In a rear bedroom, the furthest apartment from the wireless room of the bungalow, Allan Clodis, barely alive, was placed when they bore him up from the boat.  Then the three surgeons, retaining only Hank Butts, drove the others from the room.

“Back to the wireless!” breathed Seaton, tensely.  “Dawson, get Beaufort on the jump.”

“I have the Beaufort operator,” reported Joe, after a few moments.

“Then rush this message, and ask the operator to get it in the hands of the chief of police without an instant’s loss of time,” directed Mr. Seaton, speaking in jerky haste.

The message described Anson Dalton, also the black schooner on which he had last been seen.  The police chief was asked to arrest Dalton on sight, on the authority of Powell Seaton, and hold him for the United States authorities, for an attempt at homicide on an American ship on the high seas.

Within ten minutes back came the reply from Beaufort to this effect: 

“I have men out watching for the schooner.  Man Dalton will be arrested as you request.  Will notify you.”

“Good!” cried Mr. Seaton, rubbing his hands vengefully.  “Oh, Dalton, you scoundrel, you can’t escape us now, for long!  You knew that, if you continued down the coast, there was danger that a United States revenue cutter would intercept the ship and take you off.  At best, you knew you would be arrested at Rio Janeiro, if I suspected you, as I was bound to do.  So you tried to steal ashore here, to be swallowed up in the mazes of this broad country at least an hour or two ahead of pursuit.  And, but for the wireless spark that leaps through space, you could have done so.  But we shall have you now.”

“Unless ­” began Tom Halstead, hintingly, then paused.

“Unless ­what?” insisted Mr. Seaton.

“Suppose Dalton is shrewd enough to pay the captain of the schooner to land him at some other point, where there is neither a policeman nor a telegraph station?”

Seaton made a noise that sounded as though he were grinding his teeth.  Then he picked up a pencil, writing furiously.

“Send this to the police chief at Beaufort,” he ordered.  Joe Dawson’s fingers made the sending-key sing.  The message was one warning the police chief that Dalton might attempt to land at some point outside of Beaufort, and asking him to cover all near points along the coast.  Mr. Seaton offered to make good any expense that this would entail.

Once more, in a few minutes, the answer was at hand.

“Chief of police at Beaufort says,” Joe translated the dots and dashes, “that his authority does not extend beyond the city limits.”

Again Mr. Seaton began to show signs of fury.  Then, as though to force self-control, he trod softly out of the room, going toward the door of the sick-room, where Hank Butts stood guard.

“No news, sir; no change,” Hank reported, in an undertone.

“I’m afraid Mr. Seaton is pretty angry with us,” said Tom Halstead, gravely, “for allowing Hilton ­Dalton, I mean ­to get away from us.”

“Then he may as well get over it,” commented Joe Dawson, quietly.  “We’re hired to furnish a boat, to sail it, and, incidentally, to run a wireless telegraph apparatus.  We didn’t engage ourselves as policemen.”

“True,” nodded young Captain Halstead.  “Still, I might have done some quicker thinking.  My!  What would Dalton have felt like if I had run straight for this dock, refusing to put him aboard any other craft?”

“If you had tried to do that,” retorted Joe, with another quiet smile, “do you know, Tom, what I think your friends would have been doing and saying of you?”

“No; of course not.”

“Your friends would have been sending flowers, and bringing tears.  They would be looking at you, to-morrow, and saying, in undertones:  ‘Goodness, how natural he looks!’”

Halstead was puzzled for a moment or two.  Then, comprehending, he grinned, though he demanded: 

“You think Dalton would have dared anything like that?”

“Well, you notice what kind of a rascal Mr. Seaton thinks Dalton is.  And you know we don’t go armed aboard the ‘Restless.’  Now, I’m pretty certain that Dalton could have displayed and used weapons if we had given him any cause to do so.”

Ten minutes later, when Powell Seaton entered the room, he beheld Captain Tom Halstead seated at the operator’s table, sealing an envelope that he had just directed.

“What are you doing, Captain?” asked the charter-man.

“You know that miserable twenty dollars that I took from Anson Dalton for passage money?” inquired Halstead, looking up.

“Yes.”

“I’ve just enclosed the money in this envelope, with a note.”

“Going to return the money to Dalton when you find his address?” smiled Mr. Seaton, wearily.

“No, sir,” retorted Tom, in a voice sharp with disgust.  “Dalton seems to have more money, already, than is good for him.  I’ve addressed this envelope to a county institution down in the state that I come from.”

“A public institution?”

“Yes, sir; the home for feeble-minded youth.”

“Don’t take it so hard as that, Halstead,” urged Mr. Seaton.  “Had you had a suspicion you would have done whatever lay in your power.  I might have warned you against Dalton, but the truth is, I did not imagine he would be right on the scene.”

Saying which, Powell Seaton walked away by himself.  He was gravely, even sadly preoccupied.  Though Captain Halstead could not even guess what the underlying mystery was, he knew that it seriously affected Mr. Seaton’s plans and fortune.  Their charter-man was worried almost past endurance, though bravely trying to hide the fact.

After the consultation of the surgeons, two of them departed aboard the tug, the third remaining to care for the patient.  Hank, despite all his bluntness of manner, was proving himself valuable in the sick-room, while Joe spent most of his time in the wireless room of the bungalow, waiting to receive or send any word.  So, as evening came, Tom Halstead bestirred himself with the preparation of the evening meal.

By dark there was a considerable wind blowing.  Halstead left his cooking long enough to run down and make sure that all was snug and tight aboard the “Restless.”  The young skipper had fairly to fight his way against the wind on his return to the bungalow.

“There’s going to be a tough old gale to-night,” Tom muttered to himself, as he halted, a moment, on the porch, to study the weather conditions.

As yet, it was blowing only fairly hard.  As the little group at the bungalow seated themselves at supper, however, the storm broke, with a deluge of rain and a sharp roar of thunder.

“This will bother wireless conditions to-night, won’t it?” queried Mr. Seaton, as they ate.

“Some, perhaps, if the gale and the storm keep up,” replied Joe Dawson.  “But I imagine the worst of the gale is passing now.”

And so it proved.  An hour later the rain was falling steadily, though only in a drizzle.  The wind had moderated a good deal.

As all hands, save Hank, sat in the sitting room of the bungalow, after the meal, the warning bell from the apparatus room suddenly tinkled.

“You see, sir,” said Joe, rising quickly, “the wireless is still able to work.”

He passed into the next room, seating himself by the instruments and slipping on the head-band that held the receivers.

“From Beaufort, sir,” Joe said, presently, looking up.  “The police report that no such schooner has landed at that city.”

“Acknowledge the message of the police,” directed Mr. Seaton, “and ask them not to give up the lookout through the night.  Tell the chief of police that I’ll gladly meet any expense that may be incurred.”

Joe’s right hand reached out for the sending-key.  Then a blank look flashed across his face.

“Something wrong with the sending-key connections,” he explained, in a low voice, leaping up.  He examined the connections closely, yet, the more he looked, the more puzzled he became.

“The storage batteries can’t have given out,” he muttered, snatching up a lighted lantern.  “But I’ll go and look at them.”

Out into the little dynamo shed he darted, followed by Powell Seaton and by Tom.  The doctor was dozing in an arm-chair.

Joe gave two or three swift looks at the dynamo, the storage battery connections and other parts of the apparatus.  Then his face went white with rage.

“Look here, Mr. Seaton,” he panted, hoarsely.  “There’s been some infernal work here ­someone else has been on the island, for none of our crowd would do such a trick!  Not even in fun!  Look, sir, at where the parts have been tampered with.  Look where pliers have been used to cut the wire connections.  See where these two bolts have been neatly removed with the help of wrenches.  Look at ­”

Joe paused, then glanced wildly around.

“Great Scott!” he groaned.  “Just the parts removed that can’t be replaced.  The whole generating plant crippled!  Mr. Seaton, until we get in touch with the mainland, and get some needed supplies there, we can’t use this wireless plant again.  We can receive messages ­yes, up to any limit, but not a word can we send away from here.”

“But who can have done this trick?” gasped Powell Seaton, looking as though amazement had numbed him, as, indeed, it almost had.

“Someone has landed here, since dark,” broke in Tom Halstead, all a-quiver with dismay.  “While we were at supper some sneak or sneaks have landed on this island.  They have pried their way in here, and they’ve crippled our connection with the outside world.”

“They could do it all easily enough, without making any noise,” confirmed Joe.  “Yes ­they’ve done a splendid job, from a scoundrel’s point of view!”

“Then you can’t make this apparatus work for the sending of even a single message?” demanded Mr. Seaton.

“Not until we’ve landed some necessary repair and replacement materials from the mainland,” replied Joe, with a disgusted shake of his head.

“But you can still send messages from the ‘Restless,’” hinted Powell Seaton.

Tom Halstead bounded for the door of the dynamo shed with a sudden exclamation of dread.

“We can use the boat’s wireless,” nodded Joe, following, and speaking over his shoulder, “unless the same crowd of rascals have broken into the boat’s motor room or cabin and played us the same trick there.”

In the big sitting room, beside the large open fire-place, was a pile of long sticks of firewood.  Tom Halstead stopped to snatch up one of these, and Joe quickly followed suit.

“I’ll go down to the boat with you, boys,” said Mr. Seaton, who had followed them.  “If there’s anyone around to put up a fight you’ll want some help.”

But Captain Tom, acting, for the moment, as though he were aboard the yacht, suddenly took command.

“Mr. Seaton,” he said, “you’d better remain here to guard your unconscious friend.  Doctor, wake up!  Better go in and send Hank Butts out on the trot.  We’ll take him with us.”

Dr. Cosgrove, awaking and realizing that something important was happening, swiftly moved off to the sick-room.  Hank was speedily out with his comrades.

“If there are rascals on this island, who have designs against you, Mr. Seaton, then mount guard over your friend,” Tom added.  “Better be in the sick-room at any moment when Dr. Cosgrove leaves there.  Hank, get a club from that pile.  Now, come along, fellows, and we’ll see what infernal mischief may have been done to the ‘Restless.’”

With that, the young skipper bounded out onto the porch, thence running down the board walk toward the dock.

Tom Halstead had some vague but highly uneasy notions as to the safety of his beloved boat.  Yet, alarmed as he was, he was hardly prepared for the shock that met him when he arrived at the edge of the little wharf.

“Say, can you beat that?” panted young Halstead, halting, thunderstruck, and gazing back at his stupefied comrades.  “The rascals ­whoever they are ­have stolen the ‘Restless.’  Joe, our splendid boat is gone!”