urther use for medicine, and only nourishing food was needed.

"But about his mind," the physician went on, "time alone can heal that.
We must be patient. Take him out with you, Andy and Frank, when he is
able to go, and let him have a good time. That will help as much as
anything."

In the meanwhile, pending the gaining of complete strength on the part
of Paul Gale, as he was now called, the two Racer boys made many trips
around the Shark's Teeth in their sailboat, looking for the wrecked
motor craft. But they could not locate it. Nor were their inquiries
any more successful. Sailors and fishermen who went far out to sea
were questioned but could give no trace of the wreck.

"Guess we'll have to give it up," said Andy with a sigh one day.

"It's like the mysterious man," added his brother.

Mr. Racer was much interested in the efforts his sons were making to
solve the mystery of Paul Gale. He even advertised in a number of
papers, giving details of the rescue, and asking any persons who might
possibly know the history of such a youth as he described, to call on
him at his New York office. But none came.

Paul had not yet ventured far from the house, for he was still rather
weak. His arm, too, was very painful, and he could not yet accompany
his two friends on any of their rowing or sailing trips.

"But I'll go soon," he said one day, when Frank and Andy started off
for the beach, with the intention of interviewing some lobstermen who
were due to arrive from a long cruise out to sea. "Some time I'll
surprise you by coming along."

"Glad of it," called Frank, linking his arm in that of his brother.
Together they strolled down on the sands, to await the arrival of the
lobstermen. They found Bob Trent there, loading up his wagon with soft
clams, which he had just dug.

As Bob tossed in shovelful after shovelful of the bivalves, the two
Racer boys saw approaching the vehicle a youth of about their own age
but of entirely different appearance. For, whereas the Racer boys
dressed well they made no pretense of style, especially when they were
away on their vacation. But the lad approaching the wagon was "dressed
to kill clams," as Andy laughingly expressed it.

"Look at Chet Sedley!" exclaimed the younger lad to his brother. "Talk
about style!"

"I should boil a lobster; yes!" agreed Frank, laughing.

And well he might, for Chet, who was a native of Harbor View, had
donned his "best" that afternoon.