"My, but she is a fast one!" commented Charley, noting the crest of foam at her bow and the rapid popping of her exhaust. "I believe she is as fast, or faster, than our 'Dixie.'"

Within a few minutes after they had sighted her, she was near enough for the chums to distinguish her passengers or crew.

"Why, the man at the wheel is that fisherman Hunter," Walter exclaimed, "and there are four more with him, some of his gang, I suppose."

"I wonder what they want with us," speculated the captain, uneasily.

"Nothing pleasant, I guess," said Charley, gravely. "I believe those fellows are bent on making trouble for us. Let's not have any words with them, if we can help it. If we have got to have a fuss with 'em at all though, I guess now is as good a time as ever. I'll get Chris out of the way," he added, in an undertone to Walter. "He does not know yet that he is the innocent cause of our trouble, and there is no use letting him if we can help it. It would make the poor little chap feel awfully bad."

As soon as it was apparent beyond all doubt that the launch was coming in to the little dock, he called the little negro to one side.

"I want you to go up to the cabin and stay there until I call you," he directed. "If I give one long whistle, come a running and bring the rifle with you."

The little negro was barely out of sight, when the big launch, its engine shut off, glided in to the dock.

Besides the sallow-faced Hunter, it contained four fellows almost as vicious and mean looking as himself. Hunter made the launch fast to a post and climbed out on the dock followed by his companions.

Our little party greeted the visitors with a pleasant good morning.

"Good morning," grunted Hunter with a snarl, "I didn't come all the way over here just to say good morning though."

"Then what did you come for?" demanded Walter curtly, his quick temper beginning to flare up at the fellow's insolent tones.

"I am going to let you know mighty quick," snarled Hunter. "You brought that little nigger over here with you, didn't you?"

"We did," Charley answered briefly.

"Well, you-all have got to get off this island-and get off of it mighty quick," he declared.

"Why," Captain Westfield demanded, his own anger beginning to rise.

"First place, 'cause you ain't got any right to stay here. This island belongs to a friend of mine and I've got charge of it."

Charley was keeping his temper well in hand though he was as angry as his chums. "We have been advised that this island belongs to the state," he said, coolly, "and we believe what we have been told. We have got as much right on state land as you or any one else."

"Well, I give you notice to get off right away. We don't allow no niggers in the fishing business 'round hyar."

"Now look here, Hunter," Charley said coolly, "you fellows objected to our having the little negro with us on the dock. Very well, we moved over here to avoid trouble. Now you come over here and try to order us off this island which we have as many rights to as you. That's going too far and we are not going to stand for it."

"We ain't going to have no niggers fishing 'round hyar," repeated Hunter doggedly.

"Chris is not going to do any fishing. He is our cook-and a mighty good one too."

"Don't make any difference. You fellows have got to get off this island."

"Which we refuse to do," Charley said defiantly.

"Amen to that," agreed Captain Westfield, hotly.

"You'll have a hard job making us," chimed in Walter.

Hunter's sallow face reddened with anger. "If you smart Alecks ain't off this island before to-morrow night you'll get what's coming to you," he snarled.

"Look here, Hunter," Charley said, quietly, "it strikes me you are a little bit too anxious to get us to leave here and I think I know the reason. Now you fellows had better get in your boat and go. We want nothing to do with you and your gang. We will tend to our own business and you had better tend to yours. If you bother us any more, well, I know of an officer who would be willing to pay a good big sum to know about a strange craft that haunts this coast in the night, and a motor boat that answers her signals."

It was a chance shot on Charley's part but it went home.

"We wasn't out at all last night," denied Hunter. "We were all in bed, didn't even go fishing."

"I never mentioned last night," said Charley, quickly, and Hunter muttered a curse as he saw the slip he had made.

"You're only doing a lot of wild guessing, and guessing ain't proof," he snarled. "Take all the guesses you want to your officer. He won't do anything. He's got to have proofs."

Charley realized with regret that his veiled threat had failed, but he tried not to show his chagrin.

"Leave here," he ordered. "Get into your boat and go."

"I'm leaving right now," Hunter snarled. "But you'll be leaving here for good before two days are gone. Before I go, I'm going to slap you around a bit to teach you some manners, you young whelp. Look out for them other two, boys, while I give this smart Aleck a dressing down."

His companions drawing their sheath knives, crowded threateningly towards Walter and the captain while he lunged forward at Charley who stood his ground a little pale but unafraid. He came at the lad with a rush, both fists swinging. "Keep back," Charley cried, but Hunter aimed a swinging blow at his head with all his force.

Charley ducked with the quickness he had learned in a Y. M. C. A. gym and at the same instant drove his right fist forward with all of his weight behind it. It caught the sallow fisherman fair on his chin and sent him reeling backwards. He staggered and almost fell but recovering himself with an oath whipped out his sheath knife and came rushing at the plucky lad.

It was a desperate situation. A lightning glance out of the corner of his eye showed Charley he could expect no help from his chums. They were menaced by the three ruffians with upraised knives. Their own knives lay in their fishing belts up in the cabin. No stick or club was within his reach. It was a case of bare hands against naked steel. Hunter came at him with a savage thrust. The lad leaped lightly to one side to avoid it. His foot slipped on a mossy rock and down he went on the sand.

With a yell of triumph the fishermen leaped for him as he lay half-dazed by his fall.

Crack, crack, crack came three sharp reports and the shrill whine of whistling bullets sang above the prostrate lad.

The effect on the fishermen was startling.

With a cry Hunter turned and ran for the launch and his companions crowding at his heels.

"We'll get you yet," he yelled as he hurriedly cast off. "We'll get you when you ain't got that little nigger behind a tree guarding you with a gun. We"-but his curses were lost in the crackle of the engine as he threw on the switch.

Walter and the captain hurried to Charley and helped him up from the sand.

"I am all right," he declared as soon as he was on his feet. "I came down so hard it knocked the wind out of me for a moment but I am all right now."

"Chris shot just in time," Walter exclaimed. "I thought you were going to be killed before our eyes."

"I don't believe they would have gone that far," said his chum. "Hunter might have beat me up a bit but I think he aimed to frighten us off the island more than anything else."

"I wonder why he is so anxious to drive us away from here," pondered Walter, puzzledly.

"That's easy to tell," Charles declared. "His gang are smuggling aguardiente here from Cuba. That was the meaning of that schooner, the motor boat, and those signals last night. I found a cache of the stuff in that cleared place this morning. There must be five hundred bottles of it."

"Then all we have to do is to tell the sheriff and he'll put the gang where they will not bother us any more," Walter exclaimed in relief.

"That's what I tried to bluff Hunter into thinking," replied his chum, "but it did not work. You see, we have got no proofs and he knows it. We see a schooner at night acting queerly, also a motor boat, and we find a stock of aguardiente buried on the island, but that proves nothing against the Hunter gang or anyone else for that matter. Of course, I feel sure that they are the guilty ones but that isn't proof."

"I reckon we are in something of a mess," said Captain Westfield, worriedly. "We are going to have trouble with those fellows sure. They can't carry on such a game with us here on the island, and it ain't likely they are going to stay quiet and lose all that stuff they've got cached."

"It looks bad," Charley admitted, gravely. "We must talk it over carefully and decide what is best to do. But where's Chris? It's funny he don't show himself. Something must be the matter."

With a sudden alarm, Charley hastened up for the cabin, followed by his chums.

As soon as he came in sight of the hut, he slackened his speed with a sigh of relief for the little negro was seated in the doorway with the rifle in his hands.

"Good work, Chris," he exclaimed. "Your shots came just in the nick of time. I am glad you didn't hit any of them though."

"I ain't shot none, Massa Chas," protested the little negro. "You dun tole me to stay right hyar till you whistle an' you ain't whistled yet."

"Then where did those shots come from?" Charley demanded.

"Hit sounded like dey come from where you-alls was," Chris declared.

"Then they must have come from the fringe of palms close to the beach," Charley decided. "Well, some one on the island has done us a good turn and we better look him up and thank him. Likely he didn't want to be seen and recognized by Hunter."

But at the end of an hour they were back at the cabin, a thoroughly mystified little group. They had been all over their little domain but no sign of a human being had they discovered.

* * *

Chapter 8 THE VISITORS.

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