er of articles of no importance.

"They tell their story," said Chester, holding them up one after another
for his chum's inspection. "If the officers of the law arrest us, we
shall have to depend upon our friends to prove an alibi."

"Meanwhile there is no need to keep those sandwiches waiting."

"Wonder if they are poisoned," laughed Chester, as he passed one to his
chum, and sank his teeth in another. "Anyhow, I'm going to take chances."

"So am I. They don't seem to have any cooking utensils on board, so
coffee and warm food are to be denied us."

The Captain ate with one hand on the steering wheel, and frequent glances
ahead. Now and then they would find themselves approaching a sharp
projection of land, around which the launch was steered, and then perhaps
would glide past a cunning looking cove, too narrow to admit a boat of
large size. Once, while doubling a cape, they came within a hair of
running down a small rowboat propelled by a single occupant. He shouted
angrily for the steersman to keep a better lookout.

"I'm sorry!" called back Alvin; "but the fog bothers us. Will you please
tell me how far it is to Beartown landing?"

"'Bout half a mile, mebbe a little more. Who are you?"

Alvin gave his right name and thanked the man for his information.

"I thought that was about the distance," said Chester, as he resumed the
duty of sentinel. "I can't recognize any landmark, and couldn't if there
was no fog to play the mischief with our sight."

Alvin stopped the engine two or three times while approaching the spot,
in order to listen for sounds of the other boat. They heard nothing, but
had they not waited too long to make the experiment, they would have
picked up some exceedingly interesting information.

"Here's the spot!" called Chester a few minutes later, as he identified
the spiderlike landing from which a road led to Beartown.

"Then we have passed the place where the launch lay up last night. We may
as well go beyond and be out of the way of folks."

A hundred yards north of the wharf, too far to see it when they looked
back, the _Water Witch_ came gently to rest, the waiting Chester sprang
ashore with a line in hand and made fast.

CHAPTER XXIV

BAD FOR MIKE MURPHY

When Gerald Buxton's shotgun was fired by him, and the report rang out in
the still night, it awoke several persons, who wondered what it meant. No
one gave the matter further thought, however, until an old lady, facin