you before a certain time. That's all."

The strange claimant of the yacht was suspicious.

"I don't see the point," he said. "I hold the bill, and I claim the yacht. Just found out what Benjamin had done, and I came down in a hurry, after getting track of the boat, to warn you not to try to move her. I won't have it."

It began to look like a scrape, but Frank was not flustered in the least. He kept his head, saying:

"Have you the bill of sale with you, sir?"

"Yes."

"Will you be kind enough to permit me to look at it?"

The stranger started to do so, but seemed to change his mind of a sudden, and said:

"No, I won't bother. I tell you not to move her. If you do, I'll make you pay a big sum for damages, so look out."

Frank smiled sweetly.

"That is a very silly threat," he murmured. "If you do not show me the document I shall not believe it exists."

"That doesn't make any difference to——"

"It makes this difference: It is now twenty minutes to nine. At nine I shall cast off from the pier. Wind and tide being right, it will not take me long to get out of the harbor."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"What is there to dare? I fail to see anything."

"Why, confound you! I'd make you smart for it!"

"You couldn't. You have made a lot of bluffing talk about holding a bill of sale, but I do not take any stock in that till you produce the document. I have purchased this yacht, and, as long as I believe myself her rightful owner, I shall do with her as I see fit. At nine o'clock she sails."

The fellow hesitated, and then snapped out:

"Oh, I can prove to you that I am not lying. I will prove it. Here is the bill—see for yourself."

He took a number of papers from his pocket, and selected one among them, which he opened and held before Frank. Merriwell looked the document over carefully. It was a bill of sale of the yacht White Wings from Fergus Fearson to Parker Flynn.

"Is your name Parker Flynn?" asked Frank.

"It is."

"And you bought the yacht of Fearson?"

"You bet!" nodded the claimant, triumphantly. "I rather think this document settles it."

"It does," nodded Frank, quietly. Then he turned to the truckman, and asked:

"When was Mr. Fearson committed to the asylum?"

"The latter part of May."

"And this bill is dated May 21st. The fellow must have been deranged then."

"Oh, you can't make that go!" cried Flynn, quickly.

"It's no use for you to try to crawl out of a little hole like that."

"Why have you not claimed the yacht before? Holding this bill, why didn't you claim it while it was in Benjamin's possession? Answer that question!"

"I was away—out of the city," faltered Flynn.

"All the time?"

"Most of the time."

"Very well. Here is your bill. I advise you to destroy it without delay, or it may get you into serious trouble."

"What?" cried the man, angrily. "Destroy it? I'll have that yacht. This bill gives me the right to it."

"That bill gives you the right to nothing!" came clearly and distinctly from Merriwell's lips. "Either you have been badly fooled or you are a rascal trying to obtain property that you have not the slightest claim upon. It looks as if the latter were the real condition of affairs. Fergus Fearson is confined in a madhouse, and so he cannot deny that he ever gave you a bill of sale of this yacht."

"Deny it? Here is his signature!"

"And that may be forgery! I tell you to be careful!"

"It is not forgery! It is genuine! Your bluff will not go, sir! The yacht is mine, and I will have her."

"Even if the signature is genuine, the bill is not worth the paper it's written on!" declared Merriwell, with the utmost coolness.

"More bluffing! You are crazy! Why isn't it good?"

"Because it is dated May 21st."

"What of that?"

"The date is exactly four days after John Benjamin purchased and paid for this yacht, as I can prove by documents in existence. If Fergus Fearson sold you

the White Wings on May 21st, he sold you property that did not belong to him. That's all, Mr. Flynn."

The claimant of the yacht turned pale and stared at the bill and then at Frank, who was standing there so coolly before him.

On the deck of the yacht were three boys who had heard the most of the conversation. Now Hodge exultantly exclaimed:

"That was a body blow! Merry has floored him!"

"That's right," nodded Diamond. "Frank has the best of it, but it did seem that we were in a scrape."

Flynn gasped for breath.

"I don't believe it!" he cried. "The boat is mine, so don't dare cast off from this pier."

"The White Wings sails at nine o'clock," said Frank, turning away.

Flynn's face, that had been so pale, flushed and turned purple with anger. All at once, he lifted his walking stick to bring it down on Merry's head.

A cry from the boys on the yacht warned Merriwell, who ducked and dodged—just in time.

Whizz!—the cane cut through the air, but Merry was not touched.

Quick as thought, Frank turned and grappled with Parker Flynn. He wrenched away the cane, and, with a quick motion, broke it across his knee. Then, as he coolly tossed it into the water, he said:

"If you try any more funny business, sir, you'll follow your cane."

"Oh, I'll fix you!" Flynn almost screamed. "I'll get a warrant for you! I'll be back in a hurry! Don't dare leave before I return!"

He dashed away on the run.

"I told you you would have bad luck," said the truckman. "It's begun."

"Oh, I don't know!" laughed Frank. "If Flynn paid money for the yacht, he is the one in hard luck."

At nine o'clock the White Wings cast off from the pier. Her sails were hoisted, and, aided by the out-running tide, she soon got away enough to catch a breeze.

And Parker Flynn had not returned.

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE FOG.

"It's no use, fellows, we can't go any further in this fog to-night," said Frank Merriwell on the fourth day after leaving Boston.

"We must go farther!" exclaimed Diamond. "There is no anchorage here."

"How do you know? We haven't tried for it."

"But we are not in a harbor."

"No. We are somewhere near the Whitehead Islands, near the mouth of Penobscot Bay."

"Well, let's keep on as long as there is a breath of wind. I don't fancy anchoring here. We might be run down in the night."

"And, if we keep on, the chances are two to one that we'll run onto a reef or pile up on an island. I had much rather take the chances of anchoring here and being run down. The wind is dying out, and this fog is shutting down thicker and thicker."

"Well," said Jack, in a dissatisfied way, "this is your boat and you are in command. You can do as you like."

"I'll do as the majority believes best."

"Then anchor," grunted Browning. "I don't fancy this prowling about in the fog."

Hodge was in favor of anchoring, and Hans agreed with them, so Jack was the only one who felt like going on. He gave up in disgust.

While they were talking the last faint breeze had fallen swiftly, and, by the time it was definitely decided, the

White Wings lay becalmed, rolling helplessly on the swells that came in from the open sea.

"Shimminy Gristmas!" groaned Hans. "I don't like dot roll up und drop avay