“The police launch?” cried the sergeant bewilderedly. “Why, yes, of course! You have such an article, haven’t you? Come, come, man, I’m in no mood for delay!” “But your later wire!” blurted out Hallins. “My _later_ wire?” Pawlinson fairly yelled. “What in thunder are you getting at?” “Here!” Hallins strode hurriedly over to his desk and caught up a yellow telegraph blank. “I received that not thirty minutes before you stepped in yourself. I thought, of course, you knew what you were about when you sent it.” “I sent it? _I?_” shrieked Pawlinson, as he tore open the sheet, where we both read: “Send patrol launch well manned immediately to Trawly’s Rock. My orders from Washington. “PAWLINSON.” “And you have sent it?” cried Pawlinson. “I did wonder that the thing wasn’t in cipher,” admitted Hallins, getting scared. “But I didn’t dare disregard the command from Washington. But who did send it?” “I wonder if that Stevens----” I broke in excitedly. “Oh, you do wonder, do you, Grey?” Pawlinson snarled. “Well, for once I shouldn’t be surprised if you were right.” Nothing could quench the biting vitriol of his tongue. “Checkmated at every turn! And a pretty pair of asses we are!” he was pleased to put himself thus in with me. “Now look here, Hallins,” he went on, while I inwardly admired the rapidity with which he shifted the greatest chagrin to action. “And look sharp! When did you send the patrol launch?” “I guess it must have been ab----” Here the door swung open, and a clean-limbed young fellow strode over to Hallins. “Launch’s gone, pop,” said he boyishly. “And the men’re tickled to death at the little outing.” Then the lad sensed the tenseness of us all. “Why, what’s the matter?” “Matter enough!” said Pawlinson shortly, “But no time now to explain to you, boy. Now look you, quick? You have just come from the water front?” “Yep!” answered the lad, not a bit abashed. “I was here when dad gave the order--he’s training me for the game, you know--and I trotted on down to see ’em start, and----” “You like the water--know boats? Most boys do. Eh, what?” Young Hallins grinned. “Hear that, dad?” he cried. “Me like boats, eh?”. “The boy’s crazy,” explained Hallins, regaining his composure somewhat. “He’s got the fastest thing in the harbor--built it himself, too.” The proud parent showed here. “She’s good for twenty-five an hour flat,” boasted the youth. “Where is that boat now?” barked out Pawlinson, and then I caught his drift. “Down at the float. Old Pete looks out for her for me.” “What’s she worth?” snapped Pawlinson. “Don’t be afraid to make it high, my boy. Washington’s paying for her. I’ve got to have her.’ “Don’t want to sell her,” came the reply, in as sharp a decision as Pawlinson’s own. “But you can have her to use on that kind of lay for nothing.” The boy warmed to the snap of adventure.