his cigarettes," promised Butts, with vim.

Then Skipper Tom vanished, though not for long. He merely went to find
Joe Dawson, at the opposite side of the building. The two chums
returned together.

"Now," said Tom, in a chuckling whisper, "if Anse Dalton wants to get
away from us, he'll have to run in four different directions at the
same time."

"But did you see the nice plush boy that's with Dalton?" asked Hank,
dryly. Butts, more than any of the others of the party, had taken a
great dislike to the soft-voiced one.

Dalton turned, once in a while, to scowl in the direction of the three
motor boat boys. That, however, was all the attention he gave them. A
little later Dawley returned and seated himself beside his friend.

"Breakfast is ready, gentlemen," called the clerk, opening the door.

Not one of the Motor Boat Club boys stirred until after Dalton rose
and stepped inside. Then they followed, close in the rear.

Dalton and his companion stepped into the dining room, installing
themselves at a table not far from the door. Tom led the way for his
party at the second table beyond. Two waiters appeared, one attending
to each of the tables.

Dawley was evidently in bubbling spirits. He insisted on talking much,
in his soft voice, to Anson Dalton, who was plainly annoyed. Tom
Halstead glanced over at his enemy with an amused smile.

Yet no word passed between the tables. Food and coffee were brought,
after some minutes, and at both tables the meal was disposed of
slowly, excellent appetites being the rule.

Powell Seaton, in the meantime, had hastened to the telegraph office.
From there he wired, "rush," to the chief of police at Beaufort,
advising the latter that Anson Dalton was in Mocalee, and asking
whether Dalton was wanted by the United States or state authorities on
any charges growing out of the seizure of the schooner "Black Betty."

This dispatch sent off, Mr. Seaton, though remaining at the telegraph
office, sent a messenger in haste for James Hunter, who represented
Mocalee as chief of police and the entire police force.

"Jim Hunter," as he was locally called, a raw-boned, taciturn man,
came speedily to the telegraph office. He was in his shirt-sleeves,
chewing a straw, but he wore his police badge on his coat, while a
short "billy" appeared in a hip pocket. Jim Hunter listened quietly
while the operator, at Seaton's request, displayed the original of the
telegram that had been sent to Beaufo