s queer that the Foger boy doesn't come home. That makes it look
as if he was guilty."

"Oh, I'm sure he took it all right," returned Tom. "All I want is to
see him. It certainly is queer that he stays away as long as he does.
Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey are with him, too. But they'll have to
return some time."

Tom dreamed that night of finding his boat and that it was a wreck. He
awoke, glad to find that the latter part was not true, but wishing that
some of his night vision might come to pass during the day.

He started out right after breakfast, and, as usual, headed for the
Foger home. He almost disliked to ask Mrs. Foger if her son had yet
returned, for Andy's mother was so polite and so anxious to know
whether any danger threatened that Tom hardly knew how to answer her.
But he was saved that embarrassment on this occasion, for as he was
going up the walk from the lake to the residence he met the gardener
and from him learned that Andy had not yet come back.

"But his mother had a message from him, I did hear," went on the man.
"He's on his way. It seems he had some trouble."

"Trouble. What kind of trouble?" asked Tom.

"I don't rightly know, sir, but," and here the gardener winked his eye,
"Master Andy isn't particular what kind of trouble he gets into."

"That's right," agreed our hero, and as he went down again to where he
had left his boat he thought: "Nor what kind of trouble he gets other
people into. I wish I had hold of him for about five minutes!"

The sailboat swung slowly from the dock and heeled over to the gentle
breeze. Hardly knowing what to do, Tom headed for the middle of the
lake. He was discouraged and tired of making plans only to have them
fail.

As he looked across the stretch of water he saw a boat coming toward
him. He shaded his eyes with his hand to see better, and then, with a
pair of marine glasses, took an observation. He uttered an exclamation.

"That's the RED STREAK as sure as I'm alive!" he cried. "But what's
the matter with her? They're rowing!"

The lad headed his boat toward the approaching one. There was no doubt
about it. It was Andy Foger's craft, but it was not speeding forward
under the power of the motor. Slowly and laborious the occupants were
pulling it along, and as it was not meant to be rowed, progress was
very slow.

"They've had a breakdown," thought Tom. "Serves 'em right! Now wait
till I tackle 'em and find out where my boat is