“But do you know how to run one?” came his next query. “I’ll go myself and run her for you.” Pawlinson cast an interrogative glance at Hallins. “No,” declared the father decidedly. “He’s a bit young for his spurs yet, Mr. Pawlinson. But, by all means, take the launch. Anything we can do to right matters, and to----” “Why, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?” interrupted my companion. “You, Grey, are up on motors. Yesterday proved that; and I’m glad now I kept you--even after to-day. Come, lad, lead us to that speed boat of yours; and, take my word for it, you won’t lose by it.” A five-minutes fast run brought us to the waterside; and there, moored cleverly in a sheltered nook behind some piling, lay a slim, gray craft of which that boy builder might well be proud. Pawlinson and I clambered into the cramped cockpit, and luck favored us in that I was familiar with the make of engine. I immediately took hold and started her. “Good! You know ’em!” chuckled the boy; and I felt the genuine compliment. “How far to Trawly’s Rock, lad?” cried Pawlinson, taking the wheel. “About ten miles from here, and right past Peak’s Island,” yelled young Hallins. “That’s the quickest way.” Then he raised his voice even higher, for the engine was no silent affair: “But if you’re intending to land at the rock, you’ll have to have a dink.” “A dinghy?” grumbled Pawlinson petulantly. “What for? Seconds count now, you know.” “Here, I’ve got you,” replied the boy, whirling on an old fossil who had been silently viewing our departure. “Old Pete’ll lend you his punt. She tows like a breeze. She will cut down your speed; but you just got to have one if you mean to land there.” Old Pete mumbled something around his pipestem; “How’s that?” I queried impatiently. “Oh, that’s all right,” assured young Hallins. “I’ll make it all right with Pete after you’ve gone.” And, without further parley, he passed me the painter of one of those small scows that have justly won their way into favor among yachtsmen as tenders. At first mention of this small delay, Pawlinson had gritted out an impatient imprecation; but a glance I later cast at him saw his brow clear at a thought. A quickly thrown clove hitch of the punt’s painter; then I threw in the propeller. The shaft was chain-driven. She picked up speed immediately; and, even towing the small boat as we were, I reckoned on about seventeen miles an hour. But, notwithstanding, I was impatient at the check, for I soon saw that the lad had not overestimated when he spoke of twenty-five for the beauty. “Confound that scow!” I ejaculated as we headed out into the bay. “Can’t be helped, my boy,” replied Pawlinson almost genially. “It might come in useful, you know.” I believe now that he must have had his plan cooking even then. TO BE CONTINUED. HAZING THE PROFESSOR.