lar there as with the men of the coast guard. As he
entered the small receiving-room, the instruments were spitting out dots
and dashes, with all kinds of sparks for accompaniment. The principal
operator was taking down a message. As soon as the task was ended, he
whirled about and greeted the old fisherman enthusiastically.

"Why, howdy, Captain Ichabod--glad to see you. It's sure fine of you to
come over. I understand there've been some exciting times up in your
neck of the woods. By the way, what was the name of the yacht that went
on the rock?"

"It was _The Isabel_, of New York," replied Ichabod.

"Is that so!" exclaimed the operator. "If that's the case, I reckon this
message I just yanked out of the air will be of interest to you."

He handed the paper to the Captain, who, after finding his spectacles
and adjusting them carefully, read aloud the following:

"To all port officers:

"Motor-driven yacht _Isabel_ of New York, put to sea without
clearance papers. Investigation shows she was probably stolen.
Daughter of owner a prisoner on board. If located in your vicinity
arrest boat and all members of crew. Make diligent search for young
woman and release her."

The bulletin was signed by an officer of the Treasury Department.

"Well I'll be doggoned!" cried the Captain, in great astonishment. "I
knowed that feller was some kind o' a bad egg, but now I believe to
goodness he was plumb sp'ilt. That poor little brown-eyed gal! What a
pity! I wish I'd a held right smack onto her--that I do."

"I suppose," the operator rejoined, "that bulletin has been picked up by
all of the stations, so that the boys are keepin' a sharp lookout to
overhaul the yacht and pinch the bunch, an' especially to save the girl.
I'll get this over to the Collector of Customs right away. He'll want to
report the escape of the man and woman and to give the direction they
went."

"Ye'd better tell him to mention the dead feller, an' that he was tied
down."

"That's right, Uncle Ichabod. Say, but there's a lot of mystery about
this affair. I'll bet my boots you haven't heard the last of it."

"Maybe not," the fisherman admitted. "But, by cracky, since what I've
been through a'ready they can't skeer Ichabod. No, not by a damned
sight!"

It was very seldom that Captain Jones used a profane expression. When he
did, it was with deliberate intention.

Upon this island where the wireless outfit is stationed,