Tom was down the trap ladder in one reckless slide. He ran down the shore buffeted, yet helped along by the powerful hurricane blast. Bert Aldrich was a guest at the home of Mart Walters and that was the prospective destination of the resolute young wireless operator.
Tom came in sight of the pier where the Beulah was moored. He could make out her outlines dimly. She was hugging the pier fitfully, tossing to and fro.
“Why,” exclaimed Tom with a gasp of glad discovery, “some one is on board!”
Only for a moment to his vision, apparently inside the cabin of the restless tugging craft, a flicker of radiance showed. It suggested the lighting of a match and then its extinguishment. The indication of occupancy of the launch was enough for Tom. He diverged from the road, lined the beach, ran down the pier, and jumped aboard the Beulah.
Rounding the cabin Tom recoiled with a shock. Some one had leaped from the covert of a deep shadow and pinned his arms behind him.
“Got you at last, have I?” shouted a determined voice in his ears.
“Hold on,” demurred Tom struggling violently.
“No, you don’t! I’ve got you, Bert Aldrich, and we’re going to have a settlement of that eleven dollars and seventy-five cents right here and now.”
“I’m not Bert Aldrich! Don’t you know me, Bill?”
“Tom Barnes!”