her
motor with a gentle sigh came to a stop.

"Hard a-ground!" roared the captain, "too bad and with a fallin' tide,
too."

"Full speed astern," came the next order.

The propeller churned up the water aft into a white turmoil. The Flying
Fish trembled in her every timber, and began to slide slowly backward
from the treacherous shoal.

"Safe, by the great horn spoon!" roared the captain, fetching Andy
Bowles a slap on the back that almost toppled the small bugler into the
water.

"For a time," said Rob quietly, "come ahead a bit, Merritt."

Slowly the little vessel slid ahead once more. Rob seemed fairly to
feel his way through the narrow channel he had picked out and finally
the Flying Fish, after as much coaxing as is usually bestowed on a
balky horse, floated in the deep water beyond the sandy bar.

Eagerly the boys looked about them as they "opened up," as sailors call
it, the narrow stretch of water known as the Upper Inlet. It did not
take them long to spy the island with the tent on it in which the
conversation between Jack and his cronies, and the mutineer to his
plans, had taken place.

"There's their camp!" shouted Rob, eagerly sending the Flying Fish
ahead at full speed, "now we'll find out something."

"And, maybe, use this." The captain, as he spoke, grimly produced his
formidable weapon and flourished it about.

"No, none of that," sternly rejoined Rob, "the Boy Scouts can take care
of those fellows--without using firearms."

"You bet," rejoined Merritt, grimly "muscling up," "we'll show 'em if
it comes to a fight."

But bitter disappointment awaited the boys. As we know, the camp was
deserted and no trace or clue of the whereabouts of its occupants was
to be found. In the tent, however, lay a piece of blotting paper with
ink-marks on it. It was the material with which Jack had dried his
letter.

"Anybody got a mirror?" asked Rob. "This blotter may help some if we
can read what's on it."

"I've got a pocket one," said Andy Bowles, who was somewhat particular
about his person and always carried a small toilet case.

"That will do; let's have it."

Rob seized the bit of looking glass and held the blotter to it.

"Just as I thought," he exclaimed a minute later, with a cry of
triumph. "It's Jack Curtiss' writing, though he has tried to disguise
it, and they've got Joe hidden somewhere. Look here, they want $200
for his return."

"Yes, but what good does it do us to know that," o