y, the interview with the captain, finishing with an account of
the missing Mah Retto. He told also of the man who came ashore on
the raft, and who was believed to be the passenger who was
unaccounted for.

"That's a good day's work done," remarked the young reporter, as he
signed his name to the last sheet of copy. "I wonder if they want me
to stay here?"

He wrote a brief message asking Mr. Emberg for instructions. Telling
the operator he would call in about two hours for an answer, Larry
decided he would get some breakfast.

As there was no restaurant in the little hamlet, he thought the best
plan would be to go back to the fisherman's cabin. He wanted to talk
with Bailey about the disappearance of the man they had rescued from
the raft.

The fisherman was at the hut when Larry arrived, and was busy
preparing a meal.

"Guess you feel like eating something, don't ye?" he asked.

"You guessed it right the first time," replied the young reporter,
with a grin.

"And my other company," went on Bailey. "I expect he's hungry."

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes; I came back here a while ago and there wasn't a sign of him."

"Why, that's queer," returned the fisherman. "I've been so busy
frying this bacon and making fresh coffee I didn't notice it. But
that reminds me, I haven't seen or heard anything of him since I
came in. His clothes are gone, too."

Larry and Bailey made a hasty search through the cabin. There were
few places where a person could conceal himself, and they very soon
found that their late guest was nowhere on the premises.

"Here's something," remarked Larry, as he looked on a small table in
the room where the rescued man had slept. "It looks like a note."

It was a note, written on the fly leaf torn from a book. It read:

"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