"Deny it? Here is his signature!" "And that may be forgery! I tell you to be careful!" "It is not forgery! It is genuine! Your bluff will not go, sir! The yacht is mine, and I will have her." "Even if the signature is genuine, the bill is not worth the paper it's written on!" declared Merriwell, with the utmost coolness. "More bluffing! You are crazy! Why isn't it good?" "Because it is dated May 21st." "What of that?" "The date is exactly four days after John Benjamin purchased and paid for this yacht, as I can prove by documents in existence. If Fergus Fearson sold you the _White Wings_ on May 21st, he sold you property that did not belong to him. That's all, Mr. Flynn." The claimant of the yacht turned pale and stared at the bill and then at Frank, who was standing there so coolly before him. On the deck of the yacht were three boys who had heard the most of the conversation. Now Hodge exultantly exclaimed: "That was a body blow! Merry has floored him!" "That's right," nodded Diamond. "Frank has the best of it, but it did seem that we were in a scrape." Flynn gasped for breath. "I don't believe it!" he cried. "The boat is mine, so don't dare cast off from this pier." "The _White Wings_ sails at nine o'clock," said Frank, turning away. Flynn's face, that had been so pale, flushed and turned purple with anger. All at once, he lifted his walking stick to bring it down on Merry's head. A cry from the boys on the yacht warned Merriwell, who ducked and dodged--just in time. Whizz!--the cane cut through the air, but Merry was not touched. Quick as thought, Frank turned and grappled with Parker Flynn. He wrenched away the cane, and, with a quick motion, broke it across his knee. Then, as he coolly tossed it into the water, he said: "If you try any more funny business, sir, you'll follow your cane." "Oh, I'll fix you!" Flynn almost screamed. "I'll get a warrant for you! I'll be back in a hurry! Don't dare leave before I return!" He dashed away on the run. "I told you you would have bad luck," said the truckman. "It's begun." "Oh, I don't know!" laughed Frank. "If Flynn paid money for the yacht, he is the one in hard luck." At nine o'clock the _White Wings_ cast off from the pier. Her sails were hoisted, and, aided by the out-running tide, she soon got away enough to catch a breeze. And Parker Flynn had not returned. CHAPTER IV. IN THE FOG. "It's no use, fellows, we can't go any further in this fog to-night," said Frank Merriwell on the fourth day after leaving Boston. "We must go farther!" exclaimed Diamond. "There is no anchorage here." "How do you know? We haven't tried for it." "But we are not in a harbor." "No. We are somewhere near the Whitehead Islands, near the mouth of Penobscot Bay." "Well, let's keep on as long as there is a breath of wind. I don't fancy anchoring here. We might be run down in the night."