“Man overboard!” cried several of the fishermen.

“Yes, and with a pesky swordfish too close for comfort!” added Abe Haskill. “Stop that motor, Bunker; we’ll have to pick him up.”

The fisherman who was called to, pulled out the switch, thus stopping the motor, and the boat drifted about on the slowly rising and falling billows.

“Can you see him?” asked the captain of the man who acted as mate.

“Yes, he’s right astern, but that fish——”

“Is he coming after Jake?”

“Full tilt!”

“Grab that prod, one of you!” yelled the captain. “See if you can harpoon him with it. I’ll git out the duck gun, though land knows it ain’t much use against a pesky swordfish!”

One of the fishermen picked up the iron-shod pole the unfortunate man had dropped as he went overboard, and stood ready to cast it at the big fish, which could be seen swirling along in the water, near the swimmer.

“Say!” cried Blake to Joe. “It may seem a heartless thing to do, but why can’t we get some moving pictures of this?”

“We can,” decided his chum. “We can’t help any, and we might as well film it.”

“Come on, then. You hold the camera steady and I’ll turn the handle.”

They had a machine all in readiness, its tripod shortened so that the lens could be brought close to the water.

“He’s dived!” cried one of the men.

“Who—the fish, or Jake?” demanded the captain.

“Jake. He saw the fish coming at him, and he went under. Lucky he did, or he might have been cut in two.”

“Throw that prod; can’t you? I’ll have this gun ready in a minute.”

The captain had pulled from a locker an old-fashioned, double-barreled duck gun.

“It’s loaded with slugs,” he called to the boys, who were even now taking moving pictures of the strange scene. “I carry it for sharks, but it’ll do as well against a swordfish, though they don’t commonly attack men.”“Here goes for a cast!” cried the man with the prod, which was a sort of boathook without the hook. “I’ll see if I can spear him!”

Leaning forward he threw the weapon with all his force. The other fishermen, some of whom had grasped the spare oars to swing the boat around, looked eagerly to see the result.

“Missed, by ginger!” exclaimed the captain. “Here, let me try. Where’s Jake?”

“Out there. He’s swimming strong,” was the answer. “The pesky fish is coming back at him again.”

“Duck, Jake, duck!” cried the captain, as he got ready with the gun. “I’m going to shoot. Get down out of the way, and hold your breath. We’ll have you in another minute!”

He could see the swordfish plainly now, rushing directly toward the swimmer. The man heard and followed directions. Deep down he dived, and the fish shot directly over him.

“Say, that’s a great picture!” cried Blake.

“That’s what!” yelled Joe, and then his voice was drowned in the report of the gun, which was doubly charged.

“I got him! By cracky, I got him!” cried the captain. “That’s his blood showing.”

The waves were indeed red with the blood of the big fish, and a moment later its body was floating on the swells.

“There’s Jake!” cried one of the fishermen.

“All right!” was the response. “Throw him a line. He’s in no danger now.”

A few moments later the man was safe aboard, minus his boots, which he had kicked off in the sea, and some of his heavier clothing.

“That’s the end of Mr. Swordfish,” murmured the captain, in gratified tones, as he watched the lifeless body sink. “The sharks will get him. Are you all right, Jake?”

“Sure. It was hard work, though; and once I thought he had me. I dived just in time.”

“That’s what you did,” said Blake. “It was a great exhibition, and when it’s thrown on the screen it will make a sensation, I’m sure.”

“Say, you don’t mean to tell me you snapped what happened?” asked the fisherman, in surprise.

“We sure did,” declared Joe. “We got every move.”

“Plucky lads,” murmured the captain; “and right on the job, too. Start the motor,” he added to the man in charge of it.

“We’ve sprung a leak, captain!” exclaimed a man up in the bow. “Water’s coming in.”

“It’s where that pesky swordfish rammed us, I reckon. But stuff something in and it will hold until we get to shore. We haven’t far to go.”

The boat was soon under way again, and offers of aid from sister craft that circled around were declined. A bundle of rags served to stop the inrush of most of the water, and a little later the craft, with its load of fish, was hauled up on the beach by means of a tackle and fall, horses being the motive power. Joe and Blake got pictures of the other boats making a similar landing, theirs being the first in.

“Well, we got some fine views,” said Blake, as he and his chum started for their boarding place.

“We sure did, and something unexpected, too. I never counted on a swordfish attack.”

“No, and I guess the fishermen didn’t either. But it will make a realistic film, as Mr. Hadley would say.”

“It’s just our hoodoo luck again,” went on Joe. “Something out of the ordinary seems to be happening all the while to us.”

“Well, it’s better than monotony.”

“I suppose so. But I wonder what it will be next?”

The boys were congratulated on their success by Mr. Hadley and Mr. Ringold, and the films, when developed and printed a little later, furnished a series of fine views.For the next week the boys had little time to themselves. The drama with the burning shack was enacted over again, this time with success, the volunteer firemen not throwing any water on the blaze. Other sea dramas were also made, and then came a period of rest, in which Blake and Joe had hardly anything to do.

“Say,” exclaimed Blake, one afternoon, “let’s go for a walk down the beach, by the cliffs. It’s a fine day and it will do us good.”

“All right,” agreed Joe. “I was thinking of paying another visit to the lighthouse, and asking if there was any news of my father; but, of course, there can’t be.”

“Hardly,” agreed Blake, thinking that the only news his chum would get there would be bad.

They strolled along the shore, making excursions here and there as something attracted them. Going through a little group of scrub oak, somewhat back from the shore, and climbing a slight elevation to get a view of the Pacific, the boys were startled, as they were about to emerge into a little open glade, to hear voices.

“Some one else besides us out here to-day,” spoke Joe, in a low voice.

“That’s right,” agreed his chum. “Keep still until we see who it is.”

Cautiously they advanced until they stood behind a little screen of trees, and were gazing into the open place. They saw several men at work erecting some sort of tower, or pile of rocks, and on top of it was mounted a large lantern.

“There—that ought to show pretty well,” remarked one of the men.

“Yes, and be seen a good distance out to sea,” put in another. “It’s just in the right place, too; for the rocks extend a good way out, and you can’t see ’em even at dead low water.”

“And anything drawing more than ten feet will be sure to strike on ’em,” suggested a third.

“That’s right, Sandy,” came the retort. “Have you got the lantern fixed so that she’ll flash like the other?”

“I sure have. All we’ve got to do is to pull one wire—this way—and the light is shut off. Another pull, and she gives a flash, just like a revolving light.”

“Good. We’ll give it a trial to-night.”

“Say, what do you think they are?” whispered Joe.

“I hardly know, and yet——”

“Maybe they’re experimenting with a new kind of light?” suggested the other lad.

“Experimenting? Yes!” spoke Blake, in a low, tense voice. “And I can guess what they’re experimenting for.”“What?”

Blake was about to answer, when one of the men, looking in the direction where the boys were concealed, uttered an exclamation.

“Hark!” he cried. “I think I heard something.”

“It was the wind,” declared one.

“A bird in the bushes,” said another.

“I’m going to see!” declared the man. And he came straight toward their hiding place.