"That's the idea," responded Rob. "They're supposed to be as speedy as anything afloat in smooth water."

Thus conversing they reached the boat-building yard of Sam Redding's father and were greeted by Tom Jennings, a big good-natured ship carpenter. "Hullo, Tom! Can we see that new boat of Sam's?" inquired Rob.

"Sure, I guess there's no objection," grinned Tom, "come right this way. There she is, over there by that big winch."

Report had not erred apparently as to the novel qualities of Sam Redding's speed craft. She was about twenty-five feet long, narrow and painted black. She was perfectly flat-bottomed, her underside being deeply notched at frequent intervals. On the edge of those notches she was supposed to glide over the water when driven at top speed.

"She certainly looks like a winner," commented Rob, as he gazed at her clean, slender lines and sharp bow.

"She's got wonderful speed," Tom Jennings confided. "We tried her out the other night when no one was around. But I don't think that in rough water she'll be much good."

"No, I'd prefer the Flying Fish for the waters hereabouts," agreed Rob, "it's liable to come on rough in a hurry and then a chap who was out in a dry-goods box, like that thing, would be in trouble."

"What are you calling a dry-goods box?" demanded an indignant voice behind them, and turning, the lads saw Sam Redding with a menacing look on his face. A little way behind him stood Bill Bender and Jack Curtiss.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Sam," said Rob. "I really admire your hydroplane very much, and I think it will give us a tussle for the trophy, all right; but I don't think she'd be much good in any kind of a sea-way."

"That's my business, you interfering little runt," snapped Sam, who, with Bill Bender and Jack Curtiss to back him, felt very brave; though ordinarily he would have avoided trouble with the young scouts. "What are you doing spying around the yard here, anyhow?" he went on insolently.

"We are not spying," indignantly burst out Merritt. "We asked Tom Jennings if we couldn't look at your hydroplane, as we were naturally interested in her, and he gave us permission."

"Well, he had no business to," growled Sam; "he ought to be attending to his work instead of showing a lot of nosy young cubs my new boat."

"They are capable of stealing your ideas," chimed in Jack Curtiss, "and putting them on their own boat."

"That's ridiculous," laughed Rob, "as I said I wouldn't want to have anything to do with such a contrivance except on a lake or a river."

"Well, you keep your advice and your ideas to yourself, and get out of this yard!" roared Sam, waxing bolder and bolder, and mistaking Rob's conciliatory manner for cowardice. "I've a good mind to punch your head."

"Better come on and try it," retorted Rob, preparing for the immediate onslaught which it seemed reasonable from Sam's manner to expect.

But it didn't come.

Muttering something about "young cubs," and "keeping the boat-yard gate locked," Sam turned to his chums and invited them to come and try out his new motor in the shop.

As the three chums had no desire to "mix it up with Sam on his own place," as Tubby put it, they left the yard promptly, and walked on down the water-front to the wharf at which lay the Flying Fish, the fastest craft in the Hampton Motor Boat Club. Rob's boat was, to tell the truth, rather broad of beam for a racer and drew quite a little water. She had a powerful motor and clean lines, however, and while not primarily designed solely for "mug-hunting," had beaten everything she had raced with during the few months since the boys had completed her. The money for her motor had been given to Rob by his father, who was quite indulgent to Rob in money matters, having noticed that the lad always expended the sums given him wisely.

"Let's take a spin," suddenly suggested Tubby.

"Nothing to prevent us," answered Rob; "we've got plenty of time before dinner. Come on, boys."

The lads were soon on board and examining the gasoline tank, to see how much fuel they had on hand, and oiling up the engine. The fuel receptacle proved to be almost full, so after filling the lubricant cups and attending to the batteries, they started up the engine--a powerful, three cylindered, twelve-horse affair capable of driving the twenty-two foot Flying Fish through the water at twelve miles an hour or better.

Just as Rob was casting off the head-line there came a hail from the wharf above them.

"Ahoy, there, shipmates! Where are yer bound fer this fine, sunny day?"

The lads looked up to see the weather-beaten countenance of Captain Job Hudgins, one of the characters of the vicinity. He was a former whaler, and lived on a small island some distance from Hampton. On his little territory he fished and grew a few vegetables, "trading in" his produce at the Hampton grocery stores for his simple wants. He, however, had a pension, and was supposed to have a "snug little fortune" laid by. His only companion in his island solitude was it big Newfoundland dog named "Skipper."

The animal stood beside its master on the dock and wagged its tail at the sight of the boys, whom it knew quite well from their frequent visits to the captain's little island.

"Hullo, captain!" shouted Rob, as the veteran saluted his three young friends. "Where's your boat?"

"Oh, her engine went--busted, and I had to leave her at the yard below fer repairs," explained the captain. "I wonder if yer boys can give me a lift back if yer goin' near Topsail Island?"

"Surest thing you know," rejoined Rob hastily. "Come right aboard.

But how are you going to get off your island again if your motor is laid up here to be fixed?"

"Oh, I'll use my rowboat," responded the old mariner, clambering down into the Flying Fish. "Say, this is quite a right smart contraption, ain't she?"

"We think she is a pretty good little boat," modestly replied Rob, taking his place at the wheel. "Now, then, Merritt, start up that engine."

"Hold on a minute!" shouted Tubby. "We forgot the dog."

Sure enough, Skipper was dashing up and down the wharf in great distress at the prospect of being deserted.

"Put yer boat alongside that landin' stage at the end of the wharf,"

suggested his master. "Skipper can get aboard from there, I reckon."

Rob steered the Flying Fish round to the floating landing, to which an inclined runway led from the wharf. Skipper dashed down it as soon as he saw what was happening, and was waiting, ready to embark, when the Flying Fish came alongside.

"Poor old Skipper, I reckon yer thought we was goin' ter maroon yer,"

said Captain Job, as the animal jumped on board with a bark of "thanks"

for his rescue. "I tell yer, boys, I wouldn't lose that dog fer all the money in Rob's father's bank. He keeps good watch out an the Island, I'll tell yer."

"I didn't think any one much came there, except us," said Rob, as the Flying Fish headed away from the wharf and began to cut through the waters of the inlet.

"Oh, yes; there's others," responded the old man. "That Jack Curtiss lad and his two chums are out there quite often."

"Bill Bender and Sam Redding, I suppose you mean," said Tubby.

"Those their names?" asked the captain. "Well, I don't know any good uv any uv 'em. Old Skipper here chased 'em away from my melon patch the other day. I reckon they thought Old Scratch was after them, the way they run; but they got away with some melons, just the same."

The old man laughed aloud at the recollection of the marauders'

precipitous flight.

That Jack Curtiss and his two cronies had made a rendezvous of the island was news to the boys, and not agreeable news, either. They had been planning a patrol camp there later on in the summer, and the bully and his two chums were not regarded by them as desirable neighbors.

However, they said nothing, as they could not claim sole right to use the island, which was property that had been so long in litigation that It had come to be known as "No Man's Land" as well as by its proper name. The captain was only a squatter there, but no one cared to disturb him, and he had led the existence of a semi-hermit there for many years.

The Flying Fish rapidly covered the calm waters of the inlet and was soon dancing over the swells outside.

"I'm going to let her out a bit," said Rob suddenly; "look out for spray."

"Spray don't bother a brine-pickled old salt like me," laughed the captain. "Let her go."

The Flying Fish seemed fairly to leap forward as Merritt gave her the full power of her engine. As Rob had said, it did indeed behoove her occupants to look out for spray. The sparkling spume came flying back in sheets as she cut through the waves, but the boys didn't mind that any more than did their weather-beaten companion. As for Skipper, he barked aloud in sheer joy as the Flying Fish slid along as if she were trying to live up to her name to her utmost ability.

"This is a good little sea boat," remarked the captain, as they plunged onward. "She's as seaworthy as she is speedy, I guess."