nine o'clock," said Frank, turning away.

Flynn's face, that had been so pale, flushed and turned purple with
anger. All at once, he lifted his walking stick to bring it down on
Merry's head.

A cry from the boys on the yacht warned Merriwell, who ducked and
dodged--just in time.

Whizz!--the cane cut through the air, but Merry was not touched.

Quick as thought, Frank turned and grappled with Parker Flynn. He
wrenched away the cane, and, with a quick motion, broke it across his
knee. Then, as he coolly tossed it into the water, he said:

"If you try any more funny business, sir, you'll follow your cane."

"Oh, I'll fix you!" Flynn almost screamed. "I'll get a warrant for you!
I'll be back in a hurry! Don't dare leave before I return!"

He dashed away on the run.

"I told you you would have bad luck," said the truckman. "It's begun."

"Oh, I don't know!" laughed Frank. "If Flynn paid money for the yacht,
he is the one in hard luck."

At nine o'clock the _White Wings_ cast off from the pier. Her sails were
hoisted, and, aided by the out-running tide, she soon got away enough to
catch a breeze.

And Parker Flynn had not returned.

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE FOG.

"It's no use, fellows, we can't go any further in this fog to-night,"
said Frank Merriwell on the fourth day after leaving Boston.

"We must go farther!" exclaimed Diamond. "There is no anchorage here."

"How do you know? We haven't tried for it."

"But we are not in a harbor."

"No. We are somewhere near the Whitehead Islands, near the mouth of
Penobscot Bay."

"Well, let's keep on as long as there is a breath of wind. I don't fancy
anchoring here. We might be run down in the night."

"And, if we keep on, the chances are two to one that we'll run onto a
reef or pile up on an island. I had much rather take the chances of
anchoring here and being run down. The wind is dying out, and this fog
is shutting down thicker and thicker."

"Well," said Jack, in a dissatisfied way, "this is your boat and you are
in command. You can do as you like."

"I'll do as the majority believes best."

"Then anchor," grunted Browning. "I don't fancy this prowling about in
the fog."

Hodge was in favor of anchoring, and Hans agreed with them, so Jack was
the only one who felt like going on. He gave up in disgust.

While they were talking the last faint breeze had fallen swiftly, and,
by the time it was definitely decided, the _White Wings_ lay becalmed,