It was a little over half an hour before they reached the dilapidated hut where old Handcraft, a beach-comber, made his dwelling place.  A short distance off the shore they could see by the moon, which had now risen, that his crazy old motor boat lay at anchor.  This was a sign that Hank was at home.  Lest it be wondered that such a character could have owned a motor boat, it may be explained here that the engine of Hank’s old oyster skiff had been given him by a summer resident who despaired of making it work.  Hank, however, who was quite handy with tools, had fixed it up and managed to make it drive his patched old craft at quite a fair speed—­sometimes.  When it broke down, as it frequently did, Hank, who was a philosopher in his way, simply got out his oars and rowed his heavy craft.

As an additional indication that the hut was occupied, light shone through several of its numerous chinks and crannies, and a knock at the door brought forth a low growl of:  “Who’s there?”

“We want to see you,” said Rob.

“This is no time of night to call on a gentleman; come to-morrow and leave your cards,” rumbled the gruff voice from inside the hut.

“This is serious business,” urged Rob.  “Come on, open that door, Hank.  This is Rob Blake, the banker’s son.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” grumbled the voice, as the clank of the door-chains being taken off was heard from within.  “Well, I ain’t had much business deals with your father lately, my private fortune being somewhat shrunk.”

With a muffled chuckle from the speaker, the door slowly opened, and Hank, a ragged figure, with an immense matted beard, long tangled hair and dim blue eyes, that blinked like a rat’s, stood revealed.

“Come in, come in, gentlemen,” he bowed, with mock politeness.  “I’m glad to see such a numerous and representative party.  Now, what kin I do you for?”

He chuckled once more at his little jest, and the boys involuntarily shrank from him.

There was nothing to do, however, but enter the hut, and Hank accommodated his guests with a cracker box apiece as chairs.  On a table, roughly built out of similar boxes, a battered old stable lamp smoked and flared.  A more miserable human habitation could not be imagined.

“Hank,” began the captain, “speak me fair and above board, mate—­who give yer that letter ter bring ter me ter-night?”

“What letter?” blankly responded Hank, a look of vacancy in his shifty eyes.

“Oh, yer know well enough; that letter yer give me at supper time.”

“Captain, I’ll give you my davy I don’t know what you’re talking about,” returned the beachcomber.

“What!” roared the captain:  rising to his feet and advancing threateningly.  “Yer mean ter tell me, yer rapscallion, that yer don’t recall landin’ at Topsail Island earlier ter-night and givin’ me a note which says ter come urgent and immediate ter see young Rob Blake here?”