"You don't suppose all that fuss can have anything to do with Pee-wee, do you?" Tom asked.
"No, it looks more as if a German submarine had landed there. There wouldn't be so much of a rumpus if they'd got the kid."
But in another moment Roy's skeptical mood had changed as he saw a tall, slender fellow in brown standing at the end of the wharf with arms outspread.
"What's he doing—posing for the movies?"
"He's semaphoring," Tom answered.
"I'll be jiggered if he isn't!" said Roy, all interest at once. "C—O—M—E—— I—(he makes his I too much like his C)—N. What do you know about that! Come in!"
The stranger held what seemed to be a large white placard in either hand in place of a flag and his motions were not as clear-cut as they should have been, but to Roy, with whom, as he had often said, the semaphore code was like "pumpkin pie," the message was plain.
As they ran alongside the wharf the khaki-clad signaler greeted them with the scout salute.
"Pretty brisk out on the water this morning?" he said. "We got your message—we were out canoeing last night; you use the International code, don't you?"
"Have you got him?" Roy asked anxiously.