It was Rob who spoke, as Hiram hastened by his house in the early darkness.

"Oh, hullo, Rob," responded the other. "I was wondering who that was hanging over the gate. Why, I'm going to Paul's house. I'm going to talk over that aeroplane model contest with him. I think that we stand a chance to win if Jack Curtiss doesn't make good his boast."

"What was that?" inquired Rob.

"Oh, he says that he is going to build an aeroplane that will beat us all."

"And have it ready in a week?" was Rob's astonished query.

"That's what he says," responded Hiram. "It all looks kind of suspicious to me. Fifty dollars is a large enough sum to tempt Jack to do almost anything. Well, so long. I've got to hurry along. I'm late now."

And the lad hastened away to keep his appointment.

Rob was about to go into the house and get a book, when his attention was arrested by a figure coming up the street at a smart pace whose outlines somehow seemed familiar to him. The next minute his guess was confirmed, when a hearty voice hailed him:

"Waal, here I am, lad--all shipshape and in first-cla.s.s trim. Now, what is it? What do yer want? Yer didn't explain in the note, but old Captain job Hudgins'll always stand by a shipmate in distress."

"Why, whatever do you mean, captain?" exclaimed Rob, amazed, and thinking that the captain must have taken leave of his wits. "Who do you mean is in distress?"

"Mean?" echoed the captain, in his turn, it seemed, surprised. "Why, that note yer sent me. Here it is--all written on one uv them new-fangled machines."

Rob took the crumpled paper the old seaman drew out of his coat and scanned it hastily by the light of the street lamp. The following note met his puzzled gaze.

"DEAR CAPTAIN: Please come over and see me at once. Something serious has happened at the bank. I need your aid and advice.

"Yours,

"ROB BLAKE."

"Hum! The signature is typewritten, too," mused Rob. "What kind of a joke is this? I don't know, but I'll bet anything that Jack Curtiss is at the bottom of it."

"Well," demanded the captain, "what is it, a bit of gammon? I'll keel-haul the man as did it if I can find him."

"It looks like a hoax of some sort," admitted Rob, sorely puzzled; "but I can't for the life of me see the object of it. Come into the house a minute, captain, and we'll try to figure it out."

Seated beneath the lamp in the library of his home, Rob scrutinized the letter closely, but could find absolutely no indication about it to betray who could have typewritten it.

"How did you come to receive it?" he asked suddenly.

"Why, old Hank Handcraft come out in that crazy launch uv his and guv it ter me," rejoined the captain. "I ought ter hev told yer that in the first place, but I was all took aback and canvas a-shiver when yer tole me yer never wrote it."

"Hank Handcraft," repeated Rob. "He's that queer old fellow that lives in a hut away down the beach?"

"Yes, and a bad character, too," replied the captain. "He used ter be a smuggler, and done a term in jail fer it."

"Well, it's pretty certain that he didn't write this," said Rob. "He couldn't get hold of a typewriter, even if he could use one. What did he tell you about it? Did he say who gave it to, him?"

"No, he just handed it ter me, and says: 'A young party in Hampton says ter give yer this and hurry.' I was just gettin' my supper when I heard his hail of 'Island, ahoy!' I hurried out, and there he was in that old teakettle uv his, at the end uv my wharf."

"And he left before you read the note?"

"I should say. He hurried right off ag'in."

"Well, I don't see any way to get at the bottom of this mystery but to go and see old Hank himself," mused Rob, after a period of thought.

"What do you think, captain?"

"That's the tack ter go about on, youngster," agreed the man of Topsail Island; "but if yer are goin' down ter his place at this hour uv night, we'd better take somebody else along. He's a bad character, and I'm only a feeble old man and yer are a lad."

"I'll go round by Merritt Crawford's house," proposed Rob; "then we'll pick up Tubby Hopkins. I guess we can handle any trouble that Hank wants to make, with that force on hand."

"I guess so," agreed the old man. "I must say I'd like ter get ter the bottom uv this here mystery. 'All fair and above board' is my motto.

I don't like these secret craft."

The two young scouts were both at home, and after brief explanations the four started off at a lively pace for Hank Handcraft's hut, which was situated about two miles along the beach. As they hastened along, Rob explained to the others in more detail the nature of their mission, but though they were as much mystified by the sudden summons of Captain Hudgins as Rob and the captain himself, they could hit upon no plausible explanation for it.

It was a little over half an hour before they reached the dilapidated hut where old Handcraft, a beach-comber, made his dwelling place. A short distance off the sh.o.r.e they could see by the moon, which had now risen, that his crazy old motor boat lay at anchor. This was a sign that Hank was at home. Lest it be wondered that such a character could have owned a motor boat, it may be explained here that the engine of Hank's old oyster skiff had been given him by a summer resident who despaired of making it work. Hank, however, who was quite handy with tools, had fixed it up and managed to make it drive his patched old craft at quite a fair speed--sometimes. When it broke down, as it frequently did, Hank, who was a philosopher in his way, simply got out his oars and rowed his heavy craft.

As an additional indication that the hut was occupied, light shone through several of its numerous c.h.i.n.ks and crannies, and a knock at the door brought forth a low growl of: "Who's there?"

"We want to see you," said Rob.

"This is no time of night to call on a gentleman; come to-morrow and leave your cards," rumbled the gruff voice from inside the hut.

"This is serious business," urged Rob. "Come on, open that door, Hank.

This is Rob Blake, the banker's son."

"Oh, it is, is it?" grumbled the voice, as the clank of the door-chains being taken off was heard from within. "Well, I ain't had much business deals with your father lately, my private fortune being somewhat shrunk."

With a m.u.f.fled chuckle from the speaker, the door slowly opened, and Hank, a ragged figure, with an immense matted beard, long tangled hair and dim blue eyes, that blinked like a rat's, stood revealed.

"Come in, come in, gentlemen," he bowed, with mock politeness. "I'm glad to see such a numerous and representative party. Now, what kin I do you for?"

He chuckled once more at his little jest, and the boys involuntarily shrank from him.

There was nothing to do, however, but enter the hut, and Hank accommodated his guests with a cracker box apiece as chairs. On a table, roughly built out of similar boxes, a battered old stable lamp smoked and flared. A more miserable human habitation could not be imagined.

"Hank," began the captain, "speak me fair and above board, mate--who give yer that letter ter bring ter me ter-night?"

"What letter?" blankly responded Hank, a look of vacancy in his shifty eyes.

"Oh, yer know well enough; that letter yer give me at supper time."

"Captain, I'll give you my davy I don't know what you're talking about," returned the beachcomber.

"What!" roared the captain: rising to his feet and advancing threateningly. "Yer mean ter tell me, yer rapscallion, that yer don't recall landin' at Topsail Island earlier ter-night and givin' me a note which says ter come urgent and immediate ter see young Rob Blake here?"

"Why, captain," calmly returned Hank, with an indulgent grin, "I really think you must be gettin' childish in your old age. You must be seeing things. I hope you ain't drinking."