“I say, boys,” he called, “have you seen anything of a wrecked motor-boat about here?”
“There’s one down on the point of that island,” said Tom. “The Sylph.”
“That’s mine!” exclaimed the man. “Is there anything left of her?”
“Not much,” replied Frank. “Wait, we’ll show you where she is. We were just looking at her.”
“You were?” exclaimed the man, and there was something in the sharp way he said it, and in his tone, that caused the boys to glance at him curiously.
“Yes, saw it by accident,” went on Phil.
“Did you—er—find—that is—Oh, never mind, I can soon tell when I look at her,” the man said, rather confusedly, as he rowed on. The four lads turned their craft and accompanied him.
“There she is!” cried Frank, pointing out the wrecked craft amid some rocks and bushes. “You can see for yourself there’s not much left of her.”
Without a word the man sprang ashore from his boat, while the college lads kept their craft off the rocks. Rapidly rummaging through the broken-open lockers, the man, muttering to himself, suddenly stood up. As he did so, Tom said in a low voice:
“That’s the same chap who locked the boat up. I wonder what is missing?”