Jack Curtiss straightened up angrily as he heard, his face black and greasy from his researches into the engine. He shook a menacing fist at the others as they tore by. The next minute, however, a quick look back by Rob showed that the hydroplane was coming ahead again, and that the engine trouble, whatever it was, had been adjusted.

As they neared the turning point, Rob saw, to his dismay, that the hydroplane was creeping up faster and faster. It was the last lap, and if Sam Redding's boat passed them at the stake the race was as good as over.

"Come on, Flying Fish! Come on!" shouted Rob, as the hydroplane crept ever nearer and nearer to his boat's stern.

Rob noticed, as he swung a trifle wide of the stake raft, that it seemed to be the intention of Jack Curtiss, who was at the wheel, to swing the hydroplane round the sharp angle of the course inside of the Flying Fish. Guessing that this would mean disaster to her ill-advised occupants, he waved his hand at them to keep out.

"When we need your advice we'll send for it. This is the time we've got you!" yelled Jack Curtiss, bending low over his wheel, as he grazed by the Flying Fish's stern to take the inside course.

At the same instant, so quickly that the boys did not even get a mental picture of it, the hydroplane overturned.

Taking the curve at such a speed and at such a sharp angle had, as Jack had surmised, proved too much for her stability. Her occupants were pitched struggling into the water.

"Shall we pick them up?" yelled Merritt.

"No," shouted Rob; "they've all got life belts on. A launch from the club will get them."

Indeed, as he spoke a launch was seen putting off to the rescue. The accident had been witnessed from the club, and as the water was warm, the boys were satisfied that no harm would come to the three from their immersion.

But the delay almost proved fatal to the Flying Fish's chance of winning. Close behind her now came creeping up the speedy Albacore.

But a few hundred feet before the finish the Flying Fish darted ahead once more, and shook off her opponent amid a great roar of yells and whoops and cheers. An instant later she shot across the line—a winner.

"Bang!" went the gun, in token that the race was finished.

"I congratulate you," said Commodore Wingate, as the boys brought their craft up to the float. "It was a well-fought race."

And now came the captains of the Albacore, Snark and Bonita.

"You won the race fairly and squarely," said the former, shaking Rob's hand. "I presume, commodore, the time was taken?"

"It has been," replied that official. "The Flying Fish wins by one minute and four and seven hundredths seconds."

More cheers greeted this announcement, mingled with laughter and some sympathy, as the club launch, towing the capsized hydroplane, puffed up to the float. From the launch emerged three crestfallen figures with dripping garments. But wet as he was, Jack Curtiss was not going to surrender the race without a protest.

"A foul! We claim a foul! The Flying Fish fouled us!" he shouted.

"My dear young man," calmly replied the commodore, "I was watching you every foot of the way through binoculars, and I should rather say that you fouled the Flying Fish. Anyhow, you should have better sense than to try to shave round that turn so closely."

More mortified, and angrier than ever, Jack strode off to put on dry clothes, followed by his equally chagrined companions, who, however, had sense enough now not to make any protests. They knew well enough that Jack, in his hurry to grab the prize, had attempted a foolish and dangerous thing which had cost them the race.

"A great race, a great race," said Mr. Blake, as the boys, followed by the crowd, entered the club house, where the awards were to be distributed. "You boys certainly covered yourselves with glory," he went on.

"Yes, and here is your reward. I hope it will stimulate you to put up a fine defense for it next year," said Commodore Wingate, handing to the elated boys a fine engraved silver cup, the trophy of the Hampton Yacht Club.

"Get up and make a speech!" shouted some one.

The boys felt inclined to run for it.

"Go ahead! Make some sort of a talk," urged Rob, helping Tubby on to the platform from which the prizes had been handed out.

"Ladies and gentlemen," puffed the stout youth, "we want to thank you for your congratulations and thank the club for the fine cup. Er—er—er—we thank you."

And having made what was perhaps quite as good a speech as some of his elders', Tubby stepped down amid loud and prolonged cheering.

Up in the dressing room Jack and his cronies, changing into other, garments, heard the sounds of applause.

"It's high time something was done," said Bill, as he gazed from a window at several of the yacht club attendants bailing out the unlucky hydroplane. "Those young beggars will be owning the town next."



CHAPTER XIV

THE EAGLES IN CAMP

The next few days were full of excitement and preparation for the Boy Scouts. Their headquarters resounded all day to the tramp of feet, and the Manual of Instructions was consulted day and night. The official tents had arrived, and every boy in the Patrol was eager for the time to arrive to put them up. So much so that two or three confessed that they could hardly sleep at night in their impatience for the hour when the embarkation for Topsail Island was to take place.

Besides the tents, there was much other equipment to be overhauled and set in order, for, before their departure, the boys were to be reviewed by their scout master and a field secretary from New York. There were haversack straps to be replaced, laces mended, axes sharpened, "Billys" polished and made to shine like new tin, and a hundred and one things to be done. At last, however—although it seemed that it would never come—the eventful Monday arrived, as eventful days of all kinds have a habit of doing; and the Eagle Patrol, spick and span and shining from tan boots to campaign hats, fell in line behind the band. Proudly they paraded up the street, with their green and black Eagle Patrol sign fluttering gallantly in the van.

The "reviewing stand" was the post-office steps, around which most of the citizens of Hampton and the proud parents and relatives of the young scouts were assembled.

Plenty of applause greeted them, as, in response to Rob's orders, given in the sharp, military manner, they drew up in line and gave the Boy Scout's salute. This done, the young scouts went through a smart drill with the staffs they carried. Then, after saluting once more, and being warmly complimented on their appearance by the field secretary, they marched off to the wharf where they were to embark for their camp.

The day before Merritt, Hiram Nelson, Paul Perkins and the three "tender feet"—Martin Green, Walter Lonsdale and Joe Digby—had been told off by Rob as on "pioneer service"; that is to say, that they had gone down to the island in the Flying Fish. Arrived there, they selected a good spot for the camp, aided by Commodore Wingate's and Captain Hudgins' suggestions, and set up the tents and made the other necessary preparations. The camp was therefore practically ready, for the "army" to move into.

At Tubby's special request, a list of the rations for the week's camp had been made out by Rob and affixed to the bulletin board in the headquarters of the Eagles. As perhaps some of my young readers may care to know what to take on a similar expedition, is the list, exclusive of meat, which was to be brought from the mainland, and fish, which they expected to catch themselves:

Oatmeal, 8 lbs.; rice, 4 lbs.; crackers, 35 lbs.; chocolate, 1 1-2 lbs.; tea, 3 lbs; coffee, 1 lb.; lard, 6 lbs.; sugar, 8 lbs.; condensed milk, 10 cans; butter, 4 lbs.; eggs, 12 dozen; bacon, 20 lbs.; preserves, 14 jars; prunes, 8 lbs.; maple syrup and molasses, 4 quarts; potatoes, 1 bushel; white beans, 6 quarts; canned corn, 6 tins; canned tomatoes, 6 tins; flour, 35 lbs.; baking powder, 2 lbs.; salt, 4 lbs.; pepper, 2 ounces.

"Well," Tubby had remarked, as he gazed attentively at the list, "we won't starve, anyhow."

"I should say not," laughed Rob; "and besides all that, I've got lots of lines and squids, and the blues and mackerel are running good."

"Can't I take along my twenty-two rifle—that island's just swarming with rabbits, and I think I heard some quail when we were there the other day," pleaded Merritt.

"Not in season," answered Rob laconically. "Laws not up on them till November."

"Oh, bother the law!" blurted out Merritt. "However, I suppose if there wasn't one there wouldn't be any rabbits left."

"I guess you're right," agreed Tubby. "Still, it does seem hard to have to look at them skip about and not be able to take a shot at them."

"Maybe we can set a springle and snare some," hopefully suggested Tubby, as a way out of the difficulty; "that wouldn't be as bad as shooting them, you know, and I can build a springle that will strangle them instantaneously."

"No fair, Tubby," laughed Rob. "You know, a boy scout promises to obey the law, and the game law is as much a law as any other."

Arrived at the L wharf, the boys found the Flying Fish and Captain Hudgins' Barracuda waiting for them. With much laughter they piled in—their light-heartedness and constant joking reminding such onlookers, as had ever seen the spectacle, of a band of real soldiers going to the front or embarking for foreign stations.

With three ear-splitting cheers and a final yell of, "Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" the little flotilla got under way.

They arrived at the camping ground at the northeast end of the island before noon, and found that the "pioneers" appointed by Rob had done their work well. Each tent was placed securely on a level patch of sandy ground, cleared from brush and stamped flat. The pegs were driven extra deep in anticipation of a gale, and an open cook tent, with flaps that could be fastened down in bad weather, stood to one side.

A small spring had been excavated by the pioneers, and an old barrel sunk in place, which had filled in the night and now presented sparkling depths of cool, clear water.

"I suppose that water is all right, captain?" inquired Leader Rob, with a true officer's regard for his troops.

"Sweet as a butternut, son," rejoined the old man. "Makes the sick strong and the strong stronger, as the medicine advertisements say."

For the present, the cooking was to be done on a regular camp fire which was built between two green logs laid lengthwise and converging toward the end. The tops of these had, under Commodore Wingate's directions, been slightly flattened with an axe. At each end a forked branch had been set upright in the ground, with a green limb laid between them. From this limb hung "cooking hooks," consisting of green branches with hooked ends at one extremity to hang over the long timber, and a nail driven in the other from which to hang the pots.

"That's the best form of camp fire, boys," said Commodore—or perhaps we would better call him scout master now—Wingate, who had accompanied the boys to see them settled. "Now, then, the next thing to do is to run up the Stars and Stripes and plant the Eagle flag. Then you'll be all O.K."

Little Andy Bowles made the woods behind them echo with the stirring call of "assembly," and halliards were reeved on a previously cut pole, about fifteen feet in height. The Stars and Stripes were attached, and while the whole company stood at attention and gave the scout salute, Scout Master Wingate raised the colors. Three loud, shrill cheers greeted Old Glory as it blew bravely out against the cloudless blue.

"That's a pretty sight now, shiver my timbers if it ain't," observed old Captain Hudgins, who had stood, hat in hand, during the ceremony. "I've seen Old Glory in many a foreign port, and felt like takin' off my hat and givin' three cheers fer the old flag; but I never seen her look better or finer than she does a-streakin' out from that there bit of timber."

"Now, Patrol cooks," was Scout Master Wingate's next command, "it's only an hour to dinner time, and we want the first mess to be right. Come on, and we'll get the pot boiling."

Cook duty fell that day to Hiram Nelson and Walter Lonsdale, and under the scout master's directions they soon had potatoes peeled, beans in water, and a big piece of stew meat chopped up with vegetables in a capacious pot.

After every errand to the store tent, Walter was anxious to know if it was not yet time to light the fire.

"Never be in a hurry to light your fire when you are in the woods," rejoined the scout master; "otherwise you will be so busy tending the fire you won't be able to prepare your food for cooking. Now we're all ready for the fire, though, and you can bring me some dry bark and small sticks from that pile of wood the pioneers laid in yesterday."

This was promptly done, and the lads watched the next step with interest. They saw the scout master take a tiny pile of the sticks and then light a roll of bark and thrust it into them.

"I thought you piled them up all criss-cross," remarked Hiram.

"No woodsman does that, my boy," was the rejoinder. "Now get me some larger timber from that pile, and I'll show you how to go about it like regular trappers."

The fire builder shoved the ends of the sticks into the blaze and then the bean pot was hung in place.

"We won't put the potatoes on now, as they take less time," he remarked; "those beans will take the longest."

Soon the heat was leaping up about the pots, and the cheerful crackle and incense of the camp fire filled the air. As the sticks burned down the scout master shoved the ends farther into the blaze, instead of throwing them on top of it.

"Now, then, boys, you've had your first lesson in camp fire making and cooking," he announced. "Now go ahead, and let's see what kind of a dinner you can produce. I'm going for a tour of exploration of the island."

Among the other things the pioneers had accomplished was the building of a table large enough to seat the entire Patrol, with planks set on logs as seats. Hiram put Walter to setting this, while he burned his fingers and smudged his face over his cookery. Long before the beans seemed any nearer to what experience taught the young cook they ought to be, Walter announced that the table was all set, with its tin cups and dishes and steel knives and forks.

Suddenly, while Hiram was considering putting the potatoes on their hook, there came from the rear of the store tent the most appalling succession of squeals and screams the boy had ever heard. Springing to his feet, he dashed to the scene of the conflict—for such it seemed to be though not without a heart that beat rather faster than usual. He bad no idea what the creatures could be that were producing all the uproar, and for all he knew they might have been bears.

Behind him came Walter, rather pale, but determined to do his best as a Boy Scout to fight off any wild beasts that might be attacking the camp. As he dashed behind the tent, however, Hiram was impelled to give a loud laugh. The contestants—for he had rightly judged they were in high dispute—were two small black pigs which had looted a bag of oatmeal from under the flap of the store tent and were busily engaged in fighting over their spoils.

"Get out, you brutes! Scat!" shouted the boy, bringing down a long-handled spoon he carried over the backs of the disputants.

The spoon, being almost red-hot, the clamor of the porkers redoubled, and with indignant squeals and grumblings they dashed off into the dense growth of scrub oak and pine that covered the island in its interior. At the same moment the captain, who had been taking a snooze under some small bushes, awoke with a start.

"Eh—eh—eh! What's all that?" he exclaimed, hearing the yells. "Why, it's that plagued Betsy and Jane, my two young sows," he cried the next moment. "Consarn and keelhaul the critters, they're breakin' out all the time. I reckon they're headed fer home now," he added, when Hiram related how he had scared them.

"I'm glad that they were nothing but pigs, captain," said Hiram, going back with flushed cheeks to his cookery. "I was afraid for a minute they were I hardly know what. We'll have to fix that store tent more snugly in future."

"And I'll have ter take a double reef in my pig Pen," chuckled the captain.



CHAPTER XV

THE CHUMS IN PERIL

Even the epicurean Tubby Hopkins voted dinner that day a great success, and Hiram, with becoming modesty, took his congratulations blushingly. In mid-afternoon, after seeing that the camp was in good working order, the scout masters started for the home shore in Captain Hudgins's boat, which was also to bring back some additional supplies for the next day.

After dinner Rob had assigned Merritt and Tubby to form a "fishing squad," to range seaward in the Flying Fish and "halt and detain" all the bluefish they could apprehend. The others were given the afternoon to range the island and practice up their woodcraft and landmark work, while Rob busied himself in his tent, which was equipped with a small folding camp table, in filling out his pink blank reports which were to be forwarded to Commodore Wingate and dispatched by him to the headquarters of the Boy Scouts in New York.

Merritt and Tubby were both ardent fishermen, and in response to Hiram's pleadings, they allowed him to accompany them on their expedition. The fish were running well, and the boys cast and pulled in some time without particularly noticing how far out to sea they had gone.

Suddenly the stout youth, who was fishing with an unusually heavy line and hook, felt a hard tug on his apparatus, so powerful a tweak, in fact, that it almost pulled him overboard. He tried to haul in, but the resistance on the other end of his line was so great that he was compelled to twist it about a cleat in order to avoid either letting go or being dragged into the sea.

"What in the name of Sam Hill have you hooked?" gasped Merritt, as the Flying Fish began to move through the water faster than even her engine could propel her.

"I've not the least idea," remarked Tubby placidly, "but I rather think it must be a whale."

"Whale nothing!" exclaimed Merritt scornfully and with superior wisdom. "Whales sound, don't they?"

"Well, there's not been a sound out of this one so far," truthfully observed Hiram.

"What kind of a sound do they make, corporal?"

"Oh, you chump," responded Merritt good-naturedly, "you've lived by the sea all your life, and you don't know how a whale sounds. Sound means when a whale blows, spouts, sends up a big fountain of water."

"Oh, I see," responded Hiram, much enlightened. "But see here, Merritt, whatever we are fast to is beginning to pick up speed pretty rapidly. Don't you think we'd better cut the line or try to haul in?"

"Haul in! Not much!" exclaimed Tubby indignantly. "We'll just hang on till we tire him out, that's what we'll do, and then haul in."

"But we're getting a good way out from shore," objected Hiram, who, however much at home he was at the key of a wireless apparatus, had no great relish for blue water in a small motor boat.

"Don't you worry, sonny," put in Merritt patronizingly. "We'll be all right. My, that was a plunge!"

As he spoke the bow of the Flying Fish dipped till she shipped a few gallons of green water.

"I'll pay out some more line," said the unperturbed Tubby. "I guess whatever we're onto begins to believe that he has swallowed something pretty indigestible."

Faster and faster the Flying Fish began to cut through the sea. The water sprayed out from both sides of her cutwater in a steady stream.

"She's doing as well as she did the day of the race," said Merritt, with a laugh, gazing at Hiram's rather pale face. The wireless youth was casting longing glances at the shore.

"Well, I wish Mr. Whale, or whatever he is, would come up and let us have a look at him!" exclaimed Tubby suddenly. "This is getting pretty monotonous."

As he spoke the boy paid nut a little more line. He had only just time to belay it round the cleat to avoid its being jerked out of his hand, so fast was the creature they had hooked now traveling.

"Say, Tubby," spoke Merritt at length, "I'm beginning to think myself that it might not be a bad idea to put back. Those clouds over there on the horizon look as if they meant trouble."

"Oh, let's keep it on a little while longer pleaded Tubby; cutting through the water like this, without any expenditure of gasoline or power, is the real luxurious way of ocean traveling. It beats the Mauretania. Just think if liners could hitch a whole team of things like whatever has got hold of us to their bows! Why, the Atlantic would be crossed in four days."

For some time longer the boat shot along over the waves, towed by its invisible force. The boys, with the exception of Tubby, began to get anxious. The shores of the mainland were dim in the distance behind them, and Topsail Island itself only showed as a dark blue dot.

Suddenly the motion ceased.

"He's free of the line!" shouted Hiram, inwardly much relieved to think they had got rid of what to him was an alarming situation.

"No, he's not," replied Tubby, bending over the line. "He's still fast to us. The line's as tight as a fiddle string."

He was standing up as he spoke, and as the Flying Fish gave a sudden, crazy jerk forward, he was almost thrown overboard. In fact, he would have toppled into the sea if Merritt had not bounded forward and grabbed the fleshy lad just as he was losing his balance.

"We're off again!" exclaimed Hiram, as the Flying Fish once more began to move through the water.

But now the creature that had seized Tubby's big hook started to move in circles. Round and round the Flying Fish was towed in dizzy swings that made the heads of her young occupants swim.

"Start the engine on the reverse, and see if that will do any good," said Tubby, bending anxiously over his line.

Merritt brought the reverse gear to "neutral," and then started it up, gradually bringing back the lever governing the reversing wheel till the Flying Fish was going second speed astern, and finally at her full gait backward.

The tug thus exercised seemed to have no effect on the monster that had caught Tubby's bait, however. With the exception that the speed was diminished a trifle, the Flying Fish was still powerless to shake off her opponent.

Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, a huge, shiny, wet body shot out of the water almost directly in front of the amazed and startled boys, and settled back with a mighty splash that sent the spray flying in a salt-water shower bath over their heads.

"Whatever was it?" gasped Hiram in awed tones.

"A shark," replied Merritt, "and a whopper, too. What are we going to do, Tubby—keep on or cut loose?"

"Just a little longer," pleaded the other. "He must be tiring by this time. If we can only wear him out, we can tow him ashore and make a little money out of him. You know shark skin is valuable."

"I'd rather have a whole skin of my own," quavered Hiram, who had been considerably alarmed by the momentary glimpse he had had of Tubby's quarry.

"He's off again!" shouted Merritt, as the sea tiger started straight ahead once more.

Suddenly the line slackened again.

"Look out!" Tubby had just time to shriek the warning before a mighty shock threw them all off their feet in a heap on the bottom of the boat.

"Zan-g-g-g!"

The line twanged and snapped under the sudden strain, and a great rush seaward showed the boys, as soon as they recovered their senses, that they had lost their shark.

"And a good line," moaned Tubby.

"What are you kicking about?" demanded Merritt. "It's a lucky thing the beast didn't start some plank of the boat when it charged; but as far as I can see, the Flying Fish stood the shock all right."

"It felt like an earthquake," murmured Hiram, whose face was white and eyes frightened.

"Well, I suppose we'd better head for home," said Tubby at length. "Those bluefish will go fine for supper."

"Spoken like a Tubby," laughed Merritt. "All right, I'll start up. Hullo—" he looked up with a puzzled face from the reverse lever. "I can't get her on the forward speed."

"What's the matter?" gasped Hiram.

"I don't know. Something's stuck. Shut off that engine, will you, Tubby, while I see?"

Tubby promptly shut down the motor, and Merritt struggled with the refractory lever. It was all in vain, however; he could not get it on the forward speed.

"I've got to investigate," puffed the perspiring corporal; "something must be wrong with the reversible propeller."

"Well, whatever you are going to do, hurry up about it," spoke Tubby, with unwonted sharpness in his tones.

"Why, what's the—" began Merritt.

Tubby checked him with a finger on his lips.

"Don't scare the kid," he whispered, leaning forward, "but we're in for a storm."

He pointed seaward.

Rolling toward them was a spreading wall of heavy clouds traveling at seemingly great speed, while below the wrack the water darkened ominously and became flecked with "white horses."



CHAPTER XVI

LOST IN THE STORM

"The trouble's in the reversible propeller. I always told Rob he was foolish not to have a regular reverse gear on the shaft itself and a solid wheel," said Merritt.

"Well, never mind that now," urged Tubby anxiously. "I'll shift all the cushions and stuff up in the bow, and Hiram and I will get as far forward as we can. That will raise the stern and you can hang over and reach the wheel."

When the stout lad had done as he suggested there was quite a perceptible tilt forward to the Flying Fish, and Merritt, hanging over the stern, could feel about the propeller better.

"Just as I thought," he shouted presently. "That shark when he came astern fouled that heavy line on the propeller."

He got out his knife, and in a few minutes succeeded in cutting the entangling line free.

It was not any too soon. From far off there came a low sound, something like the moaning of a large animal in pain. It grew louder and closer, and with it came an advancing wall of water crested with white foam. The sky, too, grew black, and air filled with a sort of sulphurous smell.

"It's a thunder squall," shouted Tubby, as Merritt shoved over the lever and started the engine.

As he spoke there came a low growl of thunder and the sky was illumined with a livid glare.

"Here she comes!" yelled Merritt; "better get out those slickers or we'll be soaked."

Tubby opened a locker and produced the yellow waterproof coats. The boys had hardly thrust their arms into them before the big sea struck them. Thanks to Tubby's steering, however, the Flying Fish met it without shipping more than a few cupfuls of water.

The next minute the full fury of the storm enveloped the Boy Scouts and the Flying Fish was laboring in a heaving wilderness of lashed and tumbling water.

"Keep her head up!" roared Merritt, above the screaming of the wind and the now almost continuous roar and rattle of the thunder. It grew almost dark, so overcast was the sky, and under the somber, driving cloud wrack the white wave crests gleamed like savage teeth.

Hiram crouched on the bottom of the boat, too terrified to speak, while Tubby and Merritt strove desperately to keep the little craft from "broaching to," in which case she would have shipped more water than would have been at all convenient, not to say safe.

As if it were some vindictive live thing, seized with a sudden spite against the boat and its occupants, the storm roared about the dazed boys.

The Flying Fish, however, rode the sweeping seas gallantly, breasting even the biggest combers bravely and buoyantly.

"It's getting worse," shouted Tubby, gazing back at Merritt, who was bending over the laboring motor.

"Yes, you bet it is!" roared back the engineer; "and I'm afraid of a short circuit if this rain keeps up."

"Cover up the engine with that spare slicker," suggested Tubby.

"That's a good idea," responded the other, rummaging in a stern locker and producing the garment in question. In another moment he had it over the engine, protecting the spark plugs and the high-tension wires from the rain and spray. But the wind was too high to permit of the covering remaining unfastened, and with a ball of marlin the young engineer lashed the improvised motor cover firmly in place.

Hiram, with a white face, now crawled up from the bottom of the boat. In addition to being scared, he was seasick from the eccentric motions of the storm-tossed craft.

"Do you think we'll ever get ashore again?" he asked, crawling to Merritt's side.

"Sure," responded the corporal confidently. "'Come on, buck up, Hiram! You know, a Boy Scout never says die. We'll be back in camp in three hours' time, when this squall blows itself out."

"I—I don't want you to think me a coward, Merritt," quavered Hiram, "but—but you know this is enough to scare any fellow."

Indeed, he seemed right. The Flying Fish appeared no more than a tiny chip on the immense rollers the storm had blown up. Time and again it looked as if she would never be able to climb the huge walls of green water that towered above her; but every time she did, and, as the storm raged on, the confidence of the boys began to grow.

"She'll ride it out, Tubby!" yelled Merritt, dousing the engine with more oil.

"Sure she will!" yelled back Tubby, with a confidence that was, however, largely assumed. The stout youth had just been assailed by an alarming thought that flashed across his mind.

"Would the gasoline hold out?"

There was no opportunity on the plunging, bucking craft to examine the tank, and all the boy could do was to make a rapid mental calculation, based on what he knew of the consumption of the engine. The tank, he knew, had been half full when they came out, and that, under ordinary conditions, would have sufficed to drive the Flying Fish for five or six hours.

But they were not ordinary conditions under which she was now laboring. Tubby knew that Merritt was piling in every ounce of gasoline the carburetor could take care of.

Suddenly, while the stout youth's mind was busied with these thoughts, and without the slightest warning, there came a sort of wheezing gasp from the motor.

Merritt leaned over it in alarm. He seized the timing lever and shoved it over and opened the gasoline cock full tilt.

But there was no response from the motor.

It gasped out a cough a couple of times and turned over in a dying fashion for a few revolutions and then stopped dead.

The boys were adrift in the teeth of the storm in a crippled boat.

"What's the matter?" roared back Tubby from the wheel. "She's lost steerage way!"

"Motor's gone dead," howled back Merritt laconically.

"Great Scott, we are in for it now! What's the matter?"

"No gasolene," yelled Merritt.

"Sosh-osh-soh!"

A huge green wave climbed on to the Flying Fish's bow, shaking her from stem to stern like a terrier shakes a rat.

"We've got to do something quick, or we'll be swamped!" roared Merritt.

"The cockpit cover, quick!" shouted Tubby, steadying himself in the bucking craft by a tight grasp on the bulwarks.

"That's it. Now the oars. Hurry up. Here, you Hiram, grab that can and bail for all you're worth!"

The fat youth seemed transformed by the sudden emergency into the most active of beings.

"What are you going to do?" yelled Merritt, framing his mouth with his hands.

"Make a spray hood. Come forward here and give me a hand."

With the oars the two boys made a sort of arched framework, secured with ropes, and over it spread the canvas cockpit cover, lashing it down to the forward and side cleats. This work was not unattended with danger and difficulty. Time and again as they worked the boys had to lie flat on their stomachs and hang on while the Flying Fish leaped a wave like a horse taking a barrier. At last, however, their task was completed, and the improvised spray hood served to some extent to break the waves that now threatened momentarily to engulf the laboring craft.

"Now to get out a sea anchor!" shouted the indefatigable Tubby.

He seized up an old bait tub, a boat hook and a "swabbing-out" broom, and lashed them all together in a sort of bridle. Then he attached the Flying Fish's mooring cable to the contrivance and paid it out for a hundred feet or more, while the storm-battered craft drifted steadily backward. Instead, however, of lying beam on to the big sea, she now headed up into them, the "drag," as it is sometimes called, serving to keep her bow swung up to the threatening combers.

"There, she'll ride for a while, anyhow," breathed Tubby, when this was done.

"What's to be done now?" shouted Merritt in his car.

"Nothing," was the response; "we've got to lie here till this thing blows over."

"It's breaking a little to the south now," exclaimed Merritt, pointing to where a rift began to appear in the solid cloud curtain.

This was cheering news, and even the seasick but plucky Hiram, who had been bailing for all he was worth, despite his misery, began to cheer up.

"Hurrah! I guess the worst of our troubles are over," cried Tubby. "It certainly looks as if the sea was beginning to go down, and the wind has dropped, I'm sure."

That this was the case became apparent shortly. There was a noticeable decrease in the size and height of the waves and the wind abated in proportion. In half an hour after the rift had been first noticed by Merritt, the black squall had passed, and the late afternoon sun began to shine in a pallid way through the driving cloud masses.

The lads, however, were still in a serious fix. They had been driven so far out to sea that the land was blotted out altogether. All about them was only the still heaving Atlantic. The sun, too, was westering fast, and it would not be long before darkness fell.

Without gasoline and with no sail, they had no means of making land. Worse still, they were in the track of the in and out-bound steamers to and from New York—according to Tubby's reckoning—and they had no lights.

"Well, we seem to have got out of the frying pan into the fire," said Merritt in a troubled voice. "It's the last time I'll ever come out without lights and a mast and sail."

"That's what they all say," observed Tubby grimly. "The thing to do now is to get back to shore somehow. Maybe we can rig up a sail with the cockpit cover and the oars. We've got to try it, anyhow."

After hauling in the sea anchor, the lads set to work to rig up and lash the oars into an A shape. The canvas was lashed to each of the arms of the A, and the contrivance then set up and secured to the fore and aft cleats by the mooring line they had utilized for the sea anchor.

"Well," remarked Tubby, as he surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction and pride, "we can go before the wind now, anyhow—even if we do look like a lost, strayed or stolen Chinese junk."

"Say, I'm so hungry I could eat one of those fish raw!" exclaimed Hiram, now quite recovered, as the Flying Fish, under her clumsy sail, began to stagger along in the direction in which Tubby believed the land lay, the wind fortunately being dead aft.

"Great Scott, the kid's right!" exclaimed Merritt. "We forgot all about eating in the gloom but now I believe I could almost follow Hiram's lead and eat some of those fellows as they are."

"Well, that's about all you'll get to eat for a long time," remarked Tubby, grimly casting an anxious eye aloft at the filling "sail."



CHAPTER XVII

ALMOST RUN DOWN

It grew dark rapidly and the night fell on three lonely, wet, hungry boys, rolling along in a disabled boat under what was surely one of the queerest rigs ever devised. It answered its purpose, though, and under her "jury mast" the Flying Fish actually made some headway through the water.

None of the boys said much, and Tubby, under the cover of the darkness, tightened his capacious belt. It spoke volumes for his Boy Scout training that, though he probably felt the pangs of hunger as much or even more keenly than the others, he made no complaint. Hiram, the second-class scout, complained a bit at first, but soon quieted down under Merritt's stern looks; as for the latter, as corporal of the Eagle Patrol, it was his duty to try to keep as cheerful as possible; which, under the circumstances, was about as hard a task as could well be imagined.

The eyes of all three were kept strained ahead for some sign of a light, for they had been so tossed about in the squall that all sense of direction had been lost, and they had no compass aboard, which in itself was a piece of carelessness.

Suddenly, after about an hour of "going it blind" in this fashion, young Hiram gave a shout.

"A light, a light!"

"Where?" demanded Tubby and Merritt sharply.

"Off there," cried the lad, pointing to the left, over the port side of the boat.

Both the elder lads gazed sharply.

"That's not the direction in which land would lie," mused Tubby.

"The light's pretty high up, too, isn't it?" suggested Merritt. "It might be a lighthouse. We may have been blown farther than we thought."

Tubby offered no opinion for a few seconds, but his ordinarily round and smiling face grew grave. A sudden apprehension had flashed into his mind.

"Tell me, Merritt," he said, "can you see any other lights?"

"No," replied Merritt, after peering with half closed eyes at the white light.

"I can," suddenly shouted young Hiram.

"You can?"

"Yes; some distance below the white light I can see a green one to the right and a red one on the left."

"Shades of Father Neptune!" groaned Tubby. "It's just as I thought, Merritt—that light yonder is a steamer's mast lantern, and the fact that Hiram can see both her port and starboard lamps beneath shows that she's coming right for us."

This was alarming enough. Without lanterns, without the means of making any noise sufficiently loud to attract the attention of those on the approaching vessel, the occupants of the Plying Fish were in about as serious a predicament as one could imagine. To make matters worse, the wind began to drop and come in puffs which only urged the Flying Fish ahead slowly. Tubby made a rapid mental calculation, and decided that hardly anything short of a miracle could save them from being run down, unless the steamer saw them and changed her course.