gain. Tolo had stolen the packet in order to demand money for its return. Glennie had plenty of money, and he began to think he had fallen into a grievous error by running away from La Guayra without giving Tolo a chance to communicate with him.

And yet there was the information developed by the La Guayra police, to the effect that Tolo had sailed for Port-of-Spain. However, this might be as unreliable, as that other supposed discovery, namely, that Tolo was working at the fonda Ciudad Bolivar.

Nevertheless, no matter what theories Glennie might have, now that he was in Port-of-Spain, and could not get out of the town again until the next steamer sailed, it would be well to look around and thus make assurance doubly sure that Tolo was not on the island.

Although Ensign Glennie was not at all sanguine, he immediately left the fonda and conferred with the city officials. A description of Tolo was given, handbills offering a reward for his apprehension were struck off and posted in conspicuous places, and the island telegraph lines and the cables to the mainland were brought into requisition.

Glennie had to work fast and thoroughly. Before many days he must be in Georgetown, ready to go aboard the ship that was to carry him south, and if he did not recover the important packet before he was picked up, then there would be a reprimand, and perhaps a trial for dereliction of duty. He winced at the thought and redoubled his efforts.

But he was "going it blind." The wily Tolo might be a thousand miles away and rapidly increasing the distance between him and his erstwhile employer. Yet, be that as it might, Ensign Glennie could not give over his hopeless labors.

He fought against fate with all the Glennie firmness and resolution. Fate had no business trying to backcap one of the Glennies, anyhow. Family pride swelled up in him as the skies of hope continued to darken. All he did was to cable his governor for a few thousand dollars and then begin scattering it wherever he thought it might do some good.

Three days Ensign Glennie was in Port-of-Spain, then one morning as he came down into the office of the fonda he heard an excited group talking about a mysterious under-water boat that had just bobbed up in the harbor.

Glennie pricked up his ears. "What's the name of the boat?" he asked.

"The Grampus," was the answer.

That was enough for the ensign. He settled his bill, grabbed up his suit case, and rushed for the landing.

He had hardly got clear of the hotel before a Chinaman, with a copy of one of the handbills, presented himself and asked for John Henry Glennie. The Chinaman was told where the ensign had gone, and he likewise made a bee-line for the waterfront.

Here, at last, was a possible clue—and it was sailing after Glennie with kimono fluttering and pigtail flying.

CHAPTER III.

THE MEETING IN THE HARBOR.

Events in this world, no matter how seemingly incomprehensible, usually happen for the best.

If the Grampus had not had her fight with the cachalot she would not have put in at Port-of-Spain, and if Ensign Glennie had not lost his dispatches he would not have put in there, either.

The damage to the fore-rudder had been insignificant. Some of the iron bars protecting the rudder had been twisted and bent by the whale's flukes, and Motor Matt had repaired the damage while coming through the Boca Drago into the gulf.

The submarine was riding high in the water a quarter of a mile off shore, the Stars and Stripes fluttering gayly from the little flagstaff forward. A small boat was in the water and a colored boatman was rowing two lads around the bow of the Grampus. Three men and another boy were forward on the submarine's deck, evidently assisting in an examination of some sort.

Glennie had the skipper of the launch lay alongside the small boat.

"Hello, there!" called Glennie. "Is that boat the Grampus?"

"Yes," replied one of the lads in the other boat.

"I'm looking for Matt King, otherwise Motor Matt."

"You mean you're looking at him and not for him. I'm Motor Matt."

"Well, I'm Ensign Glennie. What the dickens are you doing at Port-of-Spain?"

"What the dickens are you doing here? We were to pick you up at Georgetown."

"What I'm doing here is my business," said Glennie, stiffening. "I wasn't expecting you for two or three days yet, and expected to be in Georgetown by the time you got there."

Matt stared at the haughty young man in the trim uniform. Dick Ferral, who was in the boat with him, gave a long whistle.

"Then," said Matt coolly, "I guess our reason for being here is our own business. We were expecting to find a midshipman, Glennie, and not——"

"Mister Glennie," struck in the ensign. "I'm a passed midshipman and a commissioned officer."

Dick got to his feet, pulled off his cap, and bowed.

"Mister Glennie!" he exclaimed, with an accent on the "mister" that was not entirely respectful. "Our brass band has been given shore-leave, so we can't muster the outfit and play you aboard. It's a little bit hard, too, considering our limited number, to dress ship."

A smothered laugh came from the deck of the Grampus. Glennie stared at Ferral, and then at Speake, Gaines, Clackett, and Carl. The latter, grabbing the flag halyards, dipped the ensign.

"Oof ve hat a gannon, Misder Glennie," yelled Carl, "ve vould gif der atmiral's salute."

A flush ran through the ensign's cheeks.

"Who is that person, King?" demanded Glennie, pointing to Dick.

"Mister King," corrected Matt. "This, Mr. Glennie," proceeded the king of the motor boys with mock gravity, "is my friend, Mr. Dick Ferral. The Dutchman on the boat is another friend—Mr. Carl Pretzel. The hands are Mr. Speake, Mr. Gaines, and Mr. Clackett. This colored gentleman is Mr. Scipio Jones. Now that we are all acquainted, Mr. Glennie, may I ask you if you are coming aboard to stay?"

"I am," was the sharp rejoinder. "Those were my orders from the captain of the Seminole."

Matt caught a rope which Carl threw to him and stepped to the rounded deck of the Grampus.

"The submarine's all right, Dick," said he, "and hasn't a dent in her anywhere. Go ashore and get the gasolene. Have you the hydrometer in your pocket?"

"Aye, aye, matey," answered Dick.

"Then be sure and test the gasolene thoroughly."

As Dick was rowed away he once more removed his hat ostentatiously in passing the launch. Ensign Glennie disregarded the mocking courtesy and motioned his boatman to place the launch close to the submarine.

"Take my grip, my man," called Glennie to Gaines, standing up and tossing the suit case.

Gaines grabbed the piece of luggage. "Why didn't you whistle, Mr. Glennie?" he asked, dropping the suit case down the open hatch of the conning tower and listening to the smash as it landed at the foot of the iron ladder. "We're well trained and can walk lame, play dead, an' lay down an' roll over at a mere nod."

The ensign ignored Gaines' remarks. Climbing to the rounded deck he faced Motor Matt with considerable dignity.

In spite of the ensign's arrogance there was about him a certain bearing learned only at Annapolis and on the quarterdeck of American warships—a bearing that predisposed the king of the motor boys in his favor.

"We had a fight with a cachalot, Mr. Glennie," said Matt, unbending a little, "and thought best to put in here and look the Grampus over to see if——"

"You were guilty of gross carelessness," interrupted Glennie, "by risking the submarine in such a contest. But possibly you are ignorant of the fact that a bull cachalot has been known to attack and sink a full-rigged ship?"

"Ach, vat a high-toned feller id iss!"