“Oh, no; you wouldn’t have me thrown out!” chuckled Hank, resuming his task of scaling a mackerel.  “Cause if you did, I’d go to the chief of police and tell him something about the robbery of the armory and the cracking of old man Hudgins’ safe.”

“You wouldn’t dare to do that!” sneered Jack.  “You are implicated in that as badly as we are.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” rejoined Hank, industriously scraping away at his fish, and showing no trace of any emotion in his pale eyes.  “Anyhow, what I want right now is some cash.  You agreed to pay me well for what I did the other night, and I haven’t seen the money yet.”

“Be a little patient, can’t you?” irritably retorted the other.  “Money doesn’t grow on trees.  Now listen, Hank.  How would you like to get a nice little sum of money—­more than I could give you—­for camping out on Kidd’s Island, in the Upper Inlet, for a few days?”

Hank’s fishy eyes showed some trace of feeling at this.

“What do you mean?” he asked.  “Is this a new joke you’re putting up on me?”

“No, I am perfectly serious.  You can make a good sum by following our directions, and I’ll see that you get into no trouble over it.”

“Well, if you can do that, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” chuckled Hank in his mirthless way; “but if I don’t get some money pretty quick, I’m going to make trouble fer somebody, I tell you!”

“Haven’t you got some place where we can talk that is less exposed than this?” said Jack, looking about him apprehensively.

“Sure, there’s my mansion,” grinned Hank, pointing over his shoulder with a fishy thumb.

“That’s the place,” said Jack, “although I wish you’d clean it out occasionally.  Now listen, Hank, here’s the plan—­”

Still talking, the ill-assorted pair entered the ruinous shack.

* * * * * *

Motor-boat engines were popping everywhere.  The club house was dressed in bright-colored bunting from veranda rail to ridge pole.  Ladies strolled about beneath their parasols with correctly dressed yachtsmen, asking all sorts of absurd questions about the various boats that lay ready to take part in the various events.  It was the day of the Hampton Yacht Club’s regatta.

Among the throng the Boy Scouts threaded their way, watching with interest the events as they were run off, one after the other.  But their minds were centered on the race for the trophy which, although there were several other entries, had been practically conceded to Sam Redding’s hydroplane.

“She’s a wonder,” said one of the onlookers, pointing from the porch to the float, where Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Sam were leaning over their speedy craft, stripping her of every bit of weight not absolutely necessary.  On the opposite side of the float the crew of the Flying Fish, the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore were equally busy over their craft.

“Douse the engine with oil,” directed Rob, as Merritt gave the piece of machinery a final inspection; “and how about that extra set of batteries?”