“You leave me the line,” answered the boy, “and I guess I can find some bait somewheres.” So Nelson rummaged around and found what was wanted, and when the _Vagabond_ went chugging slowly and softly back toward the lighthouse and the harbor entrance Spencer, oars in hands, was pulling toward the outer beach. Back in the harbor Bob steered the launch up to a landing in the lee of a shed bearing the sign “GASOLINE” and made her fast. Then they set about completing their toilets, while Tom prepared breakfast. By the time that repast was ready the waterfront was wide awake and the sun was shining warmly. After breakfast the tank was emptied and refilled with what was represented to be “the best gasoline on the Cape.” As the boat’s funds were depleted to the extent of almost twenty dollars when payment had been made, there was a unanimous hope among the crew that the claim would not prove too great. “It’s mighty expensive stuff, isn’t it?” asked Tom. “Think what we could do with twenty dollars!” “That’s so, Tommy,” said Nelson. “Gasoline doesn’t taste as nice as caramels, but it’s a lot better for fuel.” “Gee!” muttered Tom wistfully. “Think of twenty dollars’ worth of caramels!” Later, when they went shopping for provisions, Tom got into a candy store and wouldn’t come out until he had bought a little of everything in sight. They returned to the wharf laden with bundles just as the clock struck ten. “Now to pick up the tender and run around to Chatham,” said Nelson as they went down the wharf. But when the float lay below them Bob nudged his arm. On the edge of the float, seated on an empty nail keg and talking to the gasoline man, was a tall individual in a faded blue coat on the left breast of which glittered a badge. “Cop!” whispered Bob. As they went down, the tall man, who looked more like a sailor than a police officer, arose and awaited them. Then, “You gentlemen own this launch?” he asked with a slow drawl. “Well, we’re sailing her,” answered Nelson. “She belongs to my father.” “Pretty nice boat,” said the other, his eyes traveling swiftly from one to another of the quartet. “Which of you is Spencer Floyd, now?” “None of us,” answered Nelson. “Well, I got a message for him,” said the officer. “You tell him I want to see him, will you?” “He isn’t here,” said Nelson. “I want to know!” drawled the officer. “Ain’t drowned him, have you?” “No, he isn’t drowned. He just isn’t here.” “Well, well! Don’t mind my lookin’ about a little, I guess?” “No, you’re perfectly welcome to, sir. Come aboard, please.” The officer followed and looked admiringly over the launch while Nelson unlocked the cabin door. Then they all trooped down into the cabin and the officer satisfied himself that the runaway was indeed not there. “Much obliged, gentlemen,” he said at last. “I see he ain’t here. I guess you don’t care to tell me where he is, do you?”