You will remember that Mike Murphy, the Irish laddie, was brimful of pluck, powerful and sturdy of build and with little in the nature of fear in his make-up. His short legs, however, were not meant for fleetness, and he never would have won fame as a sprinter. When he parted company with Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes, only one purpose controlled him—that was to regain possession of the stolen motor boat Deerfoot and incidentally to administer proper punishment to the thieves who had so boldly stolen the craft.

He loped down the road, until he was panting from the exertion, when he dropped to a rapid walk, still burning with high resolve. With no clearly defined plan in mind, he turned off at the intersection of the highways, and soon reached Charmount, one of the regular landings where the little steamers for Boothbay Harbor halted to let off and take on passengers.

"The right thing for mesilf to do is to sind a tilegram," was his conclusion. "I don't mind that I ever done anything ov the kind excipt to forward one by wireless when our steamer was in the middle of the Atlantic. Howsumiver, that was sint by other folks and I hadn't anything to do wid it excipt to listen to the crackling and spitting and sparkling of the machine and to watch for the message flying out the windy, which the same I didn't observe."

His naturally red face was redder than usual, and he breathed fast, when he stepped up to the little window.

"I have a message that I wish to go over the wires as fast as lightning," was his announcement, after raising his cap and saluting the young lady.

"That's the way all telegrams go," she replied, looking smilingly up from her chair in front of the instrument.

"Thank ye kindly."

"All you have to do is to write it out and pay the cost."

"And how much will the same be?"

"That depends on the number of words and the distance it has to be sent. Write it out."

A pile of yellow blanks lay on the inclined planed board which served as a desk, and there was a cheap pencil secured by a string, but no chair. A sender had to stand while writing his message. Mike tried to act as if he was used to such things. First he thrust the end of the pencil in his mouth to moisten the lead and began his hard task.

He was so long at it that the bright young miss looked up several times to see how he was getting on. Through the narrow window she saw him laboring harder than he had ever labored in his life. His tongue was out, his eyes rolling, his cap shoved back from his perspiring forehead and he grunted, standing first on one foot and then on the other, crossing out words, writing them over again and scratching his head in sore perplexity. She made no comment, but busied herself with other work until more than a quarter of an hour had passed.

Finally the toil was over and he shoved the little sheet of paper through the window.

"Whew! but that was a big job, as me uncle said when he tipped over the house of Pat O'Keily. You'll excuse me bad penmanship, if you plaise."

The operator took the paper from him and with wrinkled brow read the following amazing effusion:

"Charmount, Main, Orgust——

"General George Washington,
President of the U. S. America:

"Respicted Sir and Brother:

"There has been the biggest outrage that has happened in a thousand years. A pirut ship come up the Sheepscot River to-day and while me and Captain Landon and Second Mate Haynes—it's mesilf that is first mate—was eating our frugle repast behind the blockhouse, the same piruts boarded our frigate the Deerfut and run off wid her. If we had seen the thaives we would have knocked their heads off. Send one of your torpeder distroyers or a battleship and go for the piruts bald-headed.

"Kind regards to the missis and hoping you are well I subscribe mesilf yours with great respict,

"Mike Murphy."

The Irish youth watched the face of the miss as she studied the message for several minutes. Mike had a fair education, and although he limped in his spelling, on the whole he did well. By and by the operator looked into his face with perplexity and asked:

"Why under the sun do you address your message to General Washington?"

"Isn't he Prisident of the United States? I remimber reading the same in me school history at home in Tipperary."

"He was the first President, but that was a long time ago and he has been dead more than a hundred years."

"Then he isn't in the City of Washington, eh?"

"No, he is in heaven, where you may be sure he has a front seat."

"You couldn't forward the same to him?" asked Mike, his eyes twinkling.

"I am afraid not; that station isn't in our line, though I hope you and I will arrive there one of these days."

She drew her pencil through the immortal name.

"You wish to have this sent to the President?"

"Av coorse; what might his name be?"

"William H. Taft."

"And his addriss is Washington?"

"That's his official address, but he stops there only now and then each year."

"Where might he be now?"

"Somewhere out West or on the Pacific coast or down at Panama—in fact, almost anywhere except at the capital of our country."

"Then can't he be raiched by telegraph?" asked Mike in dismay.

"Oh, yes; all you have to do is to address your telegram to Washington, just as you have done. They know there where to find him and your message will be forwarded."

"Very well. There is the money to pay for the same."

Mike laid a silver quarter on the stand-up desk where she could reach it. But she was busy just then counting the words by tipping them off with the point of her pencil. When through she beamed upon him and announced that the cost would be a little more than five dollars.

"Woorah! woorah! what is it you're sayin'? All the funds I have wid me is about half what you jist named."

"You can save three-fourths of the cost by striking out the unnecessary words. Let me help you."

She obligingly edited the copy. It seemed to Mike that every word was indispensable, but she convinced him to the contrary and finally succeeded in boiling down the message so that the cost of the transmission was reduced to a dollar and a half. Although, as the lad had intimated, his funds were moderate, he paid the sum and the miss lost no time in placing the telegram on the wire.

We have no record of its fate after reaching the national capital. It may have started to find the President on his never ending travels. If so, it no doubt caused him a hearty laugh, but I am afraid he speedily forgot it and the money expended by Mike was wasted.

He thanked the miss for her aid and bade her good-day. Just then the hoarse whistle of a steamer fell upon their ears.

"Phwat's that?" asked Mike, stopping short and looking at her. She glanced through the window before replying.

"It's the Nahanada on her way to Boothbay Harbor."

"Ain't that lucky now!" he exclaimed, hurrying to the landing where he joined the half dozen passengers in boarding her.

The well-known steamer Nahanada was returning from an excursion to Wiscasset, with a large party from Boothbay Harbor. You will bear in mind that Mike Murphy's departure down the Sheepscot from Charmount preceded that of his friends by more than an hour.

Now that he had time to rest and think, he did both. Like the other two youths, he chose his seat on the upper deck at the extreme rear, where he had a good view of both shores in descending the Sheepscot. He was not in a mood for conversation, and though several were seated near him, he gave them no attention. In this respect, he had the advantage over his friends, who as you will recall not only said a good many things to each other, but were overheard, as they discovered too late, by the man dressed in gray, who mixed strangely in their affairs afterward.

It was impossible that the steamer should overtake the motor boat, provided the latter held her usual speed. Mike did not expect anything of the kind, but, like Alvin and Chester, thought the Deerfoot was likely to stop on its way and wait until darkness in which to continue its flight. The thieves would know that strenuous efforts would be made quickly to recover the launch, and would try to escape recognition by the simple method named.

This was shrewd reasoning, and was justified by what followed. A few miles below Sawyer Island, where Chester and Alvin left the steamer, projects the southern end of Westport, which intrudes like a vast wedge between the Sheepscot on the right and Montsweag Bay and Knubble Bay on the left. The island is about a dozen miles long, with a width at its broadest part of three miles or so. Around the lower end sweeps Goose Rock Passage, through which boats make their way to the Kennebec to the westward. The width of the Sheepscot at that portion is nearly two miles. Mike Murphy was on the alert and scanned the shores to the right and left as well as every craft that suggested any resemblance to the Deerfoot, but saw nothing to awaken hope until the Nahanada turned to call at Isle of Springs.

Knowing nothing of interest was there, Mike rose to his feet and scanned the opposite shore. He saw a boat disappearing in a small bay, a little to the north of Brooks Point, as the southern extremity of Westport is called. He caught only a passing glimpse when the intervening land shut it from sight, but he exclaimed:

"Begorrah! it's the Deerfut, or me name isn't Mike Murphy!"