"Not tonight, thanks," the scientist replied. "I'll take advantage of the quiet to catch up on my reading." In a moment the three boys were hurrying toward the hook-shaped cove in which the motorboats were tied up. Although Spindrift Island was connected to the mainland at low tide by a rocky tidal flat, there was no way for a car to cross. The cove was reached by a flight of stairs leading down from the north side of the island. Elsewhere, the island dropped away in cliffs of varying heights and steepness to the Atlantic. They ran down the stairs and got into the fastest of the two boats, a slim speedboat built for eight passengers. Rick handed Scotty his camera case and slid in behind the wheel. While Jerry cast off, he started the engine and warmed it for a moment. Then as Jerry pushed the craft away from the pier, he backed out expertly, spun the boat around, and roared off in the direction of the Whiteside landing. "Let's have the story," Scotty shouted above the engine's roar. "A fishing trawler from Seaford ran aground," Jerry shouted in reply. "Duke figures it's an unusual story because those skippers have been going out of Seaford for a hundred years without an accident. There's no reason why one of them should run onto well-charted ground in clear weather." Scotty squinted at the sky. "It's not exactly clear weather. There's a moon just coming up, but it's kind of hazy out." "Yes, but you couldn't call it bad weather, either," Jerry pointed out. "Not from a seaman's viewpoint, anyway." "Where did this trawler run aground?" Rick asked. "Arm of land that extends out into the sea above Seaford," Jerry replied. "It's called Smugglers' Reef." CHAPTER II Cap'n Mike Jerry's car was an old sedan that had seen better days, but it could still cover ground at a good speed. The macadam highway unrolled before the bright head lamps at a steady rate while the beams illumined alternate patches of woods and small settlements. There were no major towns between Whiteside and Seaford, but there were a number of summer beach colonies, most of them in an area about halfway between the two towns. The highway was little used. Most tourists and all through traffic preferred the main trunk highway leading southward from Newark. They saw only two other cars during the short drive. Many months had passed since Rick's last visit to Seaford. He had gone there on a Sunday afternoon to try his hand at surf casting off Million Dollar Row, a stretch of beach noted for its huge, abandoned hotels. It was a good place to cast for striped bass during the right season. "Smugglers' Reef," he said aloud. "Funny that a Seaford trawler should go ashore there. It's the best-known reef on the coast." "Maybe the skipper was a greenhorn," Scotty remarked. "Not likely," Jerry said. "In Seaford the custom is to pass fishing ships down from father to son. There hasn't been a new fishing family there for the past half century."