"Will be with you at ten A.M. to-morrow."
"And, just as likely as not he won't," commented the young captain. "But we'll lay up here over night and see."
Ten o'clock the next morning came, and the boys eagerly scanned the pier for a sight of the fat lad. There were all sorts of people coming down to the water-front, but Innis Beeby was not of them.
"Guess we'd better get under way," suggested Dick, when eleven o'clock had passed, and there was no sign of the cadet.
The gang-plank was being hauled in, and Captain Barton was about to swing the engine room telegraph signal over to "half-speed ahead," when a shout sounded up the broad pier.
"Here he comes!" cried Paul. "Here comes Innis, on the run!"
The boys saw a very stout lad waddling along at what he probably considered a run, but which was far from it. In front of him, trundling a hand-truck, containing the cadet's trunk and suitcase, was a tall, thin porter, built on the lines of a racer. He would rush along and, on looking back, would see his employer about twenty feet in the rear, coming slowly.
"Can't you hurry, sir?" the porter shouted, so that Dick and the others heard him. "The ship's about to sail, sir."
"Tell—'em—to—hold—her," panted Beeby. "I'm—com—ing!"