Tim wrote a story each day and Ike Green flashed it over his powerful set to the station of the New York Journal, where it was relayed to Tim's own paper at Atkinson. The third night after Tim joined the _S-18_ out of Key West he felt the pulse of the diesels slowing down. He tossed on his clothes and made his way to the control room and climbed the ladder to the conning tower. Commander Ford and Pat were intently scanning the horizon. Pat turned toward Tim. "We'll reach the island about dawn," he said. Commander Ford was looking at a chart with a hand torch. One finger stopped at a tiny island off the coast of Yucatan. "That's our destination," he said. "If Crazy John knew what he was talking about, the Southern Queen went down on a reef just off the Isle of the Singing Trees." "What island?" asked Tim. "The Isle of the Singing Trees. It's marked here on the chart and is uninhabited." The _S-18_ crept through the thinning night at half speed and with the coming of the dawn, they saw the outline of the island. It was small and seemed barely able to keep its head above the restless Caribbean. Breakers, indicating the danger of hidden reefs, fringed the isle. Through the powerful glasses they could see a dense tangle of vegetation and beyond the Isle of the Singing Trees the dim outlines of the mainland, which was still shrouded by the morning mists. The pulses of the men aboard the _S-18_ quickened. They were within sight of their goal. Tim scanned the surface of the ocean. There was no sign of the _Iron Mate_, not even a faint smudge of smoke to cause them apprehension. Commander Ford ordered the Diesels stopped. A piping hot breakfast was served to every member of the crew and then the slow, creeping trip toward the island was resumed. As they neared the desolate spot, Tim could understand why Crazy John had not cared to return. There was nothing beautiful about the Isle of the Singing Trees. The beach was rough and strewn with rock and as they approached the island they heard the singing of the wind through the tangled growth. Truly the island had been well named. The island had never been adequately charted, and Commander Ford was feeling his way past the dangerous reefs, one of which had brought a sudden end to the Southern Queen eleven years before. Jagged splinters of rock reached up from the ocean bottom to impale the hull of the _S-18_, but each time the skilful hands of her commander directed the submarine past the danger spot. There was a brisk wind, and waves broke sharply over the hull, but at last the _S-18_ was past the outer rim of rock which encircled the island and safely into the smoother water. Everyone breathed easier as the order to let go the anchor came from the conning tower and the mud hook was dropped sharply away.