Larry found Peter Manton still at the telegraph office grinding away. Larry's first batch of copy had been sent off, as had most of Peter's stuff. As the representative of the _Scorcher_ handed in the last of his copy he turned to Larry and said, sneeringly: "I'll bet I've got a better story than you have." "Perhaps," was all Larry replied. Then, as Peter went back to the wreck for more information, Larry wrote, as an addition to his story, the interview with the captain, finishing with an account of the missing Mah Retto. He told also of the man who came ashore on the raft, and who was believed to be the passenger who was unaccounted for. "That's a good day's work done," remarked the young reporter, as he signed his name to the last sheet of copy. "I wonder if they want me to stay here?" He wrote a brief message asking Mr. Emberg for instructions. Telling the operator he would call in about two hours for an answer, Larry decided he would get some breakfast. As there was no restaurant in the little hamlet, he thought the best plan would be to go back to the fisherman's cabin. He wanted to talk with Bailey about the disappearance of the man they had rescued from the raft. The fisherman was at the hut when Larry arrived, and was busy preparing a meal. "Guess you feel like eating something, don't ye?" he asked. "You guessed it right the first time," replied the young reporter, with a grin. "And my other company," went on Bailey. "I expect he's hungry." "He's gone." "Gone?" "Yes; I came back here a while ago and there wasn't a sign of him." "Why, that's queer," returned the fisherman. "I've been so busy frying this bacon and making fresh coffee I didn't notice it. But that reminds me, I haven't seen or heard anything of him since I came in. His clothes are gone, too." Larry and Bailey made a hasty search through the cabin. There were few places where a person could conceal himself, and they very soon found that their late guest was nowhere on the premises. "Here's something," remarked Larry, as he looked on a small table in the room where the rescued man had slept. "It looks like a note." It was a note, written on the fly leaf torn from a book. It read: "Dear friends. Accept my thanks for saving my life. Please take this small remembrance for your trouble." There was no signature to the note, but folded in the paper was a hundred-dollar bill, somewhat damp from immersion in the sea. "Well, sink my cuttle-fish!" exclaimed Bailey. "That's odd. A hundred dollars! That's more than I make in a summer season. But half of it's yours. I'd like to rescue people steady at that rate." "It's all yours," said Larry. "I got the story I came down after, and that's all I want. But I would like to find this Mah Retto, if that's his name. He doesn't write much like a foreigner, though he looks like one. May I keep this note?" "As long as you don't want a share in the hundred-dollar one, I reckon you can," Bailey replied, with a laugh.