It was Midshipman Kenworth—Kenworth, whom he supposed was visiting his relatives far inshore. Yet here he was in civilian clothes on this lonesome, sandy spit of land, apparently as much interested in the movements of the army tug as Ned himself.
What could be the solution of the mystery? Why had Kenworth come there?
A sinister thought flashed into Ned's mind. The next instant suspicion became conviction. He saw Kenworth draw out a pair of binoculars and focus them on the moving tug. Then the midshipman cast himself down into a sandy hollow, over the breast of which he pointed his binoculars at the tug.
"So-o-o-o! That's your little game, is it!" breathed Ned disgustedly. "You're even blacker than I thought you, Kenworth. I guess I'll take a hand in this thing myself. Bagging a traitor to Uncle Sam, and one who is entitled to wear the uniform of an officer and a gentleman at that, ought to be even more important than a chart of the mine positions."
Between the two, like a series of billows, stretched wave-like sand dunes. They were covered with a scant growth of wind-tortured beach plum and stiff, spiky sea grass.
But yet the growth, scant as it was, afforded a certain amount of cover. Ned's mind was soon made up as to the course he would pursue. At all hazards, it was important to catch Kenworth red-handed.
"And yet, what can his motive be?" wondered Ned to himself. "I can't conceive his purpose. He cannot be making his plans and observations for the benefit of the Blue fleet. If he dared offer them there, he would be booted over the flagship's side in two shakes. No, there is something under all this that I haven't fathomed. But I will."
Ned's firm chin closed on his jaw with a snap. With stern purpose in his eyes, the young follower of the flag began to creep forward over the billowing sand dunes.