us guessing, and,
next, to hunt up some of their own rascals for this work. The
seventy-footer led us into this trap on purpose. Finely done, wasn't
it?"

"It shows," retorted Mr. Seaton, wrathily, "that along this sparsely
settled shore there is a numerous gang organized for some law-breaking
purpose."

"Smuggling, most likely," guessed Tom. "And it must pay unusually
well, too, for them to have such a big and so well-armed a crew."

Three more shots sounded from the shore. All of the trio of bullets
went uncomfortably close to the young skipper and engineer, though
doing no actual damage. Hepton, with his ear trained to catch the
direction of the discharge sounds, changed his guess, firing in a new
direction.

"There, it's done, until it's put out of business again," muttered
Joe, finally. "Slide, Tom."

Almost immediately after Dawson disappeared the crash of the spark
across the spark-gap and up the wires was heard. The young wireless
operator of the "Restless" was making the most of any time that might
be left to him.

"How about that storm that threatened last night, captain?" inquired
Mr. Seaton. "Has it come any nearer?"

[Illustration: "There, It's Done," Muttered Joe. "Slide, Tom."]

"No, sir," replied the motor boat captain, shaking his head. "It acted
the way many September storms do on this coast. It passed by us, out
to sea, and ought to be down by Havana by now. The barometer has been
rising, and is at nearly the usual pressure. But I don't like the
looks of the sky over there"--pointing.

"Why not?" queried the charter-man, following the gesture with his
eyes.

"We'll be playing in great luck, sir," answered the young captain, "if
a fog doesn't roll in where the storm threatened to come."

"Fog?" Mr. Seaton's tone had an aghast ring to it.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sure, Captain?"

"No, sir. It's only a possibility, but a good one."

Hepton was making his rifle bark again, deep, snappy and angry in its
throat, in answer to a challenge from shore, but Powell Seaton stood
surveying the weather with a look of deepest concern.

Then he turned to regard the drab seventy-footer at anchor near by.

"It would be the enemy's real chance, wouldn't it?" he inquired.

"Just what I dread, sir," Captain Tom admitted. "Let us be wrapped in
a thick bank of fog, and the Drab would be out of our vision and
hearing in a very short time."

"Shades of hard luck!" groaned the charter-man, growing palli