"Hank!" called the young skipper, and Butts came to the bridge deck.

"Sound the fog-whistle every minute," directed Halstead.

"Too-whoo-oo-oo!" sounded the melancholy, penetrating note through the mist.

"Are you going to keep that up, Captain Halstead?" inquired Mr. Seaton, in instant apprehension.

"Got to, sir. It's the law of the ocean in a deep fog."

"But it signals our location to the enemy on the drab boat."

"If it keeps the seventy-footer within sound of our horn all the time," laughed Halstead, "so much the better. Then the Drab will be within range of our marine glasses when the fog lifts."

"It shows those rascals the direction of our course, too," cried Seaton, in a still troubled voice.

"We've got to observe the law, sir, even if they do break it," Tom gently urged. "That other boat's people have been acting like pirates all along, but that would be no excuse for us. What if we cut into a lumber-laden schooner, and sank her at once?"

Mr. Seaton was obliged to nod his assent.

"It's a fearfully tough piece of luck for us, this fog," Tom continued, feelingly, "but we've got to make the most of it."

"And, if Anson Dalton gets aboard any Brazil-bound steamer while we're in this fog, the whole great game for myself and my friends is lost," faltered Seaton.

"If that steamer has a wireless installation," retorted the young motor boat skipper, "then we've every chance in the world to reach her before the Drab possibly can. Joe will hear her wireless two hours or more before the other fellows can hear or locate a fog-horn."

"It's—it's a dreadful uncertainty that this fog puts upon us," groaned the unhappy charter-man. "Dalton may take advantage of this white shroud to run straight for the nearest post office and mail the papers that he stole."

Captain Tom's mildly warning look checked Mr. Seaton ere he had time to say more in the hearing of Hepton.

"If you'll come aft, sir, we'll talk this over," suggested Halstead, in a low voice.

"Gladly," murmured the charter-man.

"Now, then, sir," almost whispered the motor boat skipper, as he and his employer stood on the deck aft, "you've written out a duplicate of the papers that were stolen."

"I have the duplicate set in an inside pocket," responded Seaton, tapping his coat.

"Are you ready to chance the mailing of them?"

"It's—it's a fearful risk, a terrible one, even to think of sending such priceless papers by registered mail."

"At least, sir," urged Tom, "you would be sure the documents were properly started on their way."

"Yet with no surety that they wouldn't fall into wrong hands at the other end," shuddered Seaton.

"Then, since your life would undoubtedly be the forfeit if you attempted to take the papers yourself, will you trust me, or Joe, to board the first steamer we pick up by wireless?"

"Wh—what do you advise, Halstead?" queried Seaton, with the air and tone of a man tortured by uncertainty and hesitation.

"I advise, sir, your making a very definite move of one kind or another, without the loss of another hour," rejoined young Halstead, almost sharply. "Simply drifting in a fog won't settle anything."

"Oh, I know that only too well," replied Powell Seaton, desperately.

"Let us," proposed Skipper Tom, "take a northerly course. We'll try to pick up a Rio-bound steamship. Failing in that, let us put in for land, you to send the papers off by registered mail—or I'll take train for New York and go by the first boat."

"I—I'll do it," agreed Powell Seaton, falteringly. "Halstead, my boy, I've pondered and worried over this until my brain almost refuses to act. I'm glad to have your clearer brain to steady me—to guide me."

"Are your papers sealed?" asked Captain Tom, after a little further thought.

"No; but I can soon attend to that."

"I'd go below and do it, then, sir."

"Thank you; I will."

Powell Seaton, as he started down the after companionway, trembled so that compassionate Halstead aided him. Then, returning, the Motor Boat Club boy stepped steadily forward to the bridge deck.

Studying the time, Tom determined to keep to the present course for fifteen minutes more, and at the same speed, then to head about due north. This, he figured, would keep him about in the path of southmoving coast steamships.

Hank, who was still at the wheel, took the orders. Joe, after a glance at the bridge deck chronometer, dropped below on his way to his sending table. The crash of his call soon sounded at the spark-gap and quivered on its lightning way up the aerials.

"Nothing happening in my line," announced Dawson, soberly, when, some minutes later, he returned to deck.

Captain Tom stood by, almost idly attending to the fog-horn, though Butts would have been able to do that as well as steer.

"Did you get anything at all?" Halstead inquired.

"Nothing; not a click by way of answer," Joe Dawson responded. "I had half a hope that I might be able to pick up a ship that could relay back to another, and so on to New York. If that had happened, I was going to ask the companies direct, in New York, when their next boats would leave port. I'll do that, if I get a chance. I'm bound to know when to look for the next Rio boat."

"If this fog seems likely to last," resumed Halstead, "I've been thinking about increasing to ten miles and keeping right on toward New York."

"Bully!" enthused Dawson. "Fine!"

"Yes; so I thought at first, but I have changed my mind. If we get wholly out of these waters we might put a messenger aboard a steamship bound for Rio Janeiro, and then Dalton, by hanging about in these waters, might find a chance to board. If he suspected our messenger—and it may be you or I—it might be the same old Clodis incident all over again."

Joe's face lengthened.

"It's growing wearing, to hang about here all the time," he complained. "I'm near to having operator's cramp, as it is."

"Don't you dare!" Skipper Tom warned him.

"Well, then, I won't," agreed Dawson.

For four hours more the "Restless" continued nearly due north, at the same original speed of six miles an hour. Halstead began to think of putting back, slowly retracing his course. Joe went down for his regular hourly "sit" at the sending table.

"Hurrah!" yelled Dawson, emerging from the motor room several minutes later.

He was waving a paper and appeared highly excited.

"Picked up anything?" called Tom Halstead, eagerly.

"Yes, sirree!" uttered Joe, delightedly, thrusting a paper into his chum's hand. "The Jepson freight liner, 'Glide,' is making an extra trip out of schedule. Here's her position, course and gait. We ought to be up to her within two and a half hours."

Tom himself took the news to Powell Seaton. That gentleman, on hearing the word, leaped from the lower berth in the port stateroom.

"Glorious!" he cried, his eyes gleaming feverishly as he hustled into an overcoat.

Then he whispered, in a lower voice:

"Tom Halstead, you're—you're—It!"

"Eh?" demanded the young motor boat skipper.

"You'll take the papers on to Rio!"

A gleam lit up Halstead's eyes. Yet, in another instant he felt a sense of downright regret. He was not afraid of any dangers that the trip might involve, but he hated the thought of being weeks away from this staunch, trim little craft of which he was captain and half-owner.

"All right, sir," he replied, though without enthusiasm. "I'll undertake it—I'll go to Rio for you."



CHAPTER XVII

WHEN THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB BOYS "WENT DAFFY"

All this had been spoken in whispers. Both Mr. Seaton and Tom Halstead were keenly aware of the presence of the prisoner in the starboard stateroom.

"You don't seem as overjoyed as I thought you might be," observed Powell Seaton, in a tone of disappointment.

"I'm going through for you, sir, and I'll deliver the papers into the proper hands, if I live," replied Tom Halstead.

"And you're not afraid of the big chances of danger that you may be running?" persisted his employer.

"Why, I believe every human being has times when he's afraid," Skipper Tom replied, honestly. "But I shan't be any more afraid than you've seen me once or twice since this cruise began."

"Then I'll bet on your success," rejoined Mr. Seaton, holding out his hand, which the young motor boat captain grasped.

"Suppose we go on deck where we can talk a little more safely, sir," whispered Tom.

They made their way above and forward.

"Any further word, Dawson?" inquired the charter-man.

"I haven't signaled since I brought up that last message," Joe replied.

"Oh, of course not," retorted Powell Seaton. "It was an idiotic question for me to ask, but I'm so excited, boys, that I don't pretend to know altogether what I'm talking about."

Captain Halstead bent forward to look at the compass. He found Hank Butts steering as straight as the needle itself pointed.

"What on earth can I do to pass the time of waiting?" wondered Mr. Seaton, feverishly.

"Eat," laughed Tom. "You haven't had a meal since I don't know when. Give me the wheel, Hank, and see what you can fix up for Mr. Seaton in the way of food."

Yet, poking along at that slow rate of speed, cutting through the fog but not able to see a boat's length ahead, proved an ordeal that tested the patience of all.

After awhile Joe returned to the sending table, in order to get in touch with the "Glide" and make sure that the two vessels were still approaching each other head-on.

"It's wonderful—wonderful, this wireless telegraph that keeps all the great ships and many of the small ones in constant communication," declared Powell Seaton, coming up on deck after having finished his meal. "Yet it seems odd, doesn't it, to think of even freight boats carrying a wireless installation?"

"Not when you stop to consider the value of the freight steamships, and the value of their cargoes," rejoined Tom Halstead. "If a ship at sea gets into any trouble, where in older times she would have been lost, now all she has to do is to signal to other vessels within two or three hundred miles, and relief is sent on its way to the ship that needs it. In the case of a freight steamer the wireless aboard means greater safety for the crew and often saves the owners the cost of ship and cargo. The Standard Oil people were among the first to think of the wireless for cargo-carrying boats. They installed the wireless on their tank steamers, and it wasn't long before the owners of other freight vessels realized the value of such an installation. Now, every freight boat that amounts to much has the wireless aboard."

"You speak of the wireless being used at a distance of two or three hundred miles," pursued the charter-man. "Dawson can't send the electric wave that far, can he?"

"No, sir; because our signal mast is shorter than that on a big steamship. The length of our aerials is less. Still, we can handle a message for a pretty good distance."

"What distance, Halstead?"

"Why, our ideal distance is about sixty miles; we can make it seventy easily, and, under the best conditions, we can drive a message, so that it can be understood, for about ninety miles. But that doesn't really hold us down to even ninety miles. If there's a wireless ship within our radius we can ask her to relay for us. With a few ships spread out at proper intervals we could easily wire direct from the 'Restless' to the coast of England."

"Joe," called Tom to his chum as the latter came on deck between wireless performances, "do you notice that the fog is lightening off to weatherward?"

"Yes; the fog is heaviest off to westward, and we've been working out of that."

"By the time we reach the 'Glide' I believe we're going to have some open weather around us."

"It will be fine if we do," nodded young Dawson. "It's nasty work going up alongside of a big ship when you can't see fifty feet away."

As they watched and waited, while the "Restless" stole slowly along, the fog about them became steadily lighter, though off to the westward it remained a thick, dense bank.

"Say, it'd be great to have four or five miles of clear sea around us, so that we could see whether the seventy-foot boat has kept to anything like our course," declared Hank.

At last the "Restless" came to within twenty minutes' hailing distance of the "Glide," as the young motor boat skipper figured it. Then, a few minutes later, a deep-toned fog-horn came to them faintly. As the minutes passed, now, this blast became heavier and nearer.

"I've only a few minutes left with you, Joe, old chum," declared Captain Tom, with a half-sigh. "You'll take great, good care of the dear old craft, I know, while I'm gone."

"As soon as Mr. Seaton is done with the boat I'll tie her up until you get back—that's what I'll do," grunted Dawson. "No sailing without a skipper for me."

"You needn't look so bad about it, Cap," grinned Hepton. "I wish it was me, cut out for a long trip to Rio and back. Maybe I wouldn't jump at such a chance. Some folks are born lucky!"

Too-woo-oo!

The oncoming steamship's deep fog-horn sounded loud and sullen, now. Tom Halstead, still at the wheel, was peering constantly forward for the first glimpse of the freighter, for the fog had lightened much by this time.

"There she is!" hailed keen-eyed Joe, on the lookout for this sight. "You can just make out her bow poking up through the fog. She must be a thousand feet off yet."

With two boats approaching each other, this distance was, of course, quickly covered. Finding that he could see the other craft at such a distance, Skipper Tom threw on a little more speed, making a wide turn and so coming up alongside on a parallel course.

"Take the wheel, Hank," directed the young skipper, seizing the megaphone and stepping to the port rail.

"'Glide,' ahoy!" bawled Halstead through the megaphone.

"'Restless,' ahoy!" came back from the freighter's bridge.

"Lie to and let us come alongside, won't you? We want to put a passenger aboard."

"Passenger? Where for?"

"Rio, of course. That's where you're bound, isn't it?"

"You'll have to be mighty quick about it," came the emphatic answer. "We can't afford stops on our way."

"We may want to delay you a few minutes," began Tom.

"Few minutes, nothing!" came the gruff retort. "We can't be held up in that fashion."

"We can pay for all the trouble we put you to," retorted Halstead. Powell Seaton produced and waved a bulky wad of banknotes.

"Oh, if you want to pay extra, above the fare, it'll be a little different," came, in mollified tones, from the bridge. The captain of the "Glide" was now much more accommodating. The fare received from a passenger put aboard in mid-sea would go to the owners of the freighter. But any extra money, paid for "trouble," would be so much in the pocket of the "Glide's" sailing-master.

Several new faces appeared at the rail of the freighter, as that big craft slowed down and one of her mates superintended the work of lowering the side gangway.

"Hullo, lobster-smack!" roared one derisive voice above the freighter's rail.

"Say," called another voice, jeeringly, "it may be all right to go lobster-fishing, but it's no sort of good business to leave one of your catch of lobsters in command of even a smack like that!"

Tom Halstead reddened angrily. One of his fists clenched unconsciously as he shot a wrathful look upward at the rail.

"Say, you mentally-dented pilot of a fourth-rate peanut roaster of a boat, do you go by craft you know without ever giving a hail?" demanded a mocking voice, that of the first derisive speaker.

Standing at the rail of the "Restless," Tom Halstead almost dropped the megaphone overboard from the sheer stagger of joy that caught him.

"Hey, you Ab! You worthless Ab Perkins!" roared the young motor boat skipper, in huge delight. "And you, Dick Davis!"

The two who stood at the "Glide's" rail overhead, and who had called down so mockingly, stood in uniform caps and coats identical with those worn by Halstead and his mates aboard the motor boat. They wore them with right, too, for Perkins and Davis were two of the most famous of the many youngsters who now composed the Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec.

"Hey! What's this?" roared the usually quiet Joe Dawson, his face wreathed in smiles. He almost danced a jig.

Hank Butts had never before seen either Davis or Perkins, but he knew about them, all right. He knew that uniform, too, the same that he wore.

"Now, then—altogether!" yelled Hank. "Give it with a roar, boys!"

Powell Seaton stared in bewildered amazement. So did officers, crew and others at the "Glide's" rail and on her bridge.

For five lusty young Americans, all wearing the same uniform, all bronzed deeply with the tan that comes of the gale and the sun, all keen-eyed, quick and sure as tars ever are, roared in mighty chorus:

"M-B-C-K! M-B-C-K! Motor Boat Club! WOW!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FIRST KINK OF THE PROBLEM SOLVED

Again the roaring chorus rang out.

"What's this? College boys' joke on me, or a floating mad-house?" huskily roared down the freighter's captain from the bridge.

"It's all right, captain," sang back Tom Halstead. "We'll make it plain to you as soon as we get a chance. We're neither as bad nor as dangerous as we seem."

The "Glide's" headway had all but ceased by this time, and the side gangway was at last in place. The "Restless" was run in close, while Hank stood up on the top of the forward deck-house with a coil of line, waiting until it came time to leap across onto the platform of the freighter's gangway and make the line fast.

As quickly as the line was secured Captain Tom Halstead followed Butts, and dashed on past him up the steps of the gangway. Ab and Dick came down to meet him, each grabbing one of the young skipper's hands and wringing it.

Then they turned to give the same greeting to Joe Dawson, who gasped:

"Gracious, but it does seem good to meet fellows of the Club and from the old home town at that!"

Mr. Seaton, though following in more leisurely fashion, now passed them, going on up to the deck. There he met Captain Rawley.

"Don't mind what my young men do, captain," begged the charter-man, "and don't mind if they delay you for a few minutes. I'll make good the damage."

"Help yourself to a little of my time, then, sir," grimaced the freighter's captain. "Anything that I can spare from the proper time of the run, you understand."

"How on earth do you fellows happen to be on this ship, of all places in the world?" demanded Tom Halstead.

"Easy enough to explain," laughed Dick Davis. "Port authorities at Rio were good enough to order six motor boats for harbor purposes. My dad got the chance of building the boats at his yard at Bath. The Rio motor boats are on board, down in the hold, and Ab and I are sent along to deliver the motor boats, put them in running order at Rio, and, if necessary, teach the natives how to run such craft."

"Did you fellows know we were signaling you by wireless?" Joe was asking Ab Perkins. "Did you know that you were going to see us?"

"Didn't know a blessed thing about it," admitted Ab Perkins, almost sheepishly. "Dick and I were asleep in our stateroom. We were getting ready to come out on deck when we felt the old tub slackening speed. Then we came out to see what was happening. We looked over the rail, and—wow!"

Ab again seized Joe Dawson's hand, giving it another mighty shake. Then the irrepressible Ab reached out for Tom's hand, but Dick Davis was drawing Halstead up on deck.

Readers of the first volume of this series will remember both Ab and Dick well. They, too, were boys born near the Kennebec River, and took part in the stirring adventures narrated in THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC, just before Tom and Joe left for the next scenes of their activities, as related in THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET and THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND. Ab Perkins and Dick Davis were two of the most valued of the early members of the Club.

All in a twinkling, Tom Halstead was seized by an idea. He looked about for Powell Seaton, saw that gentleman talking with Captain Rawley, and caught the charter-man's eye.

"See here, Mr. Seaton," whispered Halstead, as soon as he had gotten his employer aside, "there's no great need for me to go to Rio."

"No?"

"Of course not. Give the papers to Dick Davis, with exact instructions as to who is to receive them at Rio Janeiro, and those papers will get into exactly the hands for which you intend them."

"You feel certain of that, Halstead?" demanded Powell Seaton, his voice tremulous with anxiety.

"Absolutely sure, sir. Dick Davis can be trusted as long the world holds together. There isn't the faintest yellow streak in him, either. Square, straight, keen, brave—that's Dick Davis. And Ab Perkins would go through the jaws of anything with Davis! Why, Mr. Seaton, they're Motor Boat Club boys! You can trust them to the same degree as you're willing to trust me. Moreover, they're going down to Rio on a mission to the Government. They've got a better chance to get ashore, unmolested and unwatched, than any other stranger would have."

"Get your friends together, then, somewhere where we can have a private corner," begged Powell Seaton. "We'll talk this matter over—we've got to talk like lightning, at that."

While Mr. Seaton sought Captain Rawley, Tom shot back along the deck to where Joe, Hank and the two Rio-bound members of the Motor Boat Club stood talking.

"Hank," said Tom, in a low voice, "Hepton is all alone down on the 'Restless,' except for our prisoner aft. Hepton may be all right, and I think he is—but one of our own crowd ought to be on board our boat."

"I'll be the one, then," half-sighed Hank Butts, turning to descend the side gangway.

Captain Rawley promptly agreed to turn his own cabin over to the friends who wanted a private chat.

"But only for five minutes, mind you," he insisted. "Then I must be on my way."

Behind the closed door of the captain's room Powell Seaton and Tom Halstead swiftly explained what was wanted.

"Will we do it?" said Dick Davis, repeating the question that had been asked him. "Why, of course we will. There's only one answer possible. Tom Halstead is fleet captain of the Motor Boat Club, and a request from Captain Tom is the same thing as an order."

"You will go straight to the American consulate at Rio Janeiro, then," directed Mr. Seaton. "From the consulate you will send a messenger to bring to you Shipley D. Jarvis, whose address is the American Club. The American consul will be able to assure you that it is Shipley D. Jarvis who comes to you. You will turn over these papers to Mr. Jarvis in the presence of the American consul. A letter from me is in the envelope with the papers. That is all, except——"

After a brief pause Mr. Seaton went on to caution Dick Davis and Ab Perkins as to the dangers against which they must guard on the way. This Tom Halstead supplemented with an exact description of Anson Dalton and of Captain Dave Lemly, of the now seized "Black Betty."

"Either, or both, of the rascals may board this ship a little further along," cautioned Mr. Seaton. "Night and day you must be on your guard against them."

Then Tom Halstead quickly outlined to Davis a system of apparently common-place wireless messages by means of which Davis might be able to keep Mr. Seaton informed of the state of affairs, for some days to come, on board the "Glide."

Some further last instructions were added. Powell Seaton wound up by forcing a few banknotes into the hands of both these unexpected messengers.

"Wait until we've succeeded," proposed Dick Davis.

"This is for expense money, for sending wireless messages, and other things," replied Mr. Seaton. "Your real reward will come later on."

"When we've succeeded," nodded Davis.

So much time had been taken up by this talk that now all had to step out on deck.

"We're ready to go aboard our boat, sir," Skipper Tom reported.

"You and Dawson go, Halstead," nodded Mr. Seaton. "I want not more than sixty seconds with Captain Rawley in his own room."

When the charter-man of the "Restless" came out once more the thick pile of banknotes in his pocket had grown a good deal thinner, but Captain Rawley had been enlisted as a friend to the cause.

"Good-bye, old chums," cried Dick Davis, gripping a hand of Tom and Joe with each of his own.

"Good-bye! Good luck now, and all the way through life!" murmured Tom, earnestly, and with a hidden meaning that Davis caught.

As speedily as Tom and Joe had assisted Powell Seaton aboard the motor boat, Hank cast off, while the crew of the "Glide" began to raise the side gangway.

There were more rousing farewells between the two groups of Motor Boat Club boys. Then the hoarse whistle of the "Glide" sounded, and the freighter began to go ahead at half-speed.

The "Restless" fell away and astern, yet she followed the freighter. That she should do so had been understood with Captain Rawley, and with Dick and Ab. Powell Seaton intended to keep the "Glide" within sight for at least thirty-six hours, if possible, in order to make sure that the seventy-foot drab boat did not attempt to put Anson Dalton or any other messenger on board.

"If we stick to the sea for a hundred years, Joe," laughed Skipper Tom, as he followed the bigger craft at a distance of eight hundred feet, "nothing as lucky as this is likely to happen again. I was afraid I was booked for Rio, for sure, and it made me heartsick to think of leaving the 'Restless' so long and living aboard a big tub of an ordinary, steam-propelled ship!"

"I've taken the step, now, and can't very well change it," declared Mr. Seaton, who looked both pale and thoughtful. "Halstead, all I can hope and pray for is that your comrades on the ship ahead are as clever and watchful, as brave and honest as you think."

"If wondering about Dick and Ab is all that ever worries me," laughed Tom Halstead, easily, "I don't believe I shall ever have any wrinkles. I know those boys, Mr. Seaton. We were born and raised in the same little Maine seacoast town, and I'd trust that pair with the errand if it were my own diamond field at stake."

The fog had lifted sufficiently, by this time, so that clear vision was to be had for at least a quarter of a mile.

Skipper Tom whistled as he handled the wheel. Joe Dawson was so relieved in mind that, after a careful look at the motors, he threw himself upon one of the berths opposite and dozed. Hank put in his time looking after preparations for supper.

"What ails you, Halstead?" demanded Seaton, pausing abruptly beside the young skipper.

For the boy had turned, suddenly, to a sickly pallor.

"It has just struck me, sir," confessed the young motor boat skipper, "that, if Dalton has the slightest suspicion of what we've done to outwit him, he's just the man who will be desperate enough to put his whole set of papers in at the nearest cable office for direct sending to Rio Janeiro!"



CHAPTER XIX

HELPLESS IN THE NORTHEASTER!

"I've already thought of that," nodded Powell Seaton.

"And it doesn't worry you, sir—doesn't make you anxious?" questioned Captain Tom Halstead.

"No. Of course, Dalton might cable the full contents of the papers. If the paper could fall only into Governor Terrero's hands it would be well worth the cable tolls. But if such a cablegram were sent, openly, to Terrero, or one of his representatives, it would have to go, first of all, through the hands of the Government officials who have charge of the cable."

"But couldn't Terrero fix that?" asked Halstead.

"No; Rio is out of his state, and beyond the sphere of his strongest influence. Now, if I were to land in Rio Janeiro, I would be arrested on a warrant issued by Terrero's judges, up in the state of Vahia, and I would have to go to Vahia for trial. Undoubtedly Terrero's rascally officers would shoot me on the way, and report that I had tried to escape."

"Then what harm could it do to Terrero's chances for Dalton to send him the cablegram direct?"

"Why, either the cable officials in Rio are very great rascals, or else they are honest officials. If they are rascals, they might hold the cablegram long enough to act for themselves on the information it contained. On the other hand, if they are honest officials, then they would undoubtedly notify the Government of such a stupendous piece of news. The Government would then very likely take charge of my diamond field itself, which would be wholly legal, for the Government already owns many, if not the greater number, of the producing diamond fields of that country. So, if the Government, acting on information from its cable officials, took possession of the news and of the diamond field, what good would the cablegram do Governor Terrero? No; you may be very sure that Dalton won't send the contents of the papers by cablegram. He undoubtedly has the strongest orders from Terrero against doing that."

"I feel better, then," Tom admitted. "For the moment it came over me, like a thunderbolt, that Dalton might nip all our work in the bud by sending a cablegram. Still, couldn't he send it by code?"

"No; for only the ordinary codes can go through the Brazilian cable offices, and the Government officers have the keys to all the codes that are allowed. Rest easy, Halstead; Dalton won't attempt to use the cable."

"Then, if he doesn't get aboard the 'Glide,' we'll beat him out to Brazil—that's the surest thing in the world!" cried Tom, with as much enthusiasm as though the great fortune at stake were his own.

They were still following in the wake of the "Glide." Once in a while Dick Davis or Ab Perkins had the operator on the freighter flash back a wireless message of a friendly, personal nature. Joe answered all these.

For thirty-six hours this pleasant stern-chase lasted. By night the helmsman of the "Restless" kept the searchlight enough in use to make sure that the drab boat did not appear.

"Dalton and Lemly lost the 'Glide,' if they were looking for her, in the fog," chuckled Halstead, in huge satisfaction. "Any Rio-bound boat they can catch now is hopelessly to the rear of the 'Glide,' I reckon."

Joe, by wiring back, and asking other wireless vessels to relay, from time to time, had ascertained that there was no other steam vessel, bound for Rio, in close pursuit.

Mr. Seaton took his trick at the wheel occasionally. So did Hepton. Joe gave most of his time to the wireless installation, though he maintained charge of the motors, Hank doing most of the work there. All had sleep enough during the cruise south. Joe used some of his spare time in carrying out his former plan of connecting the wireless table with the helmsman by means of a speaking tube.

They were well down the coast of Florida when even anxious Powell Seaton declared that there was no need of cruising longer in the wake of the "Glide." He felt certain that the freighter had entirely eluded the vigilance of those on board the drab boat.

By this time the supply of gasoline was nearly out. Tom had cautioned the charter-man that so long a run would use up about the last of their oil. There was, however, a small sail fitted to the signal mast. Now, when the crew of the "Restless" turned back, the sail was hoisted and power shut off.

"We've oil enough to run perhaps three-quarters of an hour, sir," the young skipper explained. "We'll have to use that up in making port when we get in sight."

Sailing aboard the "Restless" proved lazy work at the outset. With this small sail there was not wind enough to carry the boat at much more than two miles per hour on her northwest course for the nearest Florida town where gasoline was likely to be had.

"We'll have a jolly long sail of it," laughed Skipper Tom, "unless the wind should freshen."

"Well, we don't care," smiled Mr. Seaton. "At least, you won't be overworked. And our minds are easier—mine especially."

"All of us have easier minds," Halstead retorted. "Don't you understand, sir, that the rest of us have taken this whole business to heart? We couldn't be more concerned than we are to see the affairs of our charter parties come through all right."

"Oh, I believe that," nodded Powell Seaton. "You boys have been the strongest sort of personal friends to me in my troubles. You couldn't possibly have made my affairs, and my dangers, more thoroughly your own troubles."

Two hours later a wireless message came back from the "Glide." It was from Dick Davis, and couched in vague terms, but meant to inform those aboard the "Restless" that the drab seventy-footer was still out of sight. An hour after that a second message reached the motor boat. Soon after the "Restless" found herself unable to answer, though still able to receive.

"Hank, are you feeling particularly strong to-day?" inquired Mr. Seaton.

"I'm always strong, sir," replied the young steward.

"Then why not rack your pantry stores in order to supply the biggest thing in a meal for all hands this evening? I feel more like eating than I have any day in a month."

"You'd have to go to a sure-enough number-one hotel to find a better meal than I'll put up for this evening," retorted Hank, grinning gleefully, as he started for the galley.

In such lazy weather Tom Halstead felt that he could go below for a nap, especially as Joe was around. Hepton was left at the wheel. Tom speedily closed his eyes in one of the soundest naps he had enjoyed in many a day. He was awakened by Hank, who came into the stateroom and shook him by the shoulder.

"Weather's all right, up to now," Butts informed the young captain. "Still, we don't like the looks of the sky, and the barometer is beginning to show signs of being eccentric. Won't you come up on deck for a minute, anyway?"

Tom was out of his berth in a twinkling. There was enough of the sea-captain in him for that. The instant he reached the deck his gaze swept around anxiously, inquiringly, at the sky.

"The clouds up on the northeast horizon don't look exactly friendly, do they?" he inquired of Joe.

"Don't know," replied Dawson. "Haven't seen enough of them yet."

"I'm thinking you will, soon," replied Halstead. "How's the wind been?"

"From the east, sir," replied Hepton, who was at the wheel.

"It's working around to northeast, now," muttered Halstead. "And it was almost from the south when I turned in."

Tom stood by the barometer, watching it.

"Trouble coming," he said, briefly.

Within half an hour his prediction began to be verified. The darkish, "muddy" clouds first seen on the northeast horizon were looming up rapidly, the wind now driving steadily from that quarter. Even with all the smallness of her single sail the "Restless" was heeling over considerably to port.

"Lay along here, Hank, and help me to put a double reef in the sail," Tom ordered. "I don't want this little bit of canvas blown away from us."

As Tom called, he eased off the sheet, and Hepton lounged away from the wheel.

"Too bad," muttered Hank Butts. "We've been making a good four knots since the wind freshened."

"I'm out of a guess if there isn't a wind coming that'd take a sail out of its fastenings in ten seconds," rejoined Halstead, working industriously with the reeves.

A light squall struck them before the boys had finished their task.

"A September northeaster along this coast is no laughing matter, from all I've heard of it," Tom explained as the two boys took the last hitches. "Now, come on, Hank. We'll hoist her."

With long rhythmic pulls at the halyards Tom and Butts got the shortened sail up, making all secure.

"You'd better take the wheel, Joe," sang out the young skipper. "Hepton, stand by to give a hand if the helm moves hard."

"You seem rather excited over a pleasant breeze like this," observed Powell Seaton.

"Wait," said Tom, quietly. "I only hope I am taking too much precaution. I've never handled a boat along the Florida coast before, you know, sir, so it's best to err on the side of caution."

Hank was sent off on the jump, now, to make everything secure, while Skipper Tom took his place on the bridge deck at starboard to watch the weather.

"I guess there'll be time, now, Hank, to rig life lines on the bridge deck," hinted Halstead, coolly. "Never mind about any aft. Whoever goes below can go through the motor room."

Catching a look full of meaning in the young commander's eye, Butts hustled about his new task.

"You seem to be making very serious preparations," suggested Powell Seaton, seriously.

"Nothing like being a fool on the wise side," answered Skipper Tom, calmly.

Within ten minutes more the wind had freshened a good deal, and the "Restless" was bending over considerably to port, running well, indeed, considering her very small spread of canvas.

Now, the sky became darker. The weather was like that on shore in autumn when the birds are seen scurrying to cover just before the storm breaks.

"I reckon there's going to be something close to trouble, after all," observed Powell Seaton, when it became necessary for him to hold his hat on.

Tom nodded in a taciturn way, merely saying:

"If you're going to stay on deck, Mr. Seaton, you'd better put on a cap, or a sou'wester."

Mr. Seaton started below, through the motor room. While he was still there the gale struck, almost without further warning.

"Watch the wind and ease off a bit, Joe," bawled Skipper Halstead in his chum's ear.

Joe Dawson nodded slightly. The gale was now upon them with such fury that making one's self heard was something like work.

Despite the prompt easing by the helm, the "Restless" bowled over a good deal as the crest of the first in-rolling wave hit her.

Powell Seaton, a cap on his head, appeared at the motor room hatchway. Tom motioned him to remain where he was.

Clutching at the rail, Tom Halstead kept his face turned weatherward most of the time. He knew, now, that a fifty-five-foot boat like the "Restless," weather-staunch though she was, was going to have about all she could do in the sea that would be running in a few minutes more.

Nor did he make any mistake about that. A darkness that was almost inky settled down over them. Bending through the hatchway, the young sailing master yelled to Powell Seaton to switch on the running lights.

"For we'll need 'em mighty soon, if we don't now," Captain Tom added.

Hank reappeared with rain-coats, and with his own on. Hardly had those on deck so covered themselves when, accompanied by a vivid flash of lightning and a crashing peal of thunder, the rain came down upon them. At first there were a few big drops. Then, the gale increasing, the rain came in drenching sheets. The decks began to run water, almost choking the scuppers.

The heeling of the "Restless" was no longer especially noticeable. She was rolling and pitching in every direction, accompanied by a straining and creaking of timbers.

Powell Seaton, standing below, clutching for support, and not much of a sailor at best, began to feel decidedly scared.

"Are we going to be able to weather this, Captain Halstead?" he yelled up, as the young skipper paused close by the hatchway.

Though the noise of the now furious gale prevented Tom from making out the words very clearly, he knew, by instinct, almost, what had been asked of him.

"Weather the gale, sir?" Tom bawled down, hoarsely. "Of course! We've got to!"

There was a new sound that made the young sailing master jump, then quiver. With a great tearing and rending the single canvas gave way before the roaring gale. In a trice the sail was blown to fluttering ribbons!



CHAPTER XX

"C.Q.D! C.Q.D.!—HELP!"

"Lay along with me, Hank!" bawled the young skipper, hoarsely, in the steward's ear. "We've got to cut away what's left of the sail."

Neither helmsman could wisely be spared. Though the boat now had no power of her own she was being driven sharply before the gale, and some fine handling of the wheel was needed in order to keep the boat so headed that she might wallow as little as possible in the trough of the sea.

Nor was the work of the young captain and Hank Butts anything like play. Making their way out along the top of the cabin deck-house was in itself hazardous. They were forced to clutch at any rigging that came to hand to avoid being washed overboard, for the waves were dashing furiously over the helpless boat.

It was not much of a task to haul in the sheet, making fast. Then, using their sailor's knives, they slashed away.

It was needful for one of them to go aloft.

"I can do it," proposed Hank, summoning all his courage.

"I know you can," Tom bawled in his ear. "But I'm not going to send anyone where I wouldn't go myself. It's mine to go aloft."

Thrusting his knife securely into the sheath at the end of its lanyard, Tom Halstead began to climb. Hank watched him closely. The pair at the wheel had no time to observe. All their attention was needed on their own work.

As he climbed, Tom Halstead had a sensation of being in danger of being pitched overboard.

Next, as the "Restless" lay over harder than she had yet done, it seemed as though the mast were bent on touching the water. Halstead had to halt in his climbing, satisfied to hold on for dear life.

"Oh, if we only had enough gasoline aboard!" groaned the young skipper, regretfully. "It would be a tough storm, even then, though nothing like as bad as this!"

As the boat partially righted herself, he went on with his climbing. At length he found himself where he could bring his knife into play, slashing away the fragments of the wind-torn canvas. When the work was done Halstead let himself to the deck again, half-expecting that the force of the pitching and fury of the gale would catch him and sweep him over into the dark, raging waters.

Yet he reached the deck in safety, finding himself beside Hank Butts, who, by this time, looked more like some water-logged thing than a natty steward.

"Come on below to the sail-locker," roared Captain Tom in the other boy's ear. "Be careful to hold to the life lines and go slow when the boat heels over. We'll get the new sail out and rig it—if we can."

Hepton, seeing them coming, made a sign to Joe, who stood doggedly braced at the wheel. Joe did all he could—it was little enough—to swing the boat's head a trifle so that she would ride more easily, if possible, in that terrible sea.

Slowly Tom and Hank made their way to the motor room door and slipped down below. There Powell Seaton, his face white, confronted them.

"Captain, this is awful. I don't see how the 'Restless' rides such a sea at all."

"She'd not only ride but steer well, sir, if we had gasoline enough to run her by her propellers," Halstead shouted back. "I'd go all the way to Havana in a gale like this if I could use the twin propellers. The 'Restless' is a sea boat, and she can't sink unless the watertight compartments are smashed."

"But she can turn over and ride keel upward, can't she?" demanded Mr. Seaton, with a ghastly grin.

"She can, sir, if she heels enough," Tom admitted. "But that's why Joe's at the wheel—because we need a fellow who can make the most out of such headway as the force of wind and waves gives us. And now, sir, Hank and I must try to rig a new sail."

Out of the sail-locker they dragged the new canvas. It was all in readiness for rigging. In calm weather they could have done this readily—but now? Only time could tell.

"Lend 'em a hand, Hepton!" roared Joe, as he saw the young captain and helper appear with the bulky canvas.

It was all the three of them could do, in the rolling, high seas in which the "Restless" pitched like a chip of wood, to get that sail on top of the cabin deck-house. Bit by bit they rigged it in place, working fast, straining muscle and sinew to hold the sail against the gale that strove to carry the canvas overboard. At last, they had it in place, ready for hoisting.

"Stand by to hoist," sang out Captain Tom. "The two of you. Go slow! I'll watch for trouble as you shake it out."

All the reefs had been taken in the sail before hoisting. Tom Halstead had made up his mind to be satisfied with just a showing of canvas to catch the high wind—enough to keep the boat steady.

As the sail went up, flapping wildly in the breeze, Halstead began to have his doubts whether it would last long. It was their last chance, however, for the control of the "Restless."

"Lay along here!" roared Tom, through his hands as a trumpet, when he saw that they had made the halyards fast. Now he signed to them to help him haul in on the sheet. Joe, watching, just making out the white of the canvas through the darkness, threw the wheel over to make the craft catch the wind. In a few moments more the gale was tugging against the small spread of canvas, and the "Restless" was once more under control—while the sail lasted!

All but exhausted, the trio found their way forward. For a brief space they tumbled below into the motor room, though Halstead stood where he could see Joe Dawson and spring to his aid when needed.

"Hank," called Halstead, five minutes later, "your trick and mine on deck. We'll give Joe and Hepton a chance to get their wind below."

Small as was the spread of canvas, Tom found, when he took the wheel, that the good little "Restless" was plunging stiffly along on her course. She was a wonderfully staunch little boat. The young sailing master bewailed his luck in having hardly any gasoline on board. It should never happen again, he promised himself.

Again? Was there to be any "again"? The motor boat captain was by no means blind to the fact that the "Restless" hadn't quite an even chance of weathering this stiff gale. At any moment the sail might go by the board in ribbons, as the first had done. Hank was not even watching the sail. If it gave way it must.

Joe presently came on deck for his next trick at the wheel. Hepton was with him.

"I've been thinking about the prisoner in the starboard stateroom," announced Joe. "It's inhuman to leave him there, locked in and handcuffed, in such a gale. He must be enduring fearful torment."

"Yes," nodded Tom. "I've just been thinking that I must go down and set him free as soon as I'm relieved."

"Go along, then," proposed young Dawson. "I have the wheel, and Hepton by me."

Taking Hank Butts with him, Tom Halstead made his way below.

"Dawson was just speaking to me about our prisoner," began Powell Seaton. "Dawson thinks he ought to be turned loose—at least while this gale lasts."

"Yes," nodded Captain Halstead. "I'm on my way to do it now."

"Will it be safe?"

"We can't help whether it is, or not," Skipper Tom rejoined. "It's a humane thing to do, and we'll have to do it."

Powell Seaton did not interpose any further objections. It would have been of little moment if he had, for, on the high seas, the ship's commander is the sole judge of what is to be done.

Even below decks, going through the electric-lighted passage and cabin, Tom and Hank made their way with not a little difficulty. They paused, at last, before the starboard stateroom door, and Tom fitted the key in the lock.

Jasper, the man locked within, faced them with affrighted gaze.

"We're going to the bottom?" he demanded, hoarsely, tremulously. His very evident terror gave the young skipper a new idea.

"Are you prepared to go to the bottom, Jasper?" demanded Halstead.

"Am I fit to die, do you mean?" asked the man, with a strange, sickly grin. "No, sir; I'm not. At least, not until I've cleared myself by telling a few truths."

"Come out into the cabin, man," ordered Halstead, leading him. "Now, sit down, and I'll get your handcuffs off."

The young captain of the "Restless" unlocked the irons about the fellow's wrists. Jasper stretched his hands, flexing his wrists.

"Now, I can swim, anyway, though I don't believe it will do much good," he declared.

"No; it won't do much good," Halstead assented. "We're something more than forty miles off the coast. But what do you want to say? What's on your mind? Be quick, man, for we must be on deck again in a jiffy. I don't want to lose my boat while I'm below with a rascal like you."

"I haven't always been a rascal," retorted Jasper, hanging his head. "At least, I have been fairly straight, until the other day."

"What have you been doing for Dalton and Lemly?" demanded Tom Halstead, fixing his gaze sternly on the frightened fellow.

"Never anything for Dalton," whined Jasper.

"Well, for Lemly, then?"

"Oh, I've been snooping about a bit, for two years or so, getting tips for Dave Lemly."

"What has Lemly been smuggling in the 'Black Betty' all this time?"

"Diamonds," admitted Jasper, sullenly.

Tom Halstead felt like giving a great start, but controlled himself.

"Smuggling diamonds under Anson Dalton's orders, eh?" insisted the young skipper.

"Yes; I reckon so."

"How did you come into our matter—as a guard and a traitor?"

"I was on hand when Mr. Seaton was getting his guards together," replied Jasper. "So was Dave Lemly's mate. The mate told me to jump in and get my chance with the guard."

"What other orders did you have?"

"I was to watch my chance to do anything nasty that I could," confessed the fellow, hanging his head.

"That was why you tried to ruin our aerials?"

"Yes."

"You also listened to Mr. Seaton and myself, the night we were going over to Lonely Island?"

Jasper squirmed, his face growing more ashen.

"You heard what was said about papers hidden in a cupboard at the bungalow. Did you? Answer me, confound you!"

With an appearance of utter rage Tom bounded at the fellow, as though about to attack him. Hank closed in, to be ready in case the attack turned out to be a genuine one.

"Yes, I stole an envelope full of papers," admitted Jasper.

"What did you do with them?"

"I turned them over to Dave Lemly."

"Where? On Lonely Island?"

"Yes; Lemly visited the island twice, at night, while I was on duty there," confessed the fellow, whining and letting his head fall lower.

"What else have you done against us?"

"Nothing, except trying to disable your wireless."

"Are you telling the whole, full truth?" demanded Captain Tom Halstead, surveying the fellow suspiciously. "As much of the truth as you want to lay bare before going to the bottom in this wild storm?"

"Yes! Oh, yes, yes!" insisted Jasper, easily. "Now, I've cleared my conscience of its load!"

"Humph!" muttered Tom Halstead, dryly.

At that moment a snapping sound overhead reached their ears. The "Restless" veered about, then heeled dangerously.

"Our second and last sail has gone!" cried the young skipper, starting forward. "Jasper, I hope you have told me the whole truth, for there is no knowing, now, how soon you'll start for the bottom—how soon we'll all go down. Helpless in this sea, the 'Restless' may 'turn turtle.'"

Nor was Tom speaking in jest, nor in any effort to scare the recent prisoner into a fuller confession. Indeed, the motor boat captain was paying no further heed to the wretch, but making his way forward. Jasper started to follow, Hank bringing up the rear.

As they reached the motor room the pitching and rolling of the boat were awesome enough. It seemed incredible that a boat the size of the "Restless" could live even a minute in her now helpless condition.

Joe still stood at the wheel, white-faced but calm.

"I don't see what we can do now, Tom," he shouted.

"Nothing but get down to the wireless, and do anything you can in the way of picking up some steamship," Halstead answered. "We might get a tow, or, at least, another spread of canvas for a third try to ride out the gale. The chances aren't big for us, but—well, Joe, we're sailors, and can take our medicine."

Joe smiled grittily as he edged away from the wheel after his chum had taken it.

"At least, if we go down, we go down in command of our own ship!" he yelled bravely in Tom's ear through the wild racket of the gale.

Then Joe went below. The storage batteries held electricity enough to operate the few lights and keep the wireless going at intervals for some hours yet.

Once, in the minutes that dragged by, Hank Butts thought of the fine spread he had been instructed to serve all hands that night. But no one else was thinking of food now. Coffee would have been more to the purpose, but to start a galley fire was to take the risk of adding fire at sea to the already more than sufficient perils of those aboard the "Restless."

Every few minutes Captain Tom Halstead called down through the speaking tube that connected him with Joe Dawson at the sending table. Always Joe's calm answer came, the same:

"Our wireless spark hasn't picked up any other ship yet."

Then, just as frequently, Joe would rest his hand on the sending key again, and send crashing off into space the signal:

"C.Q.D.!" The three letters that carry always the same message of despair across the waves.

"C.Q.D.!"—the wireless signal of distress. "Help wanted, or we perish!"



CHAPTER XXI

THE SPARK FINDS A FRIEND THROUGH THE GALE

The time had dragged on far into the night. Joe was still at the wireless sending table, sleepless, patient, brave—a sailor born and bred.

Jasper, like many another rascal a superstitious coward in the face of impending death, was seeking to appease the sting of his conscience by doing everything in his power to make amends in these grave moments. He stood by, pallid-faced yet collected enough to obey any order instantly.

Captain Tom remained on deck all the time now, though Hank often relieved him briefly at the wheel. Both Hepton and Jasper stood by to help as deck-hands. Powell Seaton came up on deck occasionally, though he remained more in the motor room.

Again and again Joe signaled—always that desperately appealing "C.Q.D.!" It was all the signal he needed to send out. Wherever heard, on land or water, the first operator to catch it would break in at once with a demand for further particulars.

Yet Joe's soul grew sick within him as time passed, and no such break came through the storm-laden air. For Dawson, as well as had he stood on deck, knew that this endless, malignant fury of the gale must sooner or later start the seams of the staunch little craft. Or else, struck by a wave bigger than any others, she would lie so far over on her beam ends that she must finish the manoeuvre by "turning turtle"—lying with her keel uppermost, and the crew penned underneath to drown in haste.

"Nothing to report yet, Joe, old fellow?" came down Captain Tom's brave though anxious voice for perhaps the fortieth time.

"No reply to our signals, Tom," went back the answer.

"Do you think our spark is still strong enough to carry far?"

"Plenty of electric 'juice' left," Joe responded. "The spark is as strong as ever. Oh, if we only had as much gasoline!"

"Oh, if we only had!"

But ten minutes after that last call Joe again sent forth:

"C.Q.D.! C.Q.D.!"

Then down the receivers traveled a click—not loud, yet unmistakable.

"Where are you? Answer!" came the response, out of the air from some quarter.

In frantic haste Joe Dawson fell upon his key once more.

Motor yacht "Restless!" Under no power whatever. Gasoline almost gone—saving the last for any emergency chance that comes to us. All canvas blown overboard. Do you get this?

It seemed to frenzied Joe Dawson as though many minutes passed, yet the response came promptly:

Give us your present position, "Restless," as best you know it!

Joe obeyed with fingers that seemed themselves to be worked by electricity. The receiver of the message repeated Joe's response, to make sure that it was correct.

"Who are you?" Joe now broke in to answer.

Havana liner, bound north, and, we believe, within thirty miles of you. Have you been signaling long?

"Seems as though I had been signaling for years," sent back Joe, laughing nervously to himself. The answer came:

We'd heard you before, then, but there was a little mishap to our installation. You keep at your table to send and receive. I'll do the same at my end. Keep up your courage until we reach you. Be ready to burn Coston lights when we ask you to.

Then how fast Joe Dawson managed to talk up through the speaking tube! Tom Halstead, after first announcing the great news to the deck with a wild cheer, put Hank at the wheel and hurried below. Shortly, however, the young skipper was back on deck, bearing the wonderful news.

In smooth weather the Havana liner, ordinarily a fifteen-knot boat, would have reached them in two hours. Under the weather conditions of this wild night it was much later when the two craft were within hailing distance by signal lights. Hank was now in command of the deck, Skipper Tom and Powell Seaton being with Joe.

"Shall we try to send you a line for a tow?" came the demand from the liner.

"Yes," replied Halstead. Then, with a grimace he added:

"But the salvage charge for such a tow will call for more than we can raise, Joe, old fellow. I reckon the 'Restless' will have to be put up for sale to pay her own bills."

"Do you think I'd let you boys stand the towing charges?" demanded Powell Seaton, indignantly. "Whatever charges there are are mine to pay, and I'm at least good for the entire purchase price of a few boats like even this good little old salt water wizard!"

Tom soon afterwards made his way to the deck, but Mr. Seaton, weak and almost ill after the hours of anxiety, threw himself upon a cushioned seat near the wireless sending table.

As Tom stood on the bridge deck he studied the liner's lights as that larger craft manoeuvred in to the leeward of the motor craft.

Once she had gained this position at a sufficient distance to make any collision on this wild sea unlikely, the liner steamed ahead.

"Stand ready to receive our line!" came to Joe in clicks through the watch-case receivers over either ear. He swiftly transmitted the order through the speaking tube to Halstead on the bridge.

Then the liner burned another light. Tom answered with one held in his own hand. It was the signal to look for the line, and the answer.

Through the darkness came a sudden, red flash from the after deck of the liner. The wind was so heavy that those on the bridge deck of the "Restless" could not be sure that they heard the report of the gun. But a missile whizzed over their heads, and to this blessed projectile trailed a thin line that fell across the top of the cabin deck.

Tom and Hank made a simultaneous bolt to get hold of that line. It was young Butts who secured it. He passed it on to the young captain, and, together, they leaped to the bridge-deck with it. From there they crawled forward over the raised deck, slipping the line, at last, between the two raised ends of the towing bitt.

"Now, haul in with a will," glowed the young skipper, as they crept back to the bridge-deck. A great wave swept over them on their way back. Tom saw it coming, and braced himself. Hank was caught by the rush of waters; he would have been swept overboard, but Halstead grabbed at one of his ankles, holding on grimly.

At that moment the late prisoner, Jasper, saw what was happening. Projecting himself forward over the raised deck, he, too, caught hold of Hank Butts, while Powell Seaton held to Jasper.

It was a sort of human chain by which Hank was pulled to safety. Tom, throughout the excitement, held the "thin line" in one hand.

"Haul in this thin line, quickly," shouted the young commander, who could barely make himself heard above the tumult of the gale.

As the line was some four hundred feet long, it used up precious moments to haul it and coil up the slack. As the last of the "thin line" came into their hands there came with it the first of a stouter hawser, the two lines being knotted securely together.

"Hold on to me, now! Form a chain again," ordered Skipper Tom. "I'll make the hawser fast forward."

All this while the Havana liner, some four hundred feet away, was going through a complicated bit of manoeuvering under the hands of her officers. Alternately she moved at half-speed-ahead, at stop, or on the reverse, in order that, despite the high-rolling waves, she might not go too far ahead and snap the thin line. But now young Halstead soon had a stout hitch about the towing bitt at the bow. A few more turns, then he signaled to those behind holding him to help him back to the bridge deck. A dozen great waves had rolled over him on that smooth raised deck, but the members of the human chain hauled him back to safety.

"Signal to our friends that they can apply full speed ahead, Joe, if they want to," directed the young motor boat captain, briefly, as he reached the comparative safety of the bridge deck once more.

Over the noise of the gale the answering blast from the liner's whistle came to them as a far-away sound. But now the big boat ahead started on at a ten-knot speed.

"Gracious, but this seems good, once more!" glowed Tom Halstead, taking over the wheel as the towing hawser tautened and the "Restless" began to move forward under a headway that could be controlled and directed.

"We couldn't have stood this racket much longer, without a tow," chattered Joe. "I've had moments at the wheel, to-night, when, on account of our helplessness, I've felt sure we were going to 'turn turtle.'"

"What ails your jaws, old fellow?" demanded Tom, looking curiously at his chum. "Say, you're shaking to pieces, and I don't wonder. Get below and get dry and warm. Get below all of you, except one to stand by me. Who can best remain on deck for a few minutes more?"

"I can," proposed Jasper, starting forward with an odd mixture of sullenness and eagerness in his tone.

"I'll trust you—now," nodded Captain Halstead, after eyeing the man keenly. "The rest of you get below. We want a few dry folks aboard."

On board there was clothing in abundance, enough to enable everyone to make at least a few changes. Now that the "Restless" could be held to a course, Hank Butts cautiously made a small fire in the galley stove, and then stood by to watch the fire. After a while he had coffee going—this with a "cold bite" of food.

Hepton came up, bye-and-bye, to take the wheel. As he was wholly capable, Tom surrendered the helm to him, then dropped down below for some of that coffee.

"We've found out to-night what a wireless is good for," declared Joe. "But for it, we wouldn't have kept the 'Restless' afloat and right side up through the night."

"Until we got this tow I didn't expect ever to see port again," Tom Halstead admitted, quietly. "Do you know, the worst thing folks will have against row-boats in the future will be the fact that row-boats are too small to carry a wireless installation!"

"You feel wholly safe, now, do you, captain?" demanded Powell Seaton. "It rather seems to me that the gale has been getting heavier."

"It has," Halstead admitted. "If we were adrift, now, we probably couldn't keep right-side up for ten minutes. But give the 'Restless' real headway, and she'll weather any gale that a liner or a warship will."

"If the towing hawser should part!" shuddered Mr. Seaton.

"We'd hope to get another line across, and made fast, before we 'turned turtle,'" replied Skipper Tom.

No one could venture from below on the bridge deck without being quickly drenched. For that reason the wheel-reliefs were short. Hank, by staying right by his galley fire, was able to keep heat at which anyone coming down from the bridge deck could dry himself.

By daylight the gale and sea were lighter. For one thing, the Havana liner had carried her tow so far north that they were out of the worst of it. Half an hour after daylight the wireless operator aboard the larger craft telegraphed Joe:

"We've taken you in four miles off the town of Mocalee. You can get gasoline there. Do you want to cast off our line now?"

"Yes," flashed back Joe, after consulting Captain Halstead. "And our greatest, heartiest thanks for your fine work for us."

There was further interchange of courtesies, then the line was cast off as soon as Joe and Hank had started the twin motors going on the little that was left of the gasoline. There was no way, or need, to settle the liner's towing charges now. These could be collected later, for the "Restless" was a boat registered by the United States authorities. She could be found and libeled anywhere if her young owners failed to settle.

"Hooray! But doesn't it feel great to be moving under one's own power again!" chortled Captain Tom, as he felt the vibration of the propellers and swung the steering wheel.

Though the coast had been visible from daylight, the town of Mocalee was not in sight until the boat neared the mouth of a river. Up this stream, half a mile, nestled a quaint little Florida town, where, as one of the natives afterwards expressed it to Joe, "we live on fish in summer and sick Yankees in winter."

"We'd better get on shore, all hands, and stretch our legs," proposed Powell Seaton, after Skipper Tom had made the "Restless" fast at the one sizable dock of the town. "I see a hotel over yonder. I invite you all to be my guests at breakfast—on a floor that won't rock!"

"I'll stay aboard, then, to look after the boat," volunteered Hepton. "And you can rely on me to keep a mighty sharp eye on that man, Jasper," he added, in Halstead's ear.

It was after seven o'clock in the morning when the shore party from the "Restless," after strolling about a little, turned toward the hotel.

As they passed through a corridor on the way to the office Tom Halstead glanced at a red leather bag that was being brought downstairs by a negro bell-boy.

"Do you see the bag that servant has?" asked Tom, in a whisper, as he clutched Powell Seaton's arm. "Scar on the side, and all, I'd know that bag anywhere. It's the one Anson Dalton brought over the side when he boarded the 'Restless' from the 'Constant'!"



CHAPTER XXII

TOM HALSTEAD SPRINGS THE CLIMAX

"Can that fellow be here?" demanded Powell Seaton, his lips twitching.

"He must be—or else he has sent someone else with his baggage," Tom Halstead answered, in an undertone.

None of the party had paused, but had passed on into the office.

"We've got to know," whispered Powell Seaton, tremulously.

"Then you go ahead, sir, and register us for breakfast, and I'll attend to finding out about this new puzzle."

While Mr. Seaton went toward the desk, Tom signed to Hank Butts to follow him aside.

"About all you can do, Hank, is to get outside, not far from the door, and see whether Dalton goes out," Halstead declared, after having briefly explained the situation. "If Dalton leaves the hotel, give us word at once."

"Here, you take charge of this bag of mine, then," begged Hank, turning so that the clerk at the desk could not see.

Butts had come ashore in a long rain-coat drawn on over his other clothing. Now, he quickly opened a small satchel that he had also brought with him.

"That old hitching weight of yours!" cried Tom, in a gasping undertone, as he saw Hank slip that heavy iron object from the bag to a hiding place under his coat. "How on earth do you happen to have that thing with you?"

"It must have been a private tip from the skies," grinned Hank, "but I saw the thing lying in the motor room and I picked it up and slipped it into this satchel. Take the bag from me and I'll get out on the porch."

All this took place so quietly that the clerk at the desk noticed nothing. Halstead now carried the empty bag as he sauntered back to the party. But he found chance to whisper to Joe:

"Anson Dalton must be in this hotel. Hank is slipping out to watch the front of the house. Hadn't you better get around to the rear? If it happens that the fellow is about to leave here, it might be worth our while to know where he goes."

Nodding, Joe quietly slipped away. The negro with the red bag had now entered the office. The bag, however, he took over to the coat-room and left it there.

"Breakfast will be ready at any time after eight o'clock, gentlemen," announced the clerk.

Powell Seaton lighted a cigar, remaining standing by the desk. Tom stood close by. The door of the office opened. Anson Dalton, puffing at a cigarette, his gaze resting on the floor, entered. He was some ten feet into the room before he looked up, to encounter the steady gaze of Captain Halstead and the charter-man.

Starting ever so little, paling just a bit, Dalton returned that steady regard for a few seconds, then looked away with affected carelessness.

"Going to leave us to-day, Mr. Dalton?" inquired the clerk.

"I don't know," replied the scoundrel, almost sulkily. Then, lighting a fresh cigarette, he strolled over by one of the windows. Presently, without looking backward at the captain and charter-man of the "Restless," the fellow opened a door and stepped out onto the porch. There he promptly recognized Hank Butts, who stared back at him with interest.

"I wonder if Lemly is with this fellow?" whispered Halstead to his employer.

"I'm going beyond that, and wondering what the whole fact of Dalton's presence here can possibly mean," replied Powell Seaton.

The office door from the corridor opened again. Through the doorway and across the office floor stepped, with half-mincing gait, a young, fair-haired man who, very plainly, had devoted much attention to his attire.

"Where is Mr. Dalton?" demanded this immaculate youth, in a soft, rather effeminate voice that made Halstead regard him with a look of disfavor.

"You'll find him out on the porch, I think, Mr. Dawley," answered the clerk.

"Oh, thank you, I'm sure," replied the soft-voiced one. As though he were walking on eggs young Mr. Dawley turned, going toward the porch door.

"Oh, good morning, Dalton, dear fellow," cried the fair-haired dandy, in the same soft voice, as he came upon Seaton's enemy, who was walking up and down the porch utterly ignoring Hank Butts.

"Good morning, Dawley," replied Dalton, looking more than a little bored by the interruption.

"Now, who and what, in the game, is Dalton's Elizabeth-boy friend?" wondered Hank, eying the latest arrival.

"Have a cigarette, Dawley?" asked Dalton, in a voice almost of irritation, as he held out his case.

"Charming of you, indeed," declared Dawley, helping himself to a cigarette and lighting it.

"Look out the tobacco doesn't make you sick, babe," muttered Hank Butts under his breath.

"Now, my dear Dalton, about the business we were discussing here last evening——" began the soft-voiced one, but the other broke in on him with:

"If you don't mind, Dawley, I want to think a bit now."

"Oh, that will be quite all right, I am sure," agreed the soft-voiced one. "Then I'll just stroll down the street a bit and be back in time to breakfast with you."

Dalton nodded and the fair-haired fashion plate stepped down into the path and strolled away.

"All of which tells us," reflected Hank, "that our friend Dalton has been here at least since yesterday, and that he and the Elizabeth-boy dude are not very well acquainted."

Butts looked up, almost with a start, to find Dalton close at hand, scowling into the boy's face.

"I suppose you're out here to watch me," growled Dalton, glaring.

"If I am, you wouldn't expect me to grow confidential about it, would you?" asked Hank, grinning into the other's face.

"Oh, I don't want any of your impudence," snapped the rascal.

"I wouldn't give you any, or anything else belonging to me," clicked Hank Butts, decisively.

"If you're standing out here to watch me," continued Dalton, "I am willing to tell you that I am not leaving the hotel for the present."

"That, or any other information you are willing to offer me, will be treated in the utmost confidence, I assure you," promised Hank.

"Don't be too frolicsome with me!" warned Dalton, wrathily.

"I?" echoed Hank, looking astonished. "Why, I didn't say anything until you spoke to me."

With a snort Anson Dalton strolled away to a chair, seating himself and blowing out great clouds of smoke.

"He isn't exactly glad to see us here—I can guess that much," thought Hank. "But I wish I could guess how Anson Dalton comes to be here. I didn't see anything of his drab boat in the river."

In the meantime Tom Halstead and Powell Seaton, after dropping into chairs in the office, were talking most earnestly in undertones. From where they sat they could see Dalton's red bag resting on a shelf in the coat-room.

"I'd give the world to know whether the rascal has the stolen papers still in that bag!" cried Seaton, anxiously.

"Would he be likely to leave the bag around the hotel carelessly, if it contained anything so important?" asked Tom.

"He might have been willing to do so before he knew we were about here," replied the charter-man.

"But even when he knows we're here the fellow doesn't seem anxious about the matter."

"Because the clerk is behind the desk, where he can see everything," hinted Mr. Seaton.

"Yet, for all Dalton knows, the clerk might leave the room for a minute and give us our chance."

"I've an idea," muttered Mr. Seaton, rising so quickly that Tom stood up with him. "You keep the best eye possible over the rascal. Don't go in to breakfast unless he goes. Never mind whether I come to breakfast or not."

"All right, sir," nodded Halstead.

As Powell Seaton crossed the porch without even looking in Dalton's direction, the young motor boat captain also stepped outside, going over to Hank.

"Watch that fellow, Hank," whispered Tom. "Don't let him get away from you."

"Not if I have to steal his cigarettes," promised Butts, with vim.

Then Skipper Tom vanished, though not for long. He merely went to find Joe Dawson, at the opposite side of the building. The two chums returned together.

"Now," said Tom, in a chuckling whisper, "if Anse Dalton wants to get away from us, he'll have to run in four different directions at the same time."

"But did you see the nice plush boy that's with Dalton?" asked Hank, dryly. Butts, more than any of the others of the party, had taken a great dislike to the soft-voiced one.

Dalton turned, once in a while, to scowl in the direction of the three motor boat boys. That, however, was all the attention he gave them. A little later Dawley returned and seated himself beside his friend.

"Breakfast is ready, gentlemen," called the clerk, opening the door.

Not one of the Motor Boat Club boys stirred until after Dalton rose and stepped inside. Then they followed, close in the rear.

Dalton and his companion stepped into the dining room, installing themselves at a table not far from the door. Tom led the way for his party at the second table beyond. Two waiters appeared, one attending to each of the tables.

Dawley was evidently in bubbling spirits. He insisted on talking much, in his soft voice, to Anson Dalton, who was plainly annoyed. Tom Halstead glanced over at his enemy with an amused smile.

Yet no word passed between the tables. Food and coffee were brought, after some minutes, and at both tables the meal was disposed of slowly, excellent appetites being the rule.

Powell Seaton, in the meantime, had hastened to the telegraph office. From there he wired, "rush," to the chief of police at Beaufort, advising the latter that Anson Dalton was in Mocalee, and asking whether Dalton was wanted by the United States or state authorities on any charges growing out of the seizure of the schooner "Black Betty."

This dispatch sent off, Mr. Seaton, though remaining at the telegraph office, sent a messenger in haste for James Hunter, who represented Mocalee as chief of police and the entire police force.

"Jim Hunter," as he was locally called, a raw-boned, taciturn man, came speedily to the telegraph office. He was in his shirt-sleeves, chewing a straw, but he wore his police badge on his coat, while a short "billy" appeared in a hip pocket. Jim Hunter listened quietly while the operator, at Seaton's request, displayed the original of the telegram that had been sent to Beaufort.

Telegraph companies give quick service on telegrams relating to police business. So it was not long ere the operator's receiving instrument began to click with the local call.

The first dispatch that the operator passed out through the grated window was addressed to Powell Seaton, and signed by the chief at Beaufort. It read:

Thank you for information. Have wired chief of police, Mocalee.

The second telegram, following almost instantly, was addressed to the chief of police of Mocalee. It ran:

Arrest Anson Dalton, wanted by U. S. authorities on charge of smuggling. Powell Seaton will point him out to you. Notify me when arrested. Be careful to get all Dalton baggage. Hold for orders.

"That's all I wanter know," said Hunter, laconically, biting off the end of his straw and spitting it out. "Lead me to your friend Dalton, Mr. Seaton."

"I ought to warn you that he's a desperate fellow," murmured Mr. Seaton, as the pair left the telegraph office together.

"I've seen that kind before," nodded Mr. Hunter, curtly.

"Pardon me, but I notice you carry a club. Dalton will undoubtedly have a revolver, and he's likely to be ugly enough to attempt to use it," explained Mr. Seaton, apprehensively. "May I ask if you have a pistol, too?"

"I always carry all the tools I need," answered Jim Hunter. "I don't gen'rally 'low any man to pull a gun on me, though. Sometimes I'm quicker'n I gen'rally look."

There was an air of quiet, forceful reserve about this Florida policeman that made Powell Seaton feel more confident that the business in hand would not be defeated for lack of preparation. They made their way quickly to the hotel.

Anson Dalton and his soft-voiced companion were still at table, though evidently near the end of their meal.

Hank Butts, at a signal from his captain, had left the table. Hank had donned his rain-coat again, and was now waiting in the corridor leading to the stairs, in case Dalton should pass that way.

A moment later Joe left the table, stepping through the office and out onto the porch.



Dalton and Dawley were just rising when Halstead, seated where he could see out into the office, saw Seaton and a stranger enter.

"Now, the music will begin," thought Tom Halstead, throbbing.

"There he is, officer—the dark one!" cried Powell Seaton, leading the way into the dining room.

Jim Hunter lost no time. He made a spring in the direction of Anson Dalton, whose eyes flashed fire. Trained in a hard, desperate school, Dalton was fuller of tricks than the police chief had expected.

As Hunter rushed at him, Dalton forcefully pushed one of the small tables toward him. It struck Hunter amidships, most unexpectedly, and had the result of sending Mocalee's police force sprawling to the floor.

"You can't stop me—you shall not!" roared Anson Dalton. He made a dash for the doorway leading to the office. Swift as he was, Tom Halstead darted through ahead of him.

"He'll try to get that red bag—and he'll put up a fight with a pistol!" flashed through the young motor boat skipper's brain. "I'll fool him so far as the bag is concerned."

Diving into the coat-room, the door of which stood open, Halstead was in season to snatch up the bag. He turned, to find Dalton rushing at him, hands reached out.

Ducking under, Tom eluded Dalton, and darted across the office.

"Let some of the others catch him," gritted Halstead, inwardly. "What we want most to know may be in this bag!"

It was all done so quickly that Skipper Tom was across the office, pulling open the door into the corridor, before Anson Dalton bounded after him.

Joe Dawson rushed in from the porch, but too late to be of immediate help. Officer Hunter had sprawled badly, and Mr. Seaton had halted to aid him to his feet.

"Drop that bag, or you'll wish you had—no time for this nonsense," blazed Dalton, angrily, thrusting his right hand at his hip pocket.



CHAPTER XXIII

HANK BECOMES REALLY TERRIBLE

Bump! Whack!

Tom Halstead tried to slam the door shut in his pursuer's face, but one of Dalton's feet barred the closing, then thrust the door open.

As Halstead raced into the corridor Anson Dalton was close behind him, his hand yanking a revolver from his pocket.

There would have been a shot in another instant. Halstead might have been badly hit.

But Hank Butts, on duty in the corridor, had heard the cries.

As the door was thrust open Hank leaped forward. Out from under his rain coat he brought that same old hitching weight.

There was an instant, only, for action, but young Butts was an expert with the weapon he had made his own.

His hands flew aloft, then descended, just as Anson Dalton's left foot was thrust forward in his running.

"Halt, you——" roared Dalton.

Bim! Down came the hitching weight, and landed squarely across the left foot of the pursuer. Dalton let out a fearful yell, while his revolver fell to the floor. There was a flash and a crashing explosion in that confined space; the weapon had been harmlessly discharged.

As for Dalton, he swayed dizzily for a few seconds, trying to lift the injured foot. Then, with a groan and a burst of ugly language, he sank to the floor.

Hank darted in, securing his hitching weight and backing off with it once more.

Though he had heard the discharge of the pistol, Jim Hunter did not stop to reach for his own revolver. He leaped through into the corridor, his pocket police club in hand.

"There he is, but you won't have to club him any," announced Hank, dryly, pointing to the groaning Dalton. "He'll eat out of your hand, now—will Anson Dalton."

Pausing only to drop his club to the floor, Jim Hunter whipped out a pair of handcuffs from a cavernous pocket, bent over Dalton, and——

Snap-click! The troublesome enemy of the motor boat boys was not only badly hurt, but a secure prisoner as well.

Now, Seaton and the boys gathered about the law's captive.

"I reckon you'll have to git up," announced Jim Hunter, putting a helping hand under one of Dalton's arms.

"I can't—oh, stop! Let up! My foot's crushed. I can't stand on it!" yelled Dalton.

Hunter came quickly to realize the fact that Dalton could not stand with much comfort. Joe came up with a chair, onto which the prisoner was allowed to sink.

"Oh, you boys think you've finished things for me, don't you?" leered Dalton, glaring around him in a rage. "But you haven't. You'll soon find that you've just begun to stir up trouble for yourselves."

"Go easy, man—do!" begged Hunter, soothingly. "Of course yer pet corn feels bad just now. But, say! That's the niftiest way of stopping a bad man, I reckon, thet was ever invented."

"Is it?" groaned Dalton. Then, catching the trace of a smirk in Hank's eyes, the rascal shook his fist at the steward of the "Restless," snarling:

"I'll find my own way to settle with you!"

"Take your time—when you're feeling better," Hank begged, cheerfully.

Fair-haired, soft-voiced young Dawley had followed the crowd out into the corridor. The hotel clerk, the proprietor and three or four of the servants all had increased the crowd there. Dawley rapidly learned what had happened.

"It's a beastly outrage," he announced, his soft voice sounding almost harsh in the indignation that he felt.

"Oh, take a fan, Dolly, and go out on the porch to cool off," growled Joe Dawson.

One of the servants, in the excess of excitement, actually took the fair-haired youth by the shoulders, and, though the latter protested, thrust him out through the open door onto the porch, slamming the door after him.

"That's too bad," grinned Hank. "I'll go out and see if the poor fellow has fainted."

As Butts stepped out on the porch, closing the door shut after him, Dawley, his cheeks very red, leaped out from the chair into which he had sunk.

"It was you who played that mean trick on my friend," cried Dawley, in a voice which he fondly believed trembled with rage.

"Yes," admitted Hank, meekly.

"I'll punish you for that!" quivered the soft-voiced one, stepping forward.

"Don't strike me on the wrist," pleaded Hank. "I have rheumatism there."

But Dawley, too angry, or else too dull to understand that he was being made a mark for ridicule, continued to advance upon Butts, who retreated, a look of mock alarm in his face.

"Keep away from me—please do, while you're angry," begged Hank, still retreating.

"I won't!" snapped Dawley. As Hank now retreated rapidly backward, Dawley went after him with corresponding speed.

"If you must have it, then, why—take it!" cried Hank, in a tone of desperation.

One of his hands had been held under his rain-coat all along. Now Hank thrust the other hand inside, as well, to reach for some object concealed there.

"Oh. O-o-oh! Don't you drop that weight on my foot!" yelled Dawley, blanching and falling up against the wooden wall.

But Hank, ruthlessly, as one whose blood is up, brought both his hands swiftly into view as he sprang at Dawley. There was a yell from the fair-haired one as Hank bent forward, then dropped squarely on the toes of Dawley's right foot—his pocket-handkerchief!

"There, now!" mimicked Hank Butts, turning on his heel.

A roar of laughter came from Mr. Seaton, Tom, Joe and two or three of the bystanders who had followed outside.



CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

"I'm sorry, young man," said Powell Seaton, resting a hand on Dawley's collar, "but the chief of police wants to see you."

"I'm not arrested, am I?" demanded the soft-voiced one, in a tone of great alarm.

"I think not. But come along. The chief wants to see you in the office."

There they found Hunter and his manacled prisoner, who had been carried into the office just as he sat on the chair.

"Where's that red bag that started all the trouble?" demanded Chief Hunter. Joe Dawson produced it.

"You can't open that," leered Dalton, though he spoke uneasily.

"If we can't unlock it, we'll cut it open with a sharp breadknife," mocked Hunter. "Yet I reckon thet we'll find the key in yer pocket."

This guess turned out to be correct. The key was inserted in the lock and the bag opened. Powell Seaton pushed forward to help the police official in the inspection of the contents.

"There are my papers," cried Powell Seaton, grabbing at two envelopes.

"Look 'em over, ef you want, but I reckon I'll haveter have 'em to go with the prisoner," assented Chief Hunter.

"They're the same papers that this fellow stole—one set from Clodis, and the other from my bungalow through a helper," cried Mr. Seaton.

Anson Dalton watched Seaton with a strange, sinister look.

"Gracious! Look at these, here!" gasped Chief Hunter, opening a small leather case. Nearly a score of flashing white stones greeted his eyes.

"Di'munds, I reckon," guessed the police chief.

"Yes; Brazilian diamonds," confirmed Powell Seaton. "Probably this prisoner's share or proceeds from smuggling in diamonds. That business, then, was what the 'Black Betty' was used for."

"Those are the diamonds I came down here to negotiate for," broke in Dawley, wonderingly.

"You?" demanded Hunter, surveying the soft-voiced one.

"Yes; my father is Dawley, the big jeweler at Jacksonville," explained the youth. "Here's his card. I'm the buyer for the house, and your prisoner wrote that he had some fine stones to sell."

"They're fine, all right, or I'm no judge of Brazilian diamonds," nodded Powell Seaton. "But I guess the United States Government owns them, now, as a confiscated prize."

A carriage was brought around to the door, and Anson Dalton was driven to the county jail, eight miles away, to be locked up there pending the arrival of United States officers.

Dawley easily proved his innocence, and the truth of his own story. Despite his effeminate manners and soft voice, it afterwards developed that the youth was a skilled buyer of precious stones, and a young man of no little importance in the business community of his home town.

Following the swift succession of events at the little Florida town, there came a lull in the long strain of excitement and danger.

Every now and then Dick Davis and Ab Perkins, aboard the Rio-bound "Glide," found a chance to have a wireless message relayed back to the United States.

These messages came in veiled language, according to instructions, but they conveyed to Powell Seaton the joyous news that these two far-away members of the Motor Boat Club were proceeding safely on their long journey, and that no harm was happening to them, nor to the precious papers in their care.

One fine day a cablegram came all the way from Rio Janeiro which told that Dick and Ab had reached that Brazilian city, and had turned over the papers in their care to the waiting American for whom they were intended.