"Dear friends. Accept my thanks for saving my life. Please take this small remembrance for your trouble."

There was no signature to the note, but folded in the paper was a hundred-dollar bill, somewhat damp from immersion in the sea.

"Well, sink my cuttle-fish!" exclaimed Bailey. "That's odd. A hundred dollars! That's more than I make in a summer season. But half of it's yours. I'd like to rescue people steady at that rate."

"It's all yours," said Larry. "I got the story I came down after, and that's all I want. But I would like to find this Mah Retto, if that's his name. He doesn't write much like a foreigner, though he looks like one. May I keep this note?"

"As long as you don't want a share in the hundred-dollar one, I reckon you can," Bailey replied, with a laugh.

Larry folded the sc.r.a.p of paper to put in his pocket. As he did so something bright and shining on the floor attracted his attention.

He stooped to pick it up, finding it was a small gold coin, of curious design, evidently used as a watch charm.

"I guess our man dropped this," Larry said, holding it out to Bailey.

"Well, you can keep that, with the note. Perhaps it will help you solve the mystery," the fisherman said. "I'm satisfied with what I got."

Larry put the charm in his pocket, together with the note, and was about to leave the room, when the fisherman, who was lifting from the corner a box, in which to deposit his money, uttered an exclamation.

"What is it?" asked Larry.

"Why, it's a man's beard. Somebody's shaved his off and left it here. How in the name of a soft-sh.e.l.l clam----"

"It's that man!" cried Larry. "I knew he had a beard on when we pulled him ash.o.r.e!"

"A beard on?" murmured Bailey, in questioning tones.

"Yes," went on Larry. "When you were outside, getting some wood, just before you ran down the beach when the life savers came, I was in here. The man stuck his head from the bed-room and asked for his clothes, which I gave him. I noticed he was smooth shaven----"

"Why, he had a beard on when we pulled him from the water,"

interrupted the fisherman.

"I was sure he did, but when I asked him why he had shaved it off he said I was mistaken--said it was only a bunch of seaweed I had thought was a beard. Then you called me to hurry out, and I forgot all about it until now. But he must have shaved his whiskers off in here, and then he disappeared. There's something strange about it all."

"I rather guess there is," Bailey admitted. "Wonder where he got his razor? I never use one."

"He must have had it in that small valise he wore, strapped by a belt, around his waist," Larry answered. "That's probably where he carried his money. I'd like to get at the bottom of this mystery."

"Well, you newspaper fellows are looking for just such things as this," said the fisherman with a smile. "It's right in your line."

"So it is," Larry replied. "I'll solve it, too."

But it was some time later, and Larry had many strange adventures before he got at the bottom of the queer secret that started down there on the lonely sea coast.

CHAPTER VII

LARRY OVERHEARS SOMETHING

Larry decided that the disappearance of the fisherman's guest was not a part of the story of the wreck, though the fact that the pa.s.senger was missing was an item of much interest, and he used it.

He made up his mind to tell Mr. Emberg all about the strange happening when he got back.

Arriving at the telegraph office for the third time, he found a message from the city editor, instructing him to come back to New York, as the best of the story was now in, and the a.s.sociated Press would attend to the remainder. Some of the representatives of that news-gathering organization were already at the scene of the disaster.

"Your friend got a calling down," volunteered the operator to Larry, as the young reporter began looking up trains to see when he could get back.

"How's that?"

"He got a message from his city editor a while ago, wanting to know why he hadn't secured a list of pa.s.sengers and the crew. The message said the _Leader_ had it, and had beaten all the other papers."

"That's good," spoke Larry. "I worked hard enough for it."

"The _Scorcher_ man wanted me to give him your list, but I wouldn't do it," the operator went on. "So he's gone out to get one of his own. But he's too late, I reckon. I'll have my hands full pretty soon, for there'll be a lot of reporters here. But you're the first to send off the complete story."

Larry felt much elated. Of course he knew it was due, in part, to the forethought of his city editor in seeing a possible situation, and rushing a man to the scene ahead of the other papers. That counts for almost as much in journalism as does getting a good story or a "scoop."

Larry received hearty congratulations from Mr. Emberg when he got back to the _Leader_ office the next day, for, not only had the young reporter secured a fine "scoop," but he had sent in an exceptionally good story of the wreck.

"Larry, you did better than I thought you would. You've got the right stuff in you!" exclaimed the city editor, while the other reporters, crowding around the hero of the occasion, expressed, their pleasure at his success. Not one of them but would have given much to have been in Larry's place.

"Have much trouble?" asked Mr. Newton.

"Well, I had to hustle. Struck something rather queer down there, too."

"What was it? Some of the men from other papers try to get the best of you?"

"Only my old enemy, Peter Manton, but I put a crimp in him all right. No, this was something else." And Larry told of the disappearance of the man at the hut.

"That is rather odd," agreed the older reporter. "If I were you I'd tell Mr. Emberg about it, and then you'll be in a position to act on what information you have, in case anything turns up."

Larry followed this advice. The city editor puzzled over the matter a few minutes, and then decided nothing could be done at present.

"We'll watch developments in regard to the _Olivia_ wreck," said Mr.

Emberg, "and it may be this mystery will fit in somewhere. If it does we may get a good story."

But neither Larry nor the city editor realized in what a strange manner the mystery was to develop.

It was the beginning of the newspaper day in the _Leader_ office.

Reporters were busy writing accounts of meetings they had covered the previous night, and others were going out on a.s.signments to police courts, to look up robberies, murders, suicides, and the hundred and one things that go to make up the news of the day.

"How would you like to try your hand at politics?" asked Mr. Emberg of Larry, when they had finished their talk about the man at the hut. "I haven't given you much chance at anything in that line, but if you're going to be an all-'round newspaper man you'll have a lot to do with politics."

"I think I'd like it," replied Larry.

Certainly this life was one of variety, one day at the wild scene of a rescue from a wreck, and the next peacefully sent to talk to some political leader.

"I want you to go up and have a talk with Jack Sullivan, the leader of one of the a.s.sembly districts," went on Mr. Emberg. "You've probably read of the trouble in that district. Thomas Kilburn is a new aspirant for the a.s.sembly and he's fighting against the re-nomination of William Reilly. Now Jack Sullivan is the leader of that district, and whoever he decides to support will be elected.