A hundred yards from shore he hazarded a backward glance, and saw the wind sweeping across the bay, a line of turbulent tossing spray. ([Page 60]) Frontispiece.

BOY SCOUTS
ON THE TRAIL

BY
JOHN GARTH

PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROVAL OF
THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

PUBLISHERS
BARSE & CO.
NEW YORK, N. Y. NEWARK, N. J.

Copyright, 1920
by
BARSE & CO.
Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I [The Camp on Long Point] 9 II [Forbidden Fruit] 17 III [The Shark] 26 IV [The Man in the Dory] 33 V [Perplexed] 44 VI [Loon Island] 50 VII [The Lightning Flash] 57 VIII [The Plot] 64 IX [Through Storm and Darkness] 71 X [His Bit] 77 XI [The Last Night] 86 XII [“What is Scouting For?”] 94 XIII [The Tallerico Kid] 101 XIV [Quick Wit and Courage] 110 XV [The Scout Rally] 119 XVI [Roughneck Garrity] 127 XVII [Learning to Box] 135 XVIII [The Boy Who Couldn’t Swim] 141 XIX [A Score is Paid] 147 XX [The Haunted Cabin] 155 XXI [The Log Cabin Fund] 165 XXII [The Appeal] 173 XXIII [Good Turns Like Chickens] 180 XXIV [The Face in the Window] 186 XXV [The Man with No Hair] 193 XXVI [The Hidden Wireless] 201 XXVII [Micky Disappears] 207 XXVIII [To the Rescue] 213 XXIX [Escape] 221 XXX [The Lonely Soldier] 230 XXXI [The Parting of the Ways] 241

BOY SCOUTS
ON THE TRAIL

CHAPTER I
THE CAMP ON LONG POINT

Stout Harry Ritter gave a sudden chortle of glee and looked up from the copy of the “Long Point Snort” he was languidly perusing in the shade of some cedars behind Tent Four.

“Say, fellows, have you seen this stuff about Bull Taggart?” he demanded joyously.

“How could we when you hog the paper the minute it comes out?” inquired Ted Hinckley sarcastically. He had sent in a poem the day before and for ten minutes or so had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience to see whether it had found favor with the editors. “Well, what is it?” he went on impatiently. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? What kind of bull has he been throwing now?”

“He’s been chased by a shark,” chuckled Ritter fatly. “Monster fifteen feet long pursued his boat for over a mile out in the Sound. Tried to upset him by bumping its nose against the keel. This is rich! Four rows of teeth sharp as razors.... Gleaming white belly—stomach would have been more refined, seems to me. Remember Dolly Wade, who called ’em blue-stomach crabs. Where was I? Um-um. Oh, yes. Monstrous dorsal fin cutting the water like a knife. Gee-whiz! Bull will kill me dead one of these days. I s’pose he’s training to be an author when he grows up. You can have it, Ted; I’m through.”

He tossed the sheet lazily to Hinckley and lounged indolently against the trunk of the cedar.

“Does he pretend he really saw it?” asked Steve Haddon, linking brown, muscular fingers about an equally brown knee; “or is it meant to be just—er—fiction?”

“Oh, he saw it, of course,” said Ritter with a giggle. “No fiction about that. Recognized it as a regular man-eater, too, by something or other about its expression, didn’t he, Ted?”

“Eh?” Hinckley started guiltily and hurriedly shifted his gloating eyes from the five-line verse which, even in crude mimeograph, thrilled him with the pride of authorship. “What’s that? Oh! Why, sure! It—its teeth, it was.”

“Showed ’em in a glistening smile, I s’pose,” chuckled Ritter. “I shouldn’t think any self-respecting shark would lick his chops over Bull Taggart. Even served up on toast, he wouldn’t make a good, respectable bite.”

There was a responsive chuckle from the half-dozen fellows lounging in the shade; then Haddon glanced questioningly at the tall, striking-looking chap whose handsome head lay pillowed on Billy McBride’s knee, while his well-knit body stretched out comfortably on the sand.

“There aren’t any—man-eating sharks as far north as this, are there, Cavvy?” he asked.

“Of course not. I should think you’d know better than that.” Jim Cavanaugh’s tone was positive and a little impatient. “They’re only found in the south. The sharks around here are nothing but big dogfish; I don’t believe Bull even saw one of those. He’s the most unmitigated— Well, Midget, what’s your trouble? Don’t you know any better than to come in without knocking?”

An exceedingly small boy with snapping blue eyes, a shock of sunburned hair and an amazing self-possession of manner, darted around the tent and paused in their midst, somewhat heated with his haste.

“Trouble?” he repeated, scowling. “There’s plenty of trouble, let me tell you. What do you know about their cutting us out of the Sound and making us swim in the kid’s place?”

“Wa—hat!” came in an incredulous chorus; and then: “Cut out the fancy touches, Midge. You’ll be as bad as Bull Taggart if you’re not careful.”

“Fancy touches!” snorted the infant with cold scorn. “That’s what you think, is it? Huh! Well, it’s up on the bulletin board in black and white. ‘Until further notice all swimming will be restricted to the north side of the point,’ and signed J. P. Wendell as big as life. That’s the kid’s place, ain’t it? And because why? It’s that nut Taggart shooting off a lot of bull about seeing a shark in the sound. He—makes—me—sick!”

If it was his purpose to stir up the group so comfortably taking their ease in the heat of early afternoon, Midge Willett was entirely successful. With one accord six boys sat up abruptly, their faces expressing varying degrees of surprise, incredulity and indignation. And for a space the air resounded with shrill question, heated comment and fragments of argument which satisfied even the small Willett’s inordinate fondness for attention.

“It’s true, all right,” he declared, spreading his feet apart and rocking back and forth on his heels. “The stuff’s all in the Snort; you must have seen it.”

“So we have, Shrimp,” admitted Cavanaugh. “We’ve also seen yarns of his before. You don’t mean to tell us that Mr. Wendell takes any stock in it?”

“That’s what Marshall says. He heard ’em talking in Headquarters tent. Bull sticks to it that it’s true. He says he really saw a shark and that it bumped into his boat.”

“What if it did?” demanded Cavanaugh, irritably; “though I don’t believe it for a minute. Why, the sharks up north here are as harmless as kittens. They’d no more tackle a man than—than one of those stupid blow-fish.”

“Well, the chief don’t seem to think so. Bob says he didn’t know whether to believe Bull or not, but he and Mr. Cartwright talked it over and decided to cut out swimming in the Sound till they find out something for sure. And then they stuck up that notice, and now we’ve got to go into that rotten hole where you can’t dive and it takes half an hour to wade out to any decent depth. I—I’d rather stay ashore.”

A concerted groan went up in which stout Harry Ritter joined heartily. Exertion of any sort was distasteful to him, and it made little difference whether he undertook his languid splashings in the shallows, or in the wider, more varied waters of the Sound. But he liked to criticize and seldom lost an opportunity.

As for the others there was some excuse for their annoyance. The scout camp was located at the base of Long Point, which thrust its sandy nose diagonally out into the Sound. Off the southern side lay the open water, wide, deep, and full of interest and variety. Here the older fellows and proficient swimmers had always gone, while the novices were limited to the wide, shallow cove on the other side into which the tide had swept such quantities of sand that for over a hundred feet from shore it was not more than waist deep.

“Midge is about right,” sniffed Hinckley, as the diminutive Willett departed to spread his news. “A lot of fun there’ll be wallowing around over there. Bull ought to have his head punched.”

“The big chump!” exclaimed Cavanaugh bitterly. “He’ll get his if I have anything to say about it.”

He stood up abruptly and shook off the sand. The khaki shorts and sleeveless gym shirt he wore showed off his fine figure and well-developed muscles to uncommon advantage. Even the scowl failed to detract noticeably from his good looks, which were remarkable—the good looks of clean-cut features, clear skin, glowing red under the tan, blue eyes set wide apart, and wavy blond hair.

Haddon watched him for a moment or two in silence, his rough-hewn face oddly wistful.

“I suppose he—he might have thought it was true,” he said hesitatingly. “Whatever he saw he might have thought—”

“Oh, gee whiz, Steve!” interrupted Cavanaugh impatiently. “Don’t try to make excuses for the nut. He just naturally can’t tell the truth. Who’s coming for a walk? I’m tired of sitting here.”

They all arose briskly, even Ritter bestirring himself. Walking was no particular pleasure to him, but he rarely declined an invitation from Jim Cavanaugh.

“We may as well stroll around by the bulletin board and see if Midge got things straight,” remarked Hinckley as they moved away.

“Nothing to it!” declared Cavanaugh decidedly. “I haven’t seen the beastly thing, and I’m not going to know anything about it till I have to. At least we can get one more decent swim before the lid’s clamped on.”

“You mean you’d go in anyhow?” asked McBride interestedly.

“Why not? There hasn’t been any official announcement. Willett’s no town crier that we should take everything he says as gospel. If we should happen to go over on the sound side at three-thirty and went in there as usual, they couldn’t very well call us down.”

“We’re supposed to undress in the tents and wait for the whistle,” remarked Champ Ferris doubtfully. “They’ll think it’s sort of funny if—”

“Oh, well, if you’re looking for trouble you’ll find it,” cut in Cavvy shortly. “You don’t have to come, you know. But if we hang around here much longer some other busybody is sure to come along and tell us about the notice. I’m going to start.”

CHAPTER II
FORBIDDEN FRUIT

He led the way around the back of the tent, which was the last one in the row, and struck into a clump of cedars bordering the clearing. The others followed closely; Cavvy was somehow the sort others generally did follow. Steve Haddon, bringing up the rear, found himself thinking about this, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance he was a little troubled.

“I suppose he just doesn’t look at it in that way,” the big chap said to himself as they came out into the open and turned along the shore. “Maybe I’m too fussy. He’s really a corking fellow—corking!”

In this fashion he tried to excuse the other and dismiss the subject from his mind, but during the stroll which followed he was conscious of a vague discomfort that made him even more silent and repressed than usual.

From the first day at camp, little more than a week ago, he had been attracted by the handsome, accomplished fellow and in his shy, awkward manner had even “made up” to him a little. To his surprise Cavanaugh responded to a certain extent, and the two became friends as well as tent-mates. Steve could not understand what there was about himself to interest a chap so brilliant and so generally a favorite. It never occurred to him that his own sturdy, steadfast strength might have been the magnet which, consciously or unconsciously, attracted Cavvy’s more mercurial personality. He would have laughed incredulously had anyone suggested such a thing. As it was he speedily gave up trying to make head or tail of it and accepted gratefully the thing which at first had seemed incredible. There was always, to be sure, just the faintest touch of tolerance in Cavanaugh’s manner toward the big, black-browed, quiet fellow whose admiration he could not help but notice. It was the sort of attitude which said, almost as plainly as words, “Of course, I know he’s dull and heavy and not thrillingly interesting, but he’s a good hearted chap, and I like him.”

If Steve noticed this he gave no sign. To him Cavvy was a hero who could do no wrong. His allegiance had never wavered until this moment; and even now, troubled as he was and seeking excuses and explanations for Cavanaugh’s behavior, he could not find that his liking had in any way lessened.

Following the shore line, with the wide, glinting stretch of water spread out before them, the talk of the boys almost inevitably turned on sharks, and presently waxed so argumentative that none of them seemed to notice Haddon’s silence. Nobody knew very much about the subject, but that did not prevent them from taking side and debating hotly. Hinckley and Champ Ferris supported Cavanaugh’s argument that the species found in Northern waters was entirely harmless, and probably there were none in the neighborhood of the camp anyway. Taggart had seen something else, or made up the whole story, they declared. Ritter and McBride opposed them as a matter of principle, and upheld their side with such hair-raising anecdotes of things they had heard and read that they actually succeeded in scaring themselves, besides arousing a certain amount of nervous apprehension in the minds of the other two. Cavanaugh alone laughed them to scorn. When they returned to the forbidden bathing beach, which was hidden from the camp by a thick screen of evergreens, it was plain that he meant to carry out his purpose.

“Guess we won’t have time to go back to camp,” he remarked seriously, but with a twinkle in his eyes, “so we might as well peel right here. Funny there’s nobody else around.”

Hinckley chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. Haddon felt a little sting go through him. Was this the sort of thing Cavvy meant to get off when they were discovered, as they surely must be? He would rather have had his friend openly break the camp rules.

“Well, I hope you’ve thought of the risk you’re taking,” said Ritter, settling himself comfortably on the sand. In spite of his airy tone there was a touch of seriousness in his voice.

“Not going to join us?” queried Cavanaugh, kicking off one sneaker. “You would make an awful tasty morsel for a shark, that’s a fact. If you’d only go in the rest of us would be quite safe. What’s the matter, Steve? You haven’t got cold feet, too, have you?”

“N—o; I just don’t feel like it, that’s all.”

Cavvy paused, one stocking half off, and stared intently at the boy’s serious face. Suddenly his color deepened and his lips curled a little at the corners.

“Oh!” he murmured. “I see.” And then he laughed unpleasantly. “I forgot we had with us the only really perfect Scout in captivity. I’m surprised you could bring yourself to associate with such a bunch of hardened sinners—or did you hope by your virtuous example to win us back to the straight and narrow path?”

Steve shrank back as if he had been struck. His face turned white and then a dull crimson.

“I don’t—” he stammered. “I didn’t say—”

“Of course not,” sneered Cavanaugh. “You didn’t have to say anything. You’re so goody-goody it sticks out all over you.” He yanked off his stockings petulantly and dropped the rest of his clothes in a heap on the sand. “Better stick around awhile till you’ve made sure we’ve broken the rules and then you can hustle back to camp and report us.”

“Cavvy!” cried Haddon sharply. “You’ve no right— You know I wouldn’t—”

He broke off suddenly, biting his lip. Without replying, Cavanaugh had turned his back and was trotting out on the narrow spring board. For a moment the shapely white body stood poised against the deep blue sky. Then it flashed out and downward, cleaving the water in a perfect dive.

Steve watched him with blurred eyes and a dull hurt in his heart. The onslaught had been so brutal and so unexpected that it dazed him. He did not realize that Cavanaugh’s own mental discomfort might have had much to do with the flare-up. Conscious that he wasn’t doing the right thing, but too stubborn to draw back, it was not unnatural to vent his irritation on the fellow who seemed to be showing more strength of character than himself.

Haddon did not think of this. In that moment it seemed to him as if the friendship which had meant so much to him had toppled into ruins like a fallen house of cards. Rather, it had never existed save in his own mind. If Cavvy really cared for him, even in his careless, tolerant fashion, he could never have deliberately hurt him so without a shadow of reason or excuse. Surely Steve had not shown himself the prig Cavanaugh made out. He had not said a word against the others going in. He had even been conscious of an awkward sense of embarrassment at not joining them himself.

Suddenly, out of the turmoil of hurt and longing and regret, came the desire to win back at any cost what he had lost. If he went in with the rest wouldn’t Cavvy realize that he had been too hasty, and perhaps make amends? It wasn’t too late. McBride and Hinckley, who had stripped more leisurely, were even now moving slowly toward the spring-board. If he hurried—

Instinctively the boy bent down and untied his shoe laces with a jerk. Then he straightened slowly, face flushed and jaw squaring. He couldn’t do it. Something within him made the thing impossible—the action of a coward and a weakling. What sort of a Scout would he be to deliberately fling overboard his principles and do a thing he felt to be wrong for the sake of winning another’s approval? And what was that approval worth which could be won in such a fashion?

Downcast, motionless, the boy stood fighting out his brief mental battle. He was unaware of the curious glances and low-voiced comment of Ferris and Ritter, sitting together a little to one side. For a space he did not even notice the three fellows in the water save to be conscious of their splashings and sputterings and occasional peals of laughter—laughter which grated somehow, and made him feel like one apart. Then Cavanaugh’s voice, still sharp and a little pettish, brought his head up and his troubled gaze sought out the fellow who had been his friend.

“I’m sick of this fooling,” he heard Cavvy say. “I’m going for one last decent swim.”

“Better not go out too far,” advised Hinckley joshingly. “Remember the shark.”

Cavanaugh disdained reply. Already he was heading out from the shore, cleaving the water with a swift, overhand stroke. Steve watched him wistfully, and presently a faint touch of uneasiness began to grip him. Spectacular as he was at diving and other water “stunts,” Cavvy had never showed up very well when it came to long distances. He explained this once to Haddon by saying that several times he had been attacked by cramps and had learned to be careful. Suppose a cramp should seize him now with scarcely anyone around to help, thought Steve, and instantly his uneasiness changed to acute worry. In troubled silence he watched the fellow draw further away from shore until at length he could not restrain himself.

“Why doesn’t he turn back?” he exclaimed aloud. “He’s crazy to go out so far.”

“He’s got more nerve than I’d have,” commented Ritter. “Suppose that shark should show up now? Where would he be then, I’d like to know.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” returned Haddon, who had been inclined to agree with Cavvy’s side of the shark argument. “But he’s liable to cramp, and if he should be—”

He broke off with a sharp intake of his breath. Out in the Sound Cavanaugh had turned suddenly about and was making for shore with a wild splashing haste which told instantly of something wrong. For a second Steve stood rooted to the spot. Then he ran toward the spring-board, pulling off his shirt and jerking at the buckle of his belt. As he paused a moment to kick off his shoes and slide out of the scanty shorts, a shrill, inarticulate cry of horror from Ritter urged him on. It was the cramp, then, just as he had feared. But Cavvy was still keeping up. He was even making progress shoreward in spite of that frantic splashing which wasted so much strength. If he only kept his head—

“The shark!” screamed Ferris suddenly behind him. “The shark!”

CHAPTER III
THE SHARK

Steve’s feet were on the plank before the meaning of the words stung into his consciousness. As he ran, his startled gaze swept over the glinting water and for an instant his blood froze. Beyond the struggling Cavanaugh, but much nearer to him than the latter was to shore, something thrust up above the water—something thin, triangular, erect, dull gray in color, that cut through the little waves with swift, smooth, gliding ease.

To Haddon it seemed as if the plank slid backward under his feet. His dive was purely instinctive but it was a fine one, wide and shallow, that carried him well out. As he shot to the surface he almost collided with Ted Hinckley, but he was quite unconscious of the other’s nearness. Out of that numbed daze of horror and dismay but one thought, one motive, rose to dominate him. He must reach Cavanaugh before the shark.

What he could do then he did not know. But as he tore through the water with that powerful overhand stroke which had won him many a race, his sturdy self-control began slowly to return. Little by little scraps of things came back to him, things he had read and heard, some of them part of that very discussion on the beach so short a time ago. Noise! That was the thing. Sharks were afraid of noises. If he could only reach Cavvy in time there might be a chance—

His hands struck the water with an even, rythmical slap-slap. Though he had not slackened his stroke, it seemed as if he were merely crawling. The temptation to increase his speed was almost irresistible, but he conquered it by deliberate effort. Already he was breathing hard, and he knew that unless he kept back some of his strength he would be helpless at the crucial moment.

At almost every third stroke his dripping face flashed up out of the water and his desperate gaze searched the wide expanse for a sight of that ominous fin. Twice he found it; once circling off to the left of where Cavanaugh was swimming, whereat he was thrilled with hope that the creature had abandoned the pursuit. But the next time it was cutting through the ripples straight toward Cavvy, and the sight made Haddon throw caution to the winds.

With every remaining ounce of strength he lunged forward. His muscles ached, his lungs were bursting. But still he managed to send his weary body sizzling through the water at a racing speed. Then Cavanaugh’s face flashed up before him, strained, white, panic-stricken, and he slowed down.

“Keep on, old man,” he gasped. “Go straight ahead. I’ll stay—”

He did not finish. Already Cavvy had passed him and was laboring shoreward. Steve gulped in the precious air, took a few long strokes forward and stopped with a sudden gasp. The fin had disappeared!

The moments that followed were like nothing that he had ever known. Cold horror gripped him by the throat and choked him—that horror of the unknown which is so potent and so paralyzing. The shark had dived and was swimming under water. At any moment he might feel—

For an instant he came close to screaming wildly, to beating the water with that mad frenzy which comes to drowning men. But just in time his teeth dug cruelly into his under lip and he jerked himself back into a semblance of sanity. And then he began to shout and beat the water, but with a set purpose. Noise was what the creature dreaded. He could not hope to outswim the monster, but in this fashion he might hold it off till Cavanaugh was safe, and perhaps himself.

Ceasing his clamor he swam shoreward a dozen strokes and then paused again to splash and shout. Again and again he did this, and each time it was harder to make that deliberate pause. He was possessed by a panicky desire to speed ahead, trusting to his swiftness. Once he did let himself go and swam perhaps a score of strokes without stopping. When he finally forced himself to halt and glanced back over one shoulder, he seemed to glimpse under the water not a dozen yards away, a great gray-blue shape that struck terror to his soul. He splashed frantically and shouted hoarsely, and the thing slid away from his vision. But he knew it was there, lurking, waiting for a chance, and the remnants of his courage began to drain. Six strokes was all he dared to take now, and even those were halting and full of dread.

He had lost all track by this time of Cavvy; he did not even know how near or far he was himself from shore. Presently he saw the creature again, nearer this time. As he strove to shout his voice seemed a mere croak; there was scarcely strength in his numbed arms to lash the water.... A sudden splash near him brought a strangled sob to his lips; the touch of something against his body made him cringe.

“All right, Steve,” said a voice in his ear. “Just let yourself go.”

With a long-drawn, sobbing sigh, the boy’s weary muscles relaxed and his eyes closed. He was vaguely conscious of being propelled swiftly through the water, of the clamor of shrill voices, of a constant, irregular splashing all around him. Presently his dragging feet touched bottom and he made an instinctive effort to stand erect. But now there was a muscular arm about him which not only held him up but urged him forward. Finally he felt himself lowered gently to the sand and a moment later he opened his eyes.

Stripped to the waist and dripping wet, Mr. Wendell was bending over him. As he met Steve’s glance, his lips curved in a curious smile that somehow thrilled the boy. There was pride in it, tribute, appreciation, but when the man spoke his voice was low and matter-of-fact.

“Better lie still for a minute or so,” he said quietly. “You’re about all in.”

Steve nodded and his glance wandered over the beach. It was thronged with boys, all talking excitedly and many of them still hurling missiles at the water. A sudden thought struck him.

“Did Cavvy—” he began, raising his eyes. And then he stopped.

The scoutmaster had moved aside; it was Cavanaugh who stood beside him holding some garments in his hands. His face was drawn and haggard, and in his eyes was a look which neither Haddon nor anyone else had ever seen there.

“Steve!” he said at length, in a low, uneven voice. “I—I—” He paused, his lips trembling. Then his jaw squared. “I’m a beast, Steve, a perfect beast!” he went on rapidly. “I’ve been a beast from—from the very first. You’re— When I think of what a chum you might have been, and I was fool enough— You’ll never want to—to have anything to do with me again, but I had to tell you—”

“Don’t!” Haddon sat up abruptly. His physical weariness had suddenly left him. All the regret and longing and mental soreness of the afternoon had vanished. “Why can’t we—we just forget all that and—”

He paused. A sudden flash like sunlight swept into Cavvy’s face, wiping away the haggard lines. His eyes met Haddon’s longingly, incredulously.

“You don’t mean you’d ever—”

Steve laughed happily.

“Why not?” he asked.

Cavanaugh made no answer in words, but impulsively his hand went out and caught Steve’s. To the onlooker it seemed as if he were merely helping the other fellow to his feet, but Haddon knew there was a good deal more than that in the action. Cavvy’s grip, and the look in his eyes were both more eloquent than speech. Then Mr. Wendell appeared beside them, his face puzzled and a little stern.

“Feeling all right again?” he asked Haddon. “That’s fine. Well, I guess we’d better get back to camp; there seems to be nothing more doing here.” He turned abruptly to Cavanaugh. “Perhaps you can explain this business,” he said rather curtly. “I can’t seem to make head or tail out of what Hinckley and McBride have to say. How did you come to go in over here when there’s a notice up forbidding it for the present?”

CHAPTER IV
THE MAN IN THE DORY

Cavvy hesitated for an instant, a slow flush creeping up into his face. Then his eyes met Haddon’s and his lips tightened.

“It was my fault, sir,” he said quickly. “The other fellows aren’t to blame; they’d never have gone in but for me. You see, I didn’t believe Bu—er—Taggart really saw a shark at all, and I wanted to get one more decent swim before I saw the notice.”

The scoutmaster’s face cleared. “Oh, then you didn’t see the notice,” he said, turning toward the camp. “That makes a difference, though I still don’t understand—”

“I didn’t see it,” interrupted Cavvy, “but one of the fellows told us about it. I hadn’t any excuse at all. I was just sore and—”

The words died away as the two moved off together, leaving Steve to hurry through his dressing alone. He got into his clothes swiftly, a little anxious to know what penalty was being meted out to Cavvy, but in his heart there was nothing but gladness at the realization that he hadn’t been mistaken in his friend after all.

He was given little time to think of this or to speculate on the possibilities that Cavvy’s changed attitude opened up before him. He had not even got his shoes on before he was surrounded by a throng of boys, all jabbering excitedly and full of eager inquiries as to how near the shark had come, what it looked like, how he felt, and a thousand other questions.

Haddon answered them all good naturedly, turning aside with a shrug and a laugh the words of praise and admiration which followed. As soon as he was dressed he headed for the camp, to find Cavanaugh standing in front of their tent.

“Well?” he questioned eagerly as he came up. “How about it? What did he give you?”

Cavvy grinned.

“Not as much as I expected,” he said. “He was pretty decent, considering. I’ve got to stick around the camp limits for a week, that’s all. He didn’t even cut out my swimming. Guess he thought going into the cove wouldn’t be any too much of a treat.”

He laughed; then his face grew suddenly serious. “I never even thanked you, old man,” he said in a low tone, “or said a word about the corking way you—you went in after me, and—”

“Don’t do it,” interrupted Haddon, smiling a little. “You’d have done the same for me, and more. Let’s cross it off the books and not think about it again. There’s one thing I’d like awfully to know,” he want on quickly. “Was it really a man-eater, or just a big dog fish? How close did he get to you, anyhow? How much of him did you see?”

“How close?” repeated Cavvy slowly. “I don’t know exactly. It must have come within twenty-five feet, though. It was a sort of blue-gray—different from a dog fish. And big! Man!” His eyes widened and he shuddered a little. “Of course I was scared,” he confessed, “and maybe the reflection on the water sort of magnified it, but—”

“I don’t know about that,” put in Haddon as he paused. “It looked like a whale of a thing to me. Say, Harry,” he called, to Ritter who was loitering nearby, “how much did you and Champ see of the brute?”

But it appeared that they had only seen the fin, and no one else had glimpsed of the creature. Next morning, however, the matter was settled beyond a doubt, and very satisfactorily. About an hour after breakfast Shrimp Willett came tearing into camp with the news that some fishermen whose nets were out about a mile from shore were having trouble.

“They’re having the dickens of a scrap with something in the nets, fellows,” he panted. “They’ve got three boats out there and the men are stabbing and hitting with boat hooks and things, and the water’s shooting up all around in regular geysers. I’ll bet it’s the shark.”

He turned and rushed away again, and with a chorus of excited yells every boy within earshot streamed after him up the beach. The scoutmaster was away in the motor boat for supplies, but Bruce Cartwright, hearing the commotion, snatched up a pair of field glasses and followed the crowd.

The nets were set off shore about half a mile above the scout camp, and it was plain that something unusual was happening there. By the time the boys had reached the rough little dock opposite there were no “geysers” spouting, or other signs of strenuous activity. But the three fishing boats were clustered in a bunch, their occupants bending over the sides busy attaching tackle to something in the water which was invisible even through the glass. Presently the engines started, the boats separated, and headed for the dock.

The foremost chugged slowly and behind it streaked the distinct wake of a heavy tow. On tiptoe with excitement the boys watched eagerly as it drew nearer and nearer. When at length a great blue-gray shape could be made out, they set up a shout and poured a volley of shrill questions at the man in the stern.

“It’s a shark, all right,” answered that individual shortly. “I ain’t seen one of ’em around these parts for years. He got caught in the net and pretty near tore it to bits, drat him!”

He spoke with considerable heat and the other two men were scowling. But to the scouts mere damage to nets was as nothing compared with the thrill of seeing the great creature close at hand. They hovered around as close as Mr. Cartwright would let them, and when the shark was finally hoisted to the dock they were allowed to examine it to their hearts’ content, take measurements, make photographs or do anything else they chose.

The length of the creature from snout to tip of tail was a little over fifteen feet, and the mouth, though small and undershot, was powerful with its double row of razor-like teeth. Even lying there still and motionless, the body covered with a score of wounds from boat hooks and an old sword fish spear one of the men had fortunately had aboard, it was an evil looking specimen. As Steve Haddon thought of their experience of the day before he could hardly suppress a shudder.

“No, they ain’t native to these parts, praise be!” said the fisherman to whom Cartwright was talking. “If they was we’d about have to go out of business. They breed in the south, but once in a while one strays up this way. I dunno why. Hungry, mebbe; or it might be jest accident. Well, fellers, what say we get them nets in an’ start repairin’ damages? We got a good two days’ work ahead of us, hang the brute!”

Naturally the capture of the shark affected the swimming situation at camp. Mr. Wendell did not at once remove his restrictions, but when a day or so passed with no signs of any more about, he relaxed the new rules a little. The scouts were allowed to go in at the old place provided they did not venture out too far. Two guards were also appointed who rowed back and forth about a hundred yards from shore, keeping a constant lookout for danger.

Cavanaugh enjoyed these swimming periods extremely, for though he made no complaint, he found restriction to the camp limits very dull. He had quite recovered his spirits and also a good deal of that old good natured, easy air of leadership. With Haddon, however, there was a marked difference. He still joked and chaffed the big, slow-speaking chap, but the chaff was all good-natured now, with a subtle touch of affection in it. Instead of Steve’s making advances, it was Cavvy who sought the other out, who moved his seat at table, who found a place beside his friend in the wide circle around the evening camp-fire.

There was nothing forced or obtrusive in his actions. He simply sought Haddon’s companionship in the direct, matter-of-fact manner he went after anything he wanted, and yet he was not selfish in his seeking. That, perhaps, was the most marked feature of the moral change which was taking place within him. In the old days if he liked a fellow he was apt to monopolize him regardless of the other’s feelings in the matter. Now, though Steve would have been perfectly content to spend all his time within the camp limits with Cavvy, the latter refused to allow it.

“No reason why you should stay cooped up here just because I have to,” he said one afternoon in his quick, decisive manner. “You’ve spent three days hanging around doing nothing; it’s time you had a change. If you hustle you can get off with that bunch fishing.”

“But I don’t give a hang about fishing,” protested Haddon.

Cavvy grinned. “Well, get a canoe, then, and find someone to take a little exploring expedition with you,” he suggested. “I’m going to write letters and don’t want to be bothered.”

Steve laughed, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He saw through his friend perfectly, for Cavanaugh never wrote letters if he could help it. But after all perhaps it would be better for them to separate for the afternoon. One can have too much of almost everything, and Haddon had no wish to endanger the association which meant so much to him.

He secured his canoe—it was the last one to be had; but when it came to finding a companion, all the fellows he particularly liked had departed on other expeditions, so he decided to go alone. He was an expert paddler and enjoyed it thoroughly. He also liked poking about in new places, and when he rounded the point and pushed out into the Sound, he turned unhesitatingly westward.

Long Point thrust out its blunt nose from a stretch of rather wild, deserted beach on the south shore of the Cape. Amongst the sand dunes to the eastward were a few fishermen’s huts. Several miles in the other direction lay the village of Shelbourne, and beyond it, along both sides of a wide estuary, sprawled the raw, staring buildings, the many dry docks and numberless other appurtenances of the big, new Government ship building plant. But between the village and the camp the shoreline cut abruptly inland for upwards of a mile, forming a wide, deep harbor which did much toward isolating the camp site from the rest of the world.

Across the mouth of this harbor and reaching well out into the Sound itself, there lay a multitude of small islands, some mere jutting rocks to which a few scraggly pines clung tenaciously, others larger and thickly wooded. All of them were steep and rocky, and between them the tide rushed ceaselessly in queer, erratic, frequently dangerous currents. It was a fine place for fish of many sorts, but little more could be said for it, though on one or two of the larger islands duck shooters had put up rough huts which they used in the late fall and early spring when the season was on.

Steve had never happened to visit these islands. He had, in fact, seen no more of them than was visible from Shelbourne the day they made an inspection of the shipyard over a week ago. And as he headed the canoe toward the nearest one, he looked forward with increasing eagerness to an afternoon of exploration. They looked interesting, and as he drew nearer he got attractive glimpses of little coves and miniature harbors, of wooded points, rocky slopes masked with green, of turbulent, rushing channels, and a dozen other features which thrilled him, and made him regret his wasted opportunities.

The reality quite equalled his expectations. He went from islet to islet, clambering about the rocks, pushing through trees and undergrowth, poking into everything to his heart’s content. There was a touch of the wilderness in it which appealed to his imagination. It seemed, indeed, a perfect paradise to the furred and feathered wild things many of whom were heedless or oblivious to his presence, and their presence added greatly to his enjoyment.

It was already fairly late when he first saw the great blue heron. It was later still when, having followed the bird across the small island to the edge of another—one of the largest of the group he crouched amongst some bushes amusedly watching the solemn, awkward, long-legged creature stalking sedately away from him along a narrow strip of beach.

Suddenly with a great whir and flapping of wings, the heron arose and sailed out of sight. At the same instant Steve was conscious of the popping of a motor’s exhaust coming rapidly nearer, and turned curiously to see what it might be.

Swiftly the boat came into sight, a dingy, unpainted dory propelled by an auxiliary of unusual power. In the stern sat a single figure, bare headed and clad in rough fishing clothes. Almost unconsciously, Steve had not emerged from the bushes, and as the dory passed his hiding place scarcely a dozen feet from him, he had for an instant a clear, unrestricted view of the man’s face.

He gave a start and frowned; raised himself partway and then dropped back on his haunches. The boat swept on and disappeared around a jutting point, the sound of the motor grew rapidly fainter—ceased. Still the boy crouched amongst the bushes, staring blankly at the spot where the craft had left his vision.

When he stood up a little later and moved slowly toward his canoe, there was a puzzled, troubled expression in his face. And in his narrowed eyes was the look of one groping blindly through his memory for something which he cannot find.

CHAPTER V
PERPLEXED

A shout of laughter went up from the group of fellows gathered in the cook shack. There was a regular cook attached to the camp, but every other evening supper was prepared by the boys themselves as a means of perfecting themselves in the culinary art. Usually these occasions were marked by an earnest seriousness, for there was great rivalry between the various tents; but to-night a spirit of levity undoubtedly prevailed.

“But why shouldn’t he have been in the dory, you old lobster?” asked Billy McBride, from where he bent over the frying pan.

Steve Haddon shrugged his bulky shoulders and ran his fingers through an already much towsled mop of brown hair. “Well,” he said hesitatingly, “because he wasn’t—he wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” demanded three or four voices, as the big fellow paused.

“Well, he wasn’t the sort of person who’d be in—in that sort of a boat.”

Another shout of laughter rang out. Jim Cavanaugh, still chuckling, thumped Haddon on the back.

“You’re certainly lucid, Steve,” he exclaimed. “Just what do you mean by that? What sort of a person was he, anyhow? One of those swell city guys who came down to fish, all dolled up in dinky knickerbockers and that sort of thing?”

Steve was grinning good naturedly, but the color had deepened faintly under his tan; he shook his head slowly. “He wasn’t dolled up at all,” he told them. “He had on—well, just ordinary old things; I didn’t notice his clothes much. He might have had a rod, though he wasn’t fishing when I saw him.”

“What was he doing, then?” asked Ted Hinckley rather sharply. “He must have been doing something out of the way to set you against him like this.”

Again Haddon shook his head. The smile had faded and his lips straightened into a firm line. “He wasn’t doing anything except just running the dory past that big island—Loon Island, I think they call it,” he returned. “You wouldn’t understand, Ted. It—it was his face—”

Hinckley laughed again, but not so uproariously this time. During their ten days at camp together, he as well as most of the others, had discovered that while they could usually josh “good old Steve” to the limit, a curious, stubborn tightening of jaw and chin was a sign that this limit had been reached. And because, for all their banter, they liked him so well, they were generally quick to notice and respect that sign as Hinckley did now. His laughter trailed off into a comfortable chuckle and he turned to assist the cook. Cavanaugh flung one arm across Haddon’s shoulder.

“So you didn’t like his face, eh?” he smiled. “It must have been some face to work you up like this, old man. What the dickens takes you so long with those eggs, Micky? I’m starved.”

“They were mislaid, that’s the trouble,” returned McBride without batting an eyelash.

A groan went up and one or two made as if to lay violent hands upon the cook. But the responsibility of his position saved him, and ten minutes later the meal had been served up and was being consumed with an appetite and dispatch characteristic in a crowd of healthy, active boys whose afternoon has been spent more or less strenuously in the open. And as they ate they kept up a running fire of josh and fun and banter which flowed from most of them with the ease and fluency of second nature.

One of the exceptions was Steve Haddon. He did not often joke, and when he assayed a pun it had much the effect of an elephant trying to dance. It wasn’t that he lacked a sense of humor. He thoroughly enjoyed the badinage which went on about him, even when he himself, as was often the case, became the butt for another’s humor. But he had never acquired the trick of answering back in kind, and appeared always more or less deliberate in thought and speech.

To-night, both at supper and later when they had gathered around the camp fire, he was even quieter than usual, for he was thinking about the man he had seen that afternoon in the dory. He realized that, with characteristic clumsiness of expression, he had given the fellows an idea that something about the man’s face had prejudiced him. As a matter of fact it wasn’t so at all, though he made no effort to correct himself. He had had but a single good look at the stranger, but that look was enough to rouse in the boy a strong conviction that he had seen the man before—seen him, too, under conditions and surroundings so totally different that the stranger’s mere presence on this out of the way stretch of New England coast seemed at once incongruous and puzzling.

What those conditions had been he could not, unfortunately, remember. Though he had tried his best all the way back to camp to drag out of his brain some further details of that former meeting, Steve had failed utterly. That there had been one he was quite certain. But how or where or when it had taken place remained a mystery. He felt, however, that it must have been of the most casual sort, and also that it could scarcely have taken place very recently, else surely he would have remembered.

“Very likely it was at home in Washington some time,” he thought, after they had settled down lazily around the fire. “Though it might have been when I visited Uncle Joe in New York last fall. Oh, hang it all. I’m not going to bother my head about it any more.”

But this was a resolution more easily made than kept. For a short space Steve did succeed in detaching his thoughts from the annoying puzzle. Lying there on the sand with Cavvy’s head pillowed on his stomach, he grinned in silent appreciation of Micky’s airy monologue, and presently began to hum under his breath the air Champ Ferris was laboriously coaxing from a much harassed guitar. Then, unconsciously, his glance swept past the lounging figures of his friends and out across the wide stretches of shadowy water vaguely luminous under the stars. Back of those shadows Loon Island lay, with all the other rocky little islets that crowded the entrance to Shelbourne harbor. And, perhaps, on Loon Island—

Suddenly Steve awoke to a realization of where his thoughts had carried him, and moved abruptly with an impatient squirm.

“Easy, boy, easy,” murmured Cavvy drowsily.

Grinning shame-facedly, Steve reached down and ruffled the other’s hair. A perfunctory scrimmage followed. But Cavanaugh was too drowsy to carry this far. And very shortly Mr. Wendell’s orders sent the crowd staggering sleepily tentwards.

A little later, crawling into his blankets, Steve reached a sudden, abrupt decision. Since he could not seem to rid his mind of the problem which had been raised there, why not make an effort to solve it? Very likely the answer would be a simple one not worth his trouble, but at least it would be an answer. Suppose he got another look at the perplexing stranger? If he saw him again that stubborn memory might awake.

“I’ll take a trip to Loon Island to-morrow,” he said to himself. Then he turned over and went to sleep.

CHAPTER VI
LOON ISLAND

Steve said nothing to anyone next day of his determination. He knew he would be laughed at, for he felt himself that it was a rather foolish proceeding, and it would be difficult or impossible for him to explain in words the curious intensity of his interest in the matter. So he did not even take Cavanaugh into his confidence, merely explaining that he was going for another little trip in the canoe. Cavvy’s approval was prompt, but there was just a touch of disappointment in his manner which made Steve a little troubled.

Was he making a fool of himself or not, he wondered, as he slid out into the Sound from behind the point. A portion of Loon Island was visible now and he glanced speculatively in that direction. For all he knew the stranger whose face had so puzzled him might not be in the neighborhood again for days or weeks. His presence yesterday could easily have been the result of a chance excursion never to be repeated. Nevertheless, once started, he had no thought of giving up the trip, for he was not the sort to turn aside readily from something he had once set his mind upon. So he dismissed his doubts and sent the canoe forward resolutely.

The surface of the Sound was smooth—almost too smooth, in fact. There was an oily look to the long, easy swells which rolled the canoe ever so slightly as it cut across them. Once or twice Steve glanced back and frowned a little at the smoky, golden haze hugging the eastern horizon. But he paddled steadily, keeping fairly close to shore; and when he came opposite the group of islands and headed his craft across the half-mile stretch which separated the nearest one from the mainland, the storm signals had not increased.

“I guess it’s going to hold off for a while,” he decided. “Anyhow, at the worst I’d be stuck on the island over night—which wouldn’t kill me.”

Presently he came abreast of the first little islet and passed it, passed the next one, and then turned into a narrow, rock-bordered channel along the north side of Loon Island. The tide ran swiftly here, but it carried him with it and without much effort he managed to circle the lower end of the island and reach the point where he had landed the day before. Here he stepped ashore, and pulling up the canoe, hid it in a thicket of juniper. It was still fairly early—an hour and a half earlier, in fact, than when Steve had glimpsed the man in the dory yesterday afternoon. But he had planned for this deliberately. He wanted to take a look over the island before returning to the point to watch for the stranger.

Back of the point the rocks rose steeply, with stunted pines, scrub oak and a tangle of scraggly bushes growing from every conceivable crevice and earth-pocket. It was far from easy going, but Steve pushed his way through the undergrowth with only an occasional pause, keeping as close to the shore as possible.

Presently he came upon a gully, slid into it, climbed the other side and finally, pushing through a grove of wind-tossed trees, stepped out into a narrow, open space. Then he paused abruptly.

On either hand steep, smooth masses of rock jutted up, shutting in the place completely. Less than a score of yards apart, they shelved down into the water, forming a tiny, sheltered cove toward which the ground sloped gently. It was a snug spot, shielded from storms, and also from observation, and a rough shack of weathered boards seemed a natural part of the gray, rock-strewn landscape. But Steve had not been expecting to find a hut here, and his first thought as he stared at it, motionless and a little tense, was to connect it, somehow with the man he was seeking.

For several minutes he stood there alert, his glance fixed curiously and intently on the cabin. It was one of the duck shooters’ huts, no doubt, of which the boys had told him. It must have stood there for some time, too, judging from the dingy, weathered look of the planking. But it seemed odd, with the duck season so far away, that the shutter of the single small window at the rear should be swinging open. Surely any one leaving it for a year or more would have made things more secure against intrusion.

Steve waited a little longer, turning over various possibilities in his mind, and then moved slowly forward. The stillness of the place, coupled with a certain instinct hard to define, made him feel that the shack was at the moment unoccupied. When he reached the window and looked in, he found that instinct had served him well. The place was empty, and after a brief survey, he moved around to the front and opened the door, which was merely on the latch. Instantly his eyes fell upon a raw, splintered spot where a lock had been and he bent to examine it closely.

“Huh!” he grunted. “I thought so. Somebody’s broken in.”

Thoughtfully he straightened up and looked around. There was little doubt in his mind as to who had made the forcible entry, but the object of it was as great a puzzle as the identity of the mysterious stranger. And presently he discovered that there was more than one in the marauding party.

In each of the four rough bunks at one end of the cabin were blankets. Also, scattered over the rude plank table in the middle of the room, were four tin plates and as many cups, all of which had been lately used.

“This is no place for me,” decided Steve as he took in these details. “If they should come back and find me here, I—”

The words clipped off and he whirled about with widening eyes as the muffled beat of an engine’s exhaust smote suddenly on his ears.

“Jimminy!” he gasped, and leaped for the door.

He was half way through it when he saw the bow of a dory sliding into view past the rocks at the end of the cove. Jumping back like a flash, he jerked the door shut and latched it noiselessly. For an instant he hesitated, heart pounding in his throat. Then he moved swiftly to the window, pulled himself up, squeezed through and plunged into the fringe of undergrowth about a dozen feet away.

But as he gained the shelter he realized that the popping of the engine had ceased and he heard the sound of voices. He dared not pause here, but sped on over the rough ground. It was not the same way he had come, but he cared nothing for that. The closeness of his escape had shaken him considerably, and he was trembling. It was not until he had pushed through the woods for a hundred feet or more that he began to slow down and recover himself.

“What a nut I am!” he muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand. “They’ll never come here.”

And then, being what he was, he grew angry at himself for that panicky flight. If he had stayed at the edge of the woods he might have had a good look at the stranger without any special risk. He might even have gained some hint as to what the party was doing here. He had just about decided to turn and retrace his steps, when he stumbled and almost fell, saving himself only by a quick snatch at an overhanging branch. Then, looking down to discover what had tripped him, he saw the tins!

At first glance, indeed, they did not look like tins, but more like square, rectangular boxes covered with canvas. It was only by pressing one with his fingers that he felt the distinctive give of thin metal. There were a dozen or more in all, piled neatly in a cavity among the rocks and covered over with leaves and dead branches.

Filled with curiosity, Steve punched and prodded the top one inquiringly and ran his fingers exploringly over its surface. He was on the point of lifting it to test the weight, when the sound of voices behind him brought him upright with a gasp.

CHAPTER VII
THE LIGHTNING FLASH

For the barest second Haddon stood listening. Then he bent down again and made a frantic, scrambling effort to cover the tins. But as the voices came steadily nearer and the scuffling of feet began to sound in the dead leaves, he abandoned the attempt and darting a few steps to one side flung himself down behind a thick, low-growing mass of laurel. In a space so brief that he felt they must have heard him, the bushes were thrust aside and the footsteps ceased.

“—a rabbit, I guess, or maybe a bird,” said a voice. “It don’t matter, anyway. Here’s the stuff, half uncovered, too. Hang that Peters! I told him to— Here, catch hold, will you? We haven’t much time.”

“Want it in the boat?”

“Sure! The chief is going to leave in about an hour. We’ll land at Cobb’s Point and wait there till dark. Here’s a couple for you, Jansen. We’ll take the rest in another trip.”

Flat on the ground behind the laurel clump, Steve listened intently to their departing footsteps. Not daring to stir, he had failed to get even a glimpse of the three men, but he missed no word of their brief conversation which left him in a state of bewildered doubt and speculation. He could make nothing out of it at all. What was in those tins? and why were they being taken secretly to Cobb’s Point, that lonely strip of sand dunes the other side of Shelbourne?

As he lay there waiting, a good many possibilities flashed through the boy’s mind. He could not rid himself of the feeling that the men were up to nothing good. Yet on the other hand he realized that even the broken door and the hidden tins might have some harmless explanation. There was a fish hatchery, for instance, at Shelbourne, and it came upon him with a sudden sense of chagrin, that he had seen the young fish shipped from there in just such tins as these.

Nevertheless, the feeling of suspicion remained uppermost, even though the men, on their second trip, let fall no enlightening words. When they finally departed, he emerged from hiding, a look of determination on his square jawed face, and headed for the spot where he had left the canoe.

At least it was in his power to follow up the matter if he chose; and he did choose. He knew where they were going, and he knew Cobb’s Point. He could reach it before they did, and by concealing himself among the dunes, he might get a chance not only to glimpse again the face of the man he so wished to see, but also to learn something further of the party’s purpose.

As he hurried along, Steve realized that through the woods shadows were deepening on every hand, while in the glades and open spots the light had a curious greenish-saffron tint that urged him to his utmost speed. Emerging finally on the shore he saw that there was no time to lose. The sun had disappeared. Above him the sky glowed with an unnatural light, while piled up in the east were great banks of black, ragged looking clouds.

For a moment Steve hesitated, measuring with his eye the distance of those clouds. Then he dragged out the canoe, dropped it hastily into the water, climbed in and thrust away from shore. Among the islands the current was swift, but even there he did not spare his paddle. And every little while he glanced backwards apprehensively.

As he left the shelter of the islands and faced a mile-wide stretch of open water, the cloud-bank was half way up from the horizon with long, ragged streamers stretching out before it. He thrust his paddle deep and sent the canoe leaping across the oily swells; but like the tentacles of an octopus, those cloud streamers seemed to reach after him, dragging the black, ominous bulk behind. Half a mile he made, the sweat standing out on his face, his breath coming in gasps. Another quarter mile. He was paddling with every scrap of strength and skill he had, yet the clouds were overhead now, reaching out and onward inexorably.

[A hundred yards from shore he hazarded a backward glance] and saw the wind sweeping across the bay, a line of turbulent, tossing spray. It caught him with incredible swiftness, hurled the canoe forward, whirled it about, and before Steve could realize what was happening, he found himself struggling in the water.

He lost his paddle, but managed to retain a grip on the canoe, and swimming in a sort of daze, he finally dragged himself and it ashore. There, utterly done up, he flung himself face downward on the sand and lay for he knew not how long, drawing in the air in long, gasping gulps.

At length, still panting, he raised his head and slowly gained his feet. The surface of the bay was torn into a sea of angry, tossing whitecaps. The wind shrieked past him, driving gusts of fine spray into his face. Darkness was falling fast, relieved now and again by a vivid flash of lightning.

Uncertain whether the men would venture across in the teeth of the storm, Steve felt that if they did make the attempt they might appear at any moment. So he made haste to drag the canoe back of a mass of beach grass.

It was as well he did. Scarcely had he flung himself down beside the upturned keel and hunched his shoulders against the driving rain which had begun to pelt him, when out of the curtain of mist and shadow the dory flashed suddenly into his startled consciousness. He heard nothing of the engine; the shrieking of the wind and the first rattle of thunder drowned every sound. He simply saw, by the aid of the lightning and his straining vision, the bow of the dory, billows of foam spreading out on either side, cleaving the waves not fifty feet from shore. In another moment he heard the crunch and grating of the boat beaching, followed by a confused mingling of voices.

It was not yet absolutely dark and by this time his eyes were accustomed to the scene. Presently he could make out a number of shadowy figures bunched together and bending over. They were dragging the dory up the beach; he could tell that by their strained attitudes and their slow approach. Nearer they came to the screen of grass and nearer still, for not so much by chance as from the extreme narrowness of the point, they had landed at almost the same spot as Steve. Now he could make out the party quite clearly, black silhouettes against the grayish black of the sea behind them.

They had halted now, not half a dozen feet from his hiding place, and were bending over the dory taking out the tins. Their backs were toward him, but as Steve lay there blinded by the flashes of lightning and deafened by the rolls of thunder, he felt, somehow, that on the contents of those tins hung the solution of his mystery. If he could only find out that, and the identity of the man who had drawn him hither, he would know something of where he stood.

Though he could distinguish nothing save their outlines, his eyes had not left the four men for an instant. He even raised himself a little and parted the screen of beach grass in an effort to keep track of their movements. Presently he saw that they had straightened up. Apparently they had removed all the tins, and he wondered eagerly what would be the next step. Then, of a sudden, as they stood there, another jagged fork of light flashed through the dark storm clouds, and Steve caught his breath and narrowly escaped crying out in sheer amazement.

The blinding glare showed him two of the men erect and partly facing him; but it did more than that. It awakened memory at last. And as the blackness settled down again, thick and stifling, the rain, the wind, the whole wild, storm-swept strip of coast vanished. The darkness remained, but it was the tempered darkness of a street in Washington the night of that thrilling day over a year ago—the day after the declaration of war. Back of some iron palings loomed the outlines of the German embassy. Beside the curb stood a limousine from which two men had just alighted. As Steve, hurrying home from a belated engagement, came opposite them, their faces were illumined brilliantly for a moment by the glare of a passing headlight. One of those men was the German Ambassador himself. The other—

No wonder Steve Haddon had almost betrayed himself at what that lightning flash revealed. No wonder he asked himself breathlessly, excitedly, what sinister business could have brought that other—here.

CHAPTER VIII
THE PLOT

Mechanically Steve put up one hand and brushed away the water that trickled down from his soaked hair. He was wet to the skin, but he fairly tingled all over with the thrill of his discovery. He was not mistaken; he could not be. That mental picture was much too clear to admit any doubt.

He was still ignorant of the man’s actual identity. But his presence with the ambassador that night, the friendly touch of the latter’s hand upon his shoulder, the earnest undertone of their conversation carried on in German, all pointed to an unusual degree of intimacy. And many months ago the ambassador, his staff and all his other associates, official and otherwise, were supposed to have left the country or to be safely interned.

This one had evidently escaped the net. Steve wasted no time speculating how he had done it, or where he had spent the intervening time. He was a spy, doing a spy’s work; everything pointed to that. His objective must be the shipyard, too, for there was nothing else worth destroying within a score of miles. Inwardly Haddon bitterly blamed his own stupidity in not having thoughts of that before. The tins contained powerful explosive, no doubt; enough, perhaps, to blow up both buildings and dry docks. They had planned the thing with their usual infernal care, waiting, perhaps for this very night of storm and blackness to make the attempt doubly sure. And they would succeed, the boy told himself with a dry sob of mingled rage and nervousness, unless he could outwit them.

He ground his teeth in helpless fury. He ought to be up and away immediately to carry the warning. But the plotters were so close that he could scarcely stir without detection. There was a chance that by edging back cautiously he might safely reach a point where he could take to his heels, but so much depended on him that he dared not risk it. He must wait until they moved away a little and then, by speeding down the opposite side of the point, he might gain the mainland and the shipyard ahead of them and give the alarm.

Presently another lightning flash showed up the group again, and Steve’s eyes widened in astonishment. Instead of four men there were six. Where the other two had come from he did not know, but it seemed as if they must have made their way out along the beach. So he was faced by a new difficulty. There might be others still, stationed along the way, and if he tried to reach the shipyard ahead of the gang, he was as likely as not to run straight into hostile arms.

Nevertheless, he meant to try it, for by this time he was desperate with anxiety and impatience. He was about to creep back without further waiting, when suddenly there came one of those curious lulls which occur sometimes at the very height of a storm. Abruptly the shriek of the wind died down and he could hear the voices clearly.

“—all in the guard house. As long as the storm holds there won’t be a soul around.”

“But the rain!” put in another voice with a harsh, guttural accent. “Will not that eggtinguish the fire?”

“Not this fire,” returned another confidently, and Steve recognized one of the voices he had overheard that afternoon. “There ain’t enough water up above to drown this stuff once she gets started. Besides, it’s letting up. By the time we get things going it won’t be more than a drizzle; and if the wind holds the whole shebang will go up in smoke. What we want is to get busy right—”

The rest was inaudible, scattered by the storm, which broke out again with a fresh strength. But Steve had heard enough. Fire, then, was to be their weapon, and not explosives. The tins must contain gasoline, or some even more powerful inflammable. But it made little difference in the result, for the destruction would be as great or greater. With sudden decision the boy made up his mind to delay no longer.

His every muscle tense, he waited impatiently for the next flash. The instant it had come and gone, he began to edge backward, slowly, silently, with infinite care, over the wet, yielding sand. It took a long time to worm past the length of the canoe, but after that he made better progress. At length, a hundred feet or more from the end of the point and on the opposite side, he rose to his feet and hurried along the beach toward the mainland.

Anyone who has tried walking in the dark will realize something of his difficulties. Actually Steve could not see his hand before his face, and he had not gone twenty feet before he found himself splashing in the water. He edged away from that and presently tripped and almost fell over a hummock of beach grass. Then, very swiftly, all sense of direction left him. His only guidance was the splash of waves about his ankles and the tingle of salt spray against his face.

It was a nightmare, that blind struggle through the storm; a nightmare of pelting, lashing rain, of stumbling, falling, wading through surf, of pounding over hard sand. And like a nightmare little things grew big and big things little; time seemed to stand still or stretch out into infinity. Worst of all was the blackness, thick and suffocating, that pressed upon his eyeballs and tangled about his feet. And behind that blackness there was fear. Not fear for self so much; he was past that now. The thing that dominated and urged him on, that kept him going in spite of weariness and doubt and panting breath, was fear lest he should be too late to reach his goal before the others. And in the end he was too late!

His first inkling of it was the sight of those three spots of light twinkling low over to the left. At first they meant nothing to his weary brain. Then, watching them dazedly, he realized all at once that they were electric flashlights, and with a sudden, bitter pang he understood.

The men were almost opposite him, moving rapidly along the other side of Cobb’s Point, which here was some two hundred yards across. Unhampered by the darkness, they had caught up to him, were really ahead of him, in fact, for Steve had to cross the base of the point to reach the shipyard a mile or more to the westward.

With a discouraged droop to his shoulders, the boy plodded on mechanically for a little way and then halted. The spots of light had suddenly shifted. He could still make out a faint, luminous glow, but it was obscured by moving shadows. And then it came to him that for some minutes past he had felt no water sloshing around his feet.

“It’s the mainland,” he muttered. “They’ve left the point and turned up the other shore.”

It was no time for caution and delay, and Steve went after them at once. Though his attempt to reach the shipyard first had failed, there was still a chance, though not nearly so sure, of gaining his end by following close behind the plotters and giving the alarm before they had time to carry out the details of their plan.

In the brief interval of waiting a number of other possibilities had flashed through his mind, only to be discarded. He might make his way back to Shelbourne and get help. There was a good road leading through the woods from the village which was used by workmen going to and from their quarters; a motor car could make the distance in five minutes. But Shelbourne was quite as far from Cobb’s Point as the shipyard, and there were sure to be delays in rousing people and getting out a car. He thought, too, of pushing straight through the woods from where he was and trying to hit that road, but the chances of getting lost in even that short stretch of scrub and tangled undergrowth were too great to be risked. The open beach was really the only sure way, and Steve took it without hesitation.

With stumbling, uncertain steps he felt his way across the point and gained the other shore. Far, far ahead of him, it seemed, wavered the faint glow of the flashlights, and their apparent distance startled him. He had planned to follow as close behind the plotters as he dared; it had not occurred to him that they might outdistance him altogether. With a sharp catching of his breath, he plunged forward and began to run. A moment later the lights blinked out abruptly.

CHAPTER IX
THROUGH STORM AND DARKNESS

Steve fell twice and a thorny branch lashed him across the face with painful force before he got the better of that panicky dash. One of two things must have happened. Either the flashlights had been extinguished, or else the men had passed around a bend which hid the sight of them from view. The latter was perhaps the more likely; but it was the possibility that they had heard him and were lurking ahead in the darkness, awaiting his approach, that turned him cold.

It was the first time his nerve had been really shaken, but it was shaken now. The darkness or the plotters, taken separately, he could face without tremors. It was the combination of the two, the combination of the unknown, the unseen, the suspense of uncertainty, which made him shiver and brought out a clammy perspiration on his forehead.

It set him to thinking, also, of the camp and wishing with a desperate sort of longing for the presence of some of the fellows to back him up. If only Cavvy were here, with his cool head and ready wit; his sturdy fearlessness would be a tower of strength. Why, even little Shrimp Willett would be a comfort.

But they were all back there in camp with lights and warmth and cheerfulness about them, while he was here—alone. And he must go forward alone, too, no matter what that beastly blackness held in store for him. He dug his teeth into his under lip. Then his chin went up abruptly.

What had got into him? What was he thinking of? Why, at this very instant men were facing with a smile things a thousand times worse than this. Black wastes of shell-torn barrenness, tangled with barbed wire, littered with unknown pitfalls, loomed into his imagination. There were shadows brightened ominously by the flare of signal rockets or the flash of hand grenades; silences shattered by the thunder of big guns or the whining ping of sharpshooters’ bullets. And in imagination that worst horror of all—the deadly poison gas—caught him for an instant by the throat and choked him. Yet over there men looked hourly into the face of such a death and laughed, while he was afraid to take a little risk—for them!

A burning flush flamed into the boy’s face and he clenched his hands spasmodically. From his lips came a sound of mingled shame and fury and determination.

“What a cur I am!” he grated scornfully. “What a beastly coward to be downed by a little dark and wet! And I won’t be!”

Doubt and hesitation thrown aside, he sped on along the beach. Once or twice the thought of what might be waiting for him slipped past that mental barrier of resolution, but he flung it fiercely back. And when he had gone two hundred yards or so he began to breathe more easily. They could scarcely have been much further off than this when the lights vanished. Another hundred yards and he was quite certain. It was impossible in the darkness to tell where the shoreline curved, but he had a feeling that it must be about this point. A few minutes later the faint, distant gleam of light ahead confirmed his guess.

“All that stupid fuss about nothing,” he growled. “Now it’s up to me to catch up with them.”

But though he did his best, he was still a hundred yards behind when, as nearly as he could guess, they reached the wide estuary of the shipyard. There was a dock here where supplies and materials were landed, and from it a well-used road led through the regular lines of store houses, machine shops and countless other buildings.

Almost at the edge of this road the lights winked out again, but this time Haddon felt no uneasiness. Though it was still blowing hard, the rain had lessened noticeably. Some of the guards, more zealous than the rest, might venture forth, and the twinkle of strange lights would inevitably raise an alarm.

Steve paused for an instant and stared ahead, trying to penetrate the darkness. To his right, among the buildings, a few scattered electric lights shone obscurely, but they did little toward relieving the general gloom. Slipping along from shadow to shadow, the plotters would have no difficulty in gaining any part of the yard they chose for their incendiary purpose. But this same condition was a corresponding aid to him.

Having visited the yard, he knew the general direction of the guard house. Now, when the men ahead vanished into the gloom, Steve turned abruptly to his right across an open space of recently cleared land. He found it far from easy going. There were stumps and roots to trip him up; hollows and other pitfalls to avoid. With the spies so near, a fall or even a noisy stumble might ruin everything. But the boy crept on, feeling his way forward, chafing at the sense of precious minutes flying, until the dark bulk of the first building loomed before him.

Speeding a little, he passed along the rear of it, crossed a slightly brighter space, and gained the shadow of the next one. But as he reached the further corner a sound, slight yet unmistakeable, brought him to a sudden halt, breathless and tingling. The sound was the faint splintering of wood, and close upon its heels came the noise of a window being slowly lifted. With nerves like taut-strung wires, Steve crept forward and peered around the corner.

In front of the third building in the row hung one of the temporary electric globes that were dotted sparsely over the shipyard. At this distance it served merely to lighten the gloom a trifle. But Haddon, staring intently into the shadows, presently made out one which seemed darker than the rest—a shadow that moved slightly, to merge a moment later into the blacker darkness of an open window.

Just a second the boy stood petrified. From the first it had been his plan not alone to prevent the catastrophe, but to try and bring about a capture of the plotters. But the sight of one of them actually entering the building shocked him to a realizing sense of how much more vital it was to prevent the fire from getting headway. In a flash he had left his hiding and headed for the guard house on the run.

Racing across the open space between the two buildings he sped through the shadows back of the third one, circled it, and gained the open road. Instinctively he kept to the darker side of this. The padding of his sodden shoes made scarcely any sound on the hard dirt, and there was a chance that he might escape detection.

Presently the lighted windows of the guards’ bunk house loomed ahead like a beacon. There was a swift, final spurt along the silent, deserted road, a nervous, backward glance which revealed only the placid darkness unlighted by the sinister glare he feared. Then he gained the steps, stumbled up them, and flung open the door which yielded to his touch.

CHAPTER X
HIS BIT

For a moment Steve leaned panting against the door, blinking in the glare of the long, brightly lighted room. He was conscious of dozen faces turning toward him, and of a man in khaki rising swiftly from a table close at hand. In that first instant he could not seem to find his voice, but his sodden, dripping, mud-caked figure, his white face, streaked across one cheek with red, his wide, dilated eyes, evidently were eloquent, almost, as speech.

“What is it?” snapped the man, moving quickly toward him. “What’s the matter?”

“Fire!” gulped Haddon thickly. “Six men—out there—” he waved one arm. “They’ve got cans of gasoline—or something. I followed them—from Loon Island. They’re spies. I—heard them plotting to—burn the yard.—”

A babel of exclamations drowned his voice. There was a noisy scrape of many chair-legs. As the men leaped up, cards dropped from laxed fingers and fluttered to the floor. A chair fell backwards with a crash.

“A plot to burn the yard!” gasped the man before him. His face paled beneath the tan; then flushed. Across one temple a tiny vein began to throb. “That can’t be so! Why—”

“It’s true, I tell you!” cried the boy desperately. “I heard them planning it. The leader’s a German spy. I saw him with von Bernstorff in Washington a year ago. One of them’s already broken into a building down the road. Unless you hurry it will be too late. You must believe me!”

The man stared silently at him for an instant, one hand mechanically gripping the butt of a Colt that swung at his hip. Then he whirled around.

“Get busy, fellows,” he ordered with crisp decisiveness. “It may be a false alarm, but the kid seems pretty sure of his facts.” He turned to Steve again. “Which building is it? Third from the dock on the left? Good. The rest of ’em may be anywhere. Charley, take eight men and slip along by the dry docks. Look into every shop, but don’t waste time. The rest of you come with me. Switch on the search lights, Dick. Hold up, though. Wait about three minutes and then throw the switch. That’ll give us time to spread around. Hustle, boys!”

The admonition seemed scarcely necessary. Before he had ceased speaking each man had seized a rifle, buckled on a revolver and stood ready. Except for that first moment of startled surprise, there had been no stir or tumult. They were well disciplined and apparently realized the need for speed and caution, for when the leader issued forth, they followed him silently and swiftly.

Like twin lines of phantoms, the two squads glided into the open and sped away to their positions. It was as if they meant to make up now for the relaxed vigilance which had made this danger possible. Without a word the smaller body disappeared into the darkness toward the water front, and at a whispered command two men hurried off to take their stand at the limits of the yard nearest the village. The remainder, under the leader whose name was Kelly, scattered among the buildings to the left of the road.

Steve went with this party and presently found himself with Kelly and another man speeding toward the building near the end of the row which he had seen the spy enter. From a broken sentence or two he learned that the system of search lights had just been installed, but not formally received from the contractor, and hence had not been turned on. That explained the first darkness of the yard. But there was little time for conversation and there was to be even less. For as they dashed up to the front of the building, the windows which before had been mere patches of blackness were sharply outlined now with the lurid, flickering glow of fire.

A savage snarl came from Kelly’s throat and he leaped for the door, master key in hand. The other man ran past him, pulled up at the corner, and yanked out his gun. Twice it spat fire, the echoes of the shots crashing through the silent yard with sharp distinctness.

“Get him?” snapped Kelly, flinging open the door.

“I did,” was the grim reply.

But it passed unheeded. Steve himself only recalled it afterward; for as the door swung open a cloud of smoke belched forth and behind it they could see a leaping, quivering wall of flame. At almost the same instant there came a blinding flash and the whole yard was bathed suddenly in a flood of clear, white light.

“The extinguisher, Joe—quick!” grated Kelly. “We’ve got to stop it before this wind takes hold.” He whirled on Steve. “Chase back to the bunkhouse, kid, and tell Dick to start the pumps and sound the alarm. Run!”

Steve ran, and long afterwards he had only to close his eyes to bring back every detail of that strange scene—for it was strange beyond description. The search lights had come on, and the wide road flanked with buildings was as brilliant as the busy street of any city, but as silent as the grave and as empty of any signs of life. And yet, to the boy, that surface emptiness and silence fairly pulsed with life—vivid, vital, elemental life, which might flame up, white hot, at any instant like the fire of a volcano bursting its thin crust of ashes. And as he ran Steve waited tingling, almost breathless, for that outbreak.

It came just as he reached the bunkhouse steps—a pistol shot, sharp and snapping. There was another and another still, and out of the tail of his eye he glimpsed indistinctly the swift dash of some figures past the rear of a building across the road. Racing up the steps, Steve panted out his message. In a moment more the piercing wail of a siren screamed shrilly through the night, followed quickly by the dull throbbing of machinery.

Back in the road again, the boy paused for an instant, his heart beating fast with excitement. The sense of empty quiet had vanished utterly. Above him, from the engine-house stack, the high, piercing note of the siren rose and fell shrieking a clamorous warning. From somewhere in the yard a rifle shot came sharply to his ears. Ahead of him several guards were thudding down the road towards the clouds of red-tinged smoke which poured from the burning building with increasing volume.

He ran a few steps in that direction, slowed down for a lagging second or two, spurted again, and ducked around the corner of a big machine shop on the left of the road a little below the guard house. Back of this ran the completed portion of a high board fence topped with barbed wire which would ultimately encircle the entire yard. A moment before he had glimpsed, slipping along that fence, the figure of a man whose furtive movements roused instant suspicion. He might just possibly be one of the guards, but to Steve, remembering the three he had seen running that same way a little while before, it seemed much more likely that he was one of the spies heading for the end of the fence and freedom.

There was little time to think or plan or be afraid. It was pure instinct which sent him flying to cut the creature off—instinct, and a consuming fury against the treachery of these villains. He reached the rear of the building at almost the same instant of his quarry. There was no pause, no word; only a sob of exulting recognition jolted from Steve’s lips as the whole weight of his solid bone and muscle struck the fellow and they went down together.

In falling, he gripped the man about the body. Almost instantly he realized that his hands were more than full. The play of steel muscles beneath his fingers told him that much, even before those furious writhings began, or the fierce blows which fell upon his head and shoulders. Twice his hoarse cry for help rang out before he ducked his head defensively under the other’s arm, and tightened the clutch of interlacing fingers against the hollow of the fellow’s back.

Blows began to fall upon his neck and shoulders, fierce, heavy blows that shook his whole body and jolted the wind in gasps through his clenched teeth. The man heaved up almost to his full height, dragging the boy by sheer strength over yards of roughstones and stubble, but still he failed to loose that grip. Something sharp like the upturned spike in a forgotten piece of planking tore through Steve’s clothes and bit deeply into his thigh; his face, scraped by the rough pressure against the man’s coat, burned like fire. But he hung on doggedly in spite of pain and weariness and failing breath.

Then came a blow upon his neck, a cruel, dazing blow which made his senses reel and brought tears of pain into his eyes. Would they never come? he wondered dully. He could not strike back without loosening his hold. He tried to move his head a little to protect his neck, but again that iron fist beat down on his quivering flesh and wrenched from him a moan of agony.

His senses swam; he felt his muscles laxing. Now searching fingers slid across his shrinking neck and clutched his throat. Before the choking grip had tightened a muffled cry of pain and dull fury burst from him—a cry which, even to his dazed brain, seemed strangely echoed and prolonged. Then came an instant winking out of everything. When consciousness returned he could breathe again, but persistent hands were busy prying loose the grip of his cramped fingers.

“You can’t do it!” he panted stubbornly. “I won’t—”

“Easy, boy, easy!” said a roughly soothing voice. “Let go, son; it’s all right now. We’ve got him.”

Steve’s muscles relaxed instinctively, and as the spy’s body was drawn from his grasp, his bruised shoulders dropped back wearily against a supporting knee. Blinking, he stared upward at a vaguely familiar face bending over him. It was a moment or two before he recognized it as the face of the guard called Dick. Two others stood nearby and between them sagged the body of the prisoner, whose limpness proclaimed no gentle handling.

“Don’t let him—get away,” murmured Steve. “He’s—he’s the leader of the bunch.”

“No fear, son,” Dick assured him grimly. Then his face changed. “Are you hurt bad?” he asked anxiously.

A crooked smile twisted the boy’s lips, and he shook his head. “Not—much,” he said slowly. “I—I’ll get up—in a second. Did—did the fire get away from them?”

“Not yet,” answered the big guard. “They’re fighting it hard. At the worst it’ll take only the two buildings to windward.”

He slid an arm around Haddon and lifted him to his feet, supporting him carefully as they moved slowly back to the road. “Pure grit,” he remarked over one shoulder. “The beast had him near murdered.”

A faint flush crept up into Steve’s face, but he was not thinking of the praise, though this meant much to him. His mind had leaped a gap of many thousand miles; and in imagination he saw a battered band of men in khaki returning from a foray. Again that twisted smile curved his dry lips. He was not one of them—might never be. But he had done his best for them, and in his heart there glowed a sudden sense of humble comradeship which was its own reward.

CHAPTER XI
THE LAST NIGHT

Back on the main thoroughfare of the shipyard, Steve stared about him with widening eyes. How could he ever have thought the place quiet or empty he wondered? The siren still wailed shrilly from the engine stack. But added to it now was the dull, hoarse clamor of many voices rising and falling, the roar and clatter of arriving motor cars, the thud of hurrying feet.

Along the road as far as he could see ranged a long line of empty automobiles, and fresh ones were constantly arriving. Workmen and mechanics belonging to the yard, fishermen from Shelbourne, farmers from the surrounding country who had heard and answered the alarm, poured from the cars and were marshalled into line and sent to the danger points by a file of soldiers.

“Where on earth did they come from?” the boy asked, staring at the latter.

“It’s Major Whitcomb’s bunch,” explained Dick. “He got here about five minutes ago and took charge. Come ahead in; he’ll want to see you.”

Steve was about to protest, but remembering that he would probably have to tell his story sometime, he gave way with a shrug. Dick pushed through the throng, followed by the two guards with their prisoner. A moment later the group halted before a big table in the bunk house behind which sat the officer who had charge of constructing the shipyard. He answered Dick’s salute smartly; then Steve caught the gimlet stare from a pair of cool gray eyes.