“Hullo, captain!” shouted Rob, as the veteran saluted his three young friends.  “Where’s your boat?”

“Oh, her engine went—­busted, and I had to leave her at the yard below fer repairs,” explained the captain.  “I wonder if yer boys can give me a lift back if yer goin’ near Topsail Island?”

“Surest thing you know,” rejoined Rob hastily.  “Come right aboard.  But how are you going to get off your island again if your motor is laid up here to be fixed?”

“Oh, I’ll use my rowboat,” responded the old mariner, clambering down into the Flying Fish.  “Say, this is quite a right smart contraption, ain’t she?”

“We think she is a pretty good little boat,” modestly replied Rob, taking his place at the wheel.  “Now, then, Merritt, start up that engine.”

“Hold on a minute!” shouted Tubby.  “We forgot the dog.”

Sure enough, Skipper was dashing up and down the wharf in great distress at the prospect of being deserted.

“Put yer boat alongside that landin’ stage at the end of the wharf,” suggested his master.  “Skipper can get aboard from there, I reckon.”

Rob steered the Flying Fish round to the floating landing, to which an inclined runway led from the wharf.  Skipper dashed down it as soon as he saw what was happening, and was waiting, ready to embark, when the Flying Fish came alongside.

“Poor old Skipper, I reckon yer thought we was goin’ ter maroon yer,” said Captain Job, as the animal jumped on board with a bark of “thanks” for his rescue.  “I tell yer, boys, I wouldn’t lose that dog fer all the money in Rob’s father’s bank.  He keeps good watch out an the Island, I’ll tell yer.”

“I didn’t think any one much came there, except us,” said Rob, as the Flying Fish headed away from the wharf and began to cut through the waters of the inlet.

“Oh, yes; there’s others,” responded the old man.  “That Jack Curtiss lad and his two chums are out there quite often.”

“Bill Bender and Sam Redding, I suppose you mean,” said Tubby.

“Those their names?” asked the captain.  “Well, I don’t know any good uv any uv ’em.  Old Skipper here chased ’em away from my melon patch the other day.  I reckon they thought Old Scratch was after them, the way they run; but they got away with some melons, just the same.”

The old man laughed aloud at the recollection of the marauders’ precipitous flight.

That Jack Curtiss and his two cronies had made a rendezvous of the island was news to the boys, and not agreeable news, either.  They had been planning a patrol camp there later on in the summer, and the bully and his two chums were not regarded by them as desirable neighbors.  However, they said nothing, as they could not claim sole right to use the island, which was property that had been so long in litigation that It had come to be known as “No Man’s Land” as well as by its proper name.  The captain was only a squatter there, but no one cared to disturb him, and he had led the existence of a semi-hermit there for many years.