“Sorry I can’t do any more for you,” went on the agent, after a pause, during which he gazed sympathetically at Joe. “I can give you the name of the vessel your father is on, and you can write to Hong Kong, but it will be some time before she arrives. She’s a sailing ship, you know, one of the few left in the trade.”

“I didn’t know my father was a regular sailor,” said Joe.

“You didn’t know he was a sailor? Say, don’t you know your father’s business?”

“It’s been a good many years since I’ve seen him,” spoke Joe. “In fact, I can’t remember him,” and he told something of how he came to be on the strange quest.

“Well, this is certainly odd,” remarked the agent. “I’ve known Nate some years, more or less, and I’ve often heard him speak of a son he had lost track of. Of late he had given up hope.”“And just when I was on the verge of finding him,” added Joe.

“His daughter, too,” continued the agent. “He said he felt sure he’d never locate her, though he’d spent lots of money in hunting. And he felt pretty bad, too, over the thought that he might never see his children again.”

“And have I really a sister?” asked Joe, eagerly.

“I can’t rightly say,” spoke the shipping master. “You had one, but whether she’s alive now or not no one seems to know. There’s one satisfaction, though, you can find your father in time, and as soon as he hears from you, when his ship reaches Hong Kong, he won’t lose any time taking the fastest steamer back. I know Nate Duncan well enough for that.”

“Will he, though?” thought Blake. “Will he come back when he knows of the wrecking charge that may be made against him? Even the prospect of seeing Joe may not overbalance that. Yet, I suppose he could send for Joe. They couldn’t make any charge against him over in China. But it’s a bad business.”

Joe talked a little longer with the agent, who gave him the name of the ship on which Mr. Duncan had sailed, and also directions how to address the letter.

“Well, there’s no use staying in ’Frisco much longer,” said Joe, as they finished their business. “We’ll get what other moving pictures of street scenes we want, and as I can’t find Dad here, we’ll leave. We’ll get back to San Diego, and out to the beach colony to film some more dramas.”

A return trip to their hotel, a visit to various localities for films, then to pack their belongings—and the automatic camera did not take them long—and they were soon journeying down the coast again. They were welcomed warmly by the members of the theatrical colony.

As I have said, for the purpose of being unhampered in their work of taking films, Mr. Ringold had moved his company from San Diego proper to a small fishing settlement, directly on the beach. This place was called Chester, after the man who owned the fishery there. He had a fleet, consisting of several motor boats, in which the fishermen went out twice each day to pull up the nets that were fast to long poles, sunk into the sand of the ocean bed in water about forty feet deep.

The fish were brought to the main building, and packed in ice for transportation. Numbers of local dealers called each day with wagons to get a load to peddle about. There were only a few houses in the place, and a store or two.Once some millionaire had built an elaborate cottage on the beach, but gave it up for some whim. It was in this cottage, which in size was almost a mansion, that the moving picture boys and their friends had their abode. A boarding mistress was installed, and thus the actors and actresses lived right at the scene of their work, with almost as much comfort as they would have had in a hotel. The place was not far from San Diego, and it had the advantage of a heavy surf on the beach, the big waves making just the background Mr. Ringold wanted. Of course, not all the scenes were on the water-front, some taking place in front of, or within, some of the cottages, which were hired for the short time needed. The fishermen could not seem to understand why a man should pay them good money for the use of their humble dwellings for a short time.

“It just seems plumb foolishness,” declared one grizzled salt. “I don’t see why folks want to make so many pictures of men and women walkin’ in and out of my cottage and sayin’ such outlandish things like: ‘Gal, you shall give me them papers!’ or, ‘Meet me on yonder cliff at midnight!’ I give up!”

“It does seem out of reason, Pete,” agreed another. “But as long as they pay me for it, and don’t go to bustin’ up things, I’m willin’.”“Oh, so’m I. Keep it up, I says,” and Mr. Ringold did, using different cottages in turn to get a diversity of views.

Sympathy was expressed for Joe on the failure of his mission to find his father.

“But don’t you give up!” exclaimed Mr. Hadley. “China is far off, but it isn’t out of the world. Don’t give up, Joe.”

“I’ll not. I’m going to write to him to-day,” and he did, dispatching the letter to far-off Hong Kong.

There was plenty of work waiting for the boys, some new manuscripts of sea dramas having come in. Mr. Ringold decided to film several of them, and rehearsals were already under way.

“I’m going to have a novelty in one of the plays,” said the manager. “It’s going to be a fire scene. We’ll buy one of these cottages, or else have one built that will do well enough for picture purposes, and set it ablaze. Then, when C. C. comes running out, carrying Miss Shay—or maybe Miss Lee, for she’s lighter—we’ll——”

“Hold on there!” called the comedian. “Did I understand you to say I had to rush out of a burning building?”

“That’s it, C. C.”

“But to rush out I’ve got to go in; haven’t I?”

“Why, naturally, C. C.”“Then I serve notice here and now that I resign. I’m tired of being an actor. I’m going into the coal business,” and he stopped making odd faces in the glass, practicing some facial contortions for a new clown act, and began to dress as though to go out.

“Hold on, C. C.; what’s the matter?” asked Mr. Ringold.

“Plenty! If you think I’m going to run the risk of being burned to death you’ve got another guess coming. I’m through.”

“Why, C. C.,” spoke the theatrical manager, with a laugh; “there’s no danger.”

“Not in going into a burning building, even if it is only a fisherman’s shanty! No danger!”

“No. Listen. You go in before the building is afire. The blaze is started from the outside by your enemy, and with some red fire, which makes a lot of smoke, we can show on the screen some pictures that will look like a real fire. Then out you rush, before the flames have had a chance to spread, and after you and the lady are safe, the fire gains great headway, and the cottage burns to the ground. But the pictures are being taken all the while, and it will show up great! There’s not a bit of danger.”

“Not that way,” said Miss Lee. “I’m willing to do my part, Mr. Ringold.”“Well, I suppose I’ll have to also,” spoke C. C., with a sigh. “But I know something will happen. Some sparks will fall on me and scorch me, anyhow, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Gloomy!” reproachfully exclaimed Miss Shay. “Do look on the bright side for once.”

“There isn’t any,” asserted the comedian, as he resumed his practice of making strange faces.

Mr. Ringold succeeded in purchasing, for a moderate sum, one of the older cottages, and it was put in shape for its share in the moving picture story, some changes being necessary. The fisherman and his family moved out, glad of the chance to better themselves.

“We won’t say anything about planning to fire the shack,” declared Mr. Ringold to the boys and the members of his company. “If we do it will attract a crowd, and that’s just what we don’t want. The fewer the better. Now we’ll go over to the shack, and have a rehearsal.”

“A dress one?” asked Mr. Piper, meaning that everything would be done just as if the pictures were being taken. “You’re not going to have the real fire now; are you?”

“No, indeed,” said the manager. “We can only burn the cottage down once.”

The rehearsal went off well, and Blake and Joe, who were to make the films, watched the work with interest. They were anxious for the time to come to set the fire.

“Well, I guess that will do,” decided Mr. Ringold, after a day or two spent in getting the actors and actresses familiar with their parts. “We’ll do the business to-morrow morning.”

Accordingly, they all assembled at the shack, and went through the various acts leading up to the fire scene. The boys ground away industriously at the handles of the moving picture cameras.

All went well until it came time to set the fire. Then, whether the building was older and more tinder-like than was supposed, or whether Mr. Levinberg, the “villain” who fired the shack, used too much red fire and kerosene, was not explained.

At any rate, the little building was more quickly wrapped in flame and smoke than was expected, and Mr. Ringold yelled excitedly:

“Come on out, C. C.! Don’t wait any longer. Never mind if it isn’t time! Rush out with the girl before it’s too late!”

“That’s what I’ll do!” cried the comedian, appearing in the doorway, carrying Miss Lee. There was little danger now, as long as he was in the open, unless some tongue of fire should catch the girl’s dress.“Hurry!” cried the manager, and C. C. sprinted out of the reach of the fire.

And then something entirely unexpected, and not down on the bill, happened. A number of fishermen, who had seen the blaze from down the beach, came running up, all excited, thinking the fire was an accident.

“Get that old pumping engine!” shouted one grizzled salt. “We’ll have that blaze out in no time!”

“Form a bucket brigade!” suggested another.

“No! No! Let it burn!” cried Mr. Ringold. “We want it to burn!”

“Want it to burn?” was shouted at him, by the fisherman who had proposed the pump. “Be you plumb crazy? Come on, boys, form that bucket brigade. Some of you run that hand-pump over here where we can pour water in the tank. Stretch the hose!”

“They’ll spoil the picture!” cried Mr. Ringold, rushing about, and trying to keep the fishermen away.

Joe and Blake, not having orders to the contrary, and not knowing but what this was all part of the play, continued to grind away at their cameras, two reels of this play being taken, as an additional one was needed.

“Here she comes!” cried the fisherman, as some of his companions came rushing from a shed with an ancient style of hand fire-engine, consisting of a tank, on wheels, with a force-pump arrangement, worked by long handles. Water was poured in the tank by means of buckets, and forced out on the blaze through a hose.

“Bring her up as clost as ye kin!” directed the self-appointed chief of the amateur fire department; “’cause our hose ain’t very long. Form lines now, and dip water up from the ocean. Salt water is good for fires!”