P. XXX S.

"That comes from Mr. Seaton, all right," nodded Captain Tom. "That's
his private signal, below his name, that he told us to look for on all
orders of his. Now, let me have a look again at the position and
course of the 'Constant.'"

After studying the dispatch intently, Captain Halstead nodded to his
chum to take the wheel. Facing about, Tom swung open the small
chart-case secured to the top of the deck-house. With a small,
accurate pocket rule he made some measurements.

"At twenty-five miles an hour, Joe, if you can keep it up, a straight
sou'east by east course should bring us right in the path of the
'Constant' on the course and speed she reports."

"Oh, we can keep the speed up," predicted Joe, confidently. "But I
can't fool with the engine, unless you insist. I ought to be back in
the cabin, at the wireless instrument."

"Hank can keep at the motors, then," nodded Captain Tom. "Go along,
old fellow."

Joe paused but an instant to give Hank the needed orders, then raced
aft. At the after end of the cabin were two snug little staterooms; at
the other end, forward, a table had been fitted up with wireless
apparatus, for the twin motors of the boat generated, by means of a
dynamo, electricity enough for a very respectable wireless spark.

Hardly had Joe vanished when Hank, satisfied with the performance of
the motors, appeared on deck. The signal mast stood just behind the
bridge deck. It was of light, hollow steel, with two inner tubes that,
when extended, made an unusually high mast for such a boat.

"We can run the extension mast up to full height in this light breeze,
can't we, Tom?" asked the Long Island boy. Halstead nodded.

So simple was the arrangement that, within a few moments, Hank had the
aerials well aloft. Nor was he too soon, for this query came promptly
through space from Powell Seaton, up at Beaufort:

"Are you starting at once?"

With a quiet grin, all alone there by the wireless apparatus, young
Dawson sparked back through the air:

"Three miles east, and running to intercept the 'Constant.'"

"Good!" came clicking into Joe Dawson's watch-case receivers against
his ears, a moment later. "Then I won't bother you further. I trust
you. But, oh, if you should fail! You don't know what failure
means--to me!"

All this, of course, was clicked out in the dot and dash code of the
Morse alphabet, but to Joe Dawson it was as plain as words spoken by
the human voice.

"You're r