As the hot breath of the flames grew more ardent, Hunt began to stir uneasily upon his couch. Suddenly the wounded man came out of his swoon with a shout. He sat upright, staring wildly about him, his blood-stained, wan face illumined by the flames. But after his first instant of confusion he perceived at once what had happened.

“The dogs!” he exclaimed, reeling to his feet, “they’ve set the shed on fire. But we’ll outwit them yet.”

Tom was at his side in an instant.

“You know a way by which we can get out of here?” he exclaimed.

Hunt nodded.

“It’s a good thing I come to when I did,” he said, “or we all might have roasted in here.”

He shuffled rapidly to the other end of the shed, and kneeling above a big, flat stone which apparently served as a hearthstone for an open grate, he pressed some sort of mechanism. Instantly, before their astonished eyes, the stone swung open, revealing a flight of steps.

“A secret passage!” cried Tom, while the others uttered exclamations of astonishment.

“That’s right,” said Zeb, with a grin, “and the best of it is that there are only two persons on this island that knows of its existence. One’s me, and tother’s Bully Banjo. We made it in case a revenue should drop in here some day. Then, d’ye see, all we would have had to do would have been to herd the Chinks through it and bring ’em out in the brush half a mile away. But we never thought that we’d have to use it to get away from our own men.

“By the way,” he said, gazing about stupidly under the pain of his wound, “where is Sim Lake?”

“I’ll tell you about that later,” said Tom, “the thing to do now is to get away. You go first, you know the way.”

Led by the wounded man they plunged into the dark abyss, the professor’s boy whining a little at the idea of descending into the dark, damp place. Tom came last, and he closed down the big stone behind them.

The passage was fairly commodious, and walking single file and slightly stooped it was not long before they reached the end of it and emerged in a clearing in the brush.

Looking around they could see behind them the red glare of the fire and the figures of the mutineers about it.

“They little think what a march we’ve stolen on them,” chuckled Tom as he gazed.

“I suppose the cold-blooded rascals are waiting for us to appear, or to see the shed cave in on us,” added the professor.

“Well, they will be disappointed this trip,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “but surely I am not mistaken. By some strange chance that passage has led us almost to the other side of the headland where we left the boat.”

A few seconds of reconnoitering proved that this was correct. They were, however, on the hillside above the headland, so that they could see down on the blazing building. It was not a great way to the water, and they soon emerged at the spot where they had left the boat. They found everything as it had been when they came away.

“Well,” said Tom, “I guess we had better get on board.”

“What is your plan?” asked the professor.

“Rather a desperate one,” rejoined Tom; “but it is the only thing I can think of. We can’t put to sea without provisions or water, that’s certain. Now, on the schooner we can find both. She is unguarded, and the only risk we run is being seen from the shore.”

“By Jove! that’s a great idea,” cried Mr. Chillingworth. “As for being seen from land, I don’t think there is any serious danger of that. Those rascals are all too busy about their own devices.”

“I agree with you,” said the professor. “It might even be feasible to sail the schooner out.”

Tom shook his head at this daring suggestion.

“We don’t know the water hereabouts well enough,” he said, “and might only pile her upon shore. No; my idea was to stock up the boat and then pull out to sea. We ought to be out of sight of the island by daylight. Surely we can either sight a steamer or the mainland by the time our provisions get low.”

With the Kanakas at the oars, and the wounded man lying in the stern, the boat was cautiously pulled toward the schooner. Tom’s plans went through without a hitch. The men filled six water kegs and selected all the biscuit and provisions they wished, Zeb Hunt helping them with suggestions as to the best stores to take. During this time Tom found a chance to tell him of the fate of Simon Lake. Hunt sank down on a coil of rope, his head in his hands, as he heard. He was genuinely affected, for he had been fond of his leader in his rough way.

“Poor Bully Banjo,” he said at length, rising to his feet. “It’s the way he’d have wished to die. But it’s sickened me of this business. If ever I get clear of here I’m goin’ ter live honest and clean. I’ve tried the other way, and it don’t pay. For every bad deed a man does he has to pay in just so many days of unhappiness—that’s been my experience.”

“I believe you are right,” said Tom, “badness never pays. It’s only men and boys who live right who are happy.”

Presently a soft hail from the professor apprised them that the boat was ready.

One by one they slipped down the Jacob’s ladder, which was always hanging from the schooner’s side when she was at anchor. Before many minutes had passed the boat, with her anxious passengers, had cleared the point and was being headed around the further point of the island toward the east. They knew that by keeping on in that direction long enough they would strike land. As they had provisions and water enough for several days on board they felt no anxiety on that score, and their hearts were light as they rowed through the darkness.

Before long the professor and Mr. Chillingworth dropped off to sleep. Tom and Zeb Hunt sat alone in the stern talking in low voices, while the two Kanakas rowed steadily as automatons.

All at once Tom gave a shout.

“Look! Look! A steamer’s lights!”

“Whereaway, boy?” came Zeb Hunt’s fog-horn voice.

“Off to the south—look, she’s coming toward us!”

“You’re right, boy,” growled Hunt. If it had been light Tom would have seen that a curiously anxious look crept over his companion’s face. The coming of a steamer meant to Zeb Hunt that he would be placed in irons and taken back to the United States to work out the penalty for his crimes. But he said nothing, and presently the entire boatload was watching the oncoming steamer.

As she drew closer Tom made out that she was a small white vessel like a yacht. Her lights glowed brightly, both from her portholes and on deck. Evidently her company was up and about. Perhaps they had sighted the fire on the island, which was casting a blood-red glare on sea and sky.

“Ship ahoy!” hailed Tom suddenly as the vessel drew closer.

“Ahoy yourself!” came an amazed voice from the foredeck of the vessel, “who the dickens are you?”

“A crew of castaways!” rejoined Tom. “Throw us a line, will you?”

But now another voice struck in from the strange vessel’s deck:

“Tom! Oh, Tom!”

“Jack!” cried the amazed lad, recognizing his brother’s voice.

“Hooray, we’ve found them!” came another voice, that of Sam Hartley. “Hooray, my lads! Three cheers!”

They were given with a will while the small boat was rowed alongside the larger vessel. A gangway was lowered and a perfect bombardment of questions began to rain down. It was impossible to answer them all, but in the babel the rancher recognized the voice of his wife.

Well, there is no use trying to give the details of the scene that ensued when the castaways were all safely on the deck of the big steam yacht—for such she was—and the small boat was towing astern.

In the first place everybody talked at once, and Mrs. Chillingworth laughed and then cried, and then cried and laughed again. It was the most joyous reunion the high seas had ever witnessed. And through it all only one figure stood apart—that of Zeb Hunt. Presently he slipped away and made his way to the stern, where the boat with her provisions and water on board was towing along.

Taking a swift glance around Zeb, despite his wound, hoisted himself over the stern rail, and with the agility of a sailor, dropped into the small craft. Then he drew his knife and slashed the rope. Free of the yacht the boat dropped rapidly astern in the darkness. As the large vessel’s lights grew dimmer and died out, Hunt took up the oars.

“It ain’t so very far frum here to the Canady shore,” he muttered; “and once there I’ll be safe frum the law.”

He gave a shudder.

“I guess what that kid said was right,” he muttered, “it don’t pay ter be bad, an’ frum now on Zeb Hunt’s goin’ ter turn over a new leaf.”

In the meantime, in the lighted saloon of the yacht, the castaways had told their story, and then Mr. Dacre and Sam Hartley started in on theirs, part of which we know. On a lounge sat Jack and Tom, their arms entwined round each other’s necks, while Mr. Chillingworth and his wife sat happily side by side listening to the excited hum of talk. At some distance from the rest sat the bottle-nosed man; still he was a sharer in the general jubilation, too, for it was he who had piloted the yacht to the island.

But we are running ahead of Sam Hartley’s narrative a little. Our readers will recall what Mr. Chillingworth and Tom did not, of course, know, namely, the Secret Service man’s visit to the captain of the “Islander.” From the description of the schooner the bottle-nosed man recognized Bully Banjo’s craft, while Sam Hartley easily identified Tom from the description the captain was able to give of the boy who had sprung into the shrouds and hailed them.

This done, the next thing to do was to get hold of Mr. Dacre and telegraph to Washington about the results that had been attained. A dozen assistants had been rushed to Sam at once, and a week later the trim yacht “Idle Hour,” under the flag of the U. S. Treasury Department, had set sail from Puget Sound for a mysterious destination.

They had sighted the fire a few hours before they picked up the boat and it had caused them a lot of apprehension. It looked as if things had come to a crisis too soon. But as it happened, things could not have fallen out better for Sam Hartley’s purposes.

They anchored that night off the island, while all hands took a much-needed rest, and in the morning they landed. The followers of Bully Banjo, stupefied by drink and reckless rioting, were an easy prey for the Secret Service men, who soon had them transferred to the schooner. It had been decided to tow the vessel into the nearest port, using her as a prison ship in the meantime.

The Chinamen who had fled in terror to the brush when the rioting broke out, drifted back one by one. They were rounded up and the situation explained to them. As it was impossible to take them on the schooner they were left on the island with plenty of provisions from the yacht till a Canadian government schooner could call for them and deport them to China.

A few days after these arrangements had been completed, the “Idle Hour” sailed for Seattle with the schooner in tow. In the meantime, the mine had been visited once more—by way of the cove—and several samples of ore taken from it, which the professor decided to assay when they reached port. He thinks, however, that they will prove to be very rich, and already negotiations are under way to acquire the mine. When the Bungalow Boys and Professor Dingle do secure a right to work it the Kanakas will have a goodly share of the proceeds, and Mr. Chillingworth will not be forgotten.

Once more in Seattle Mr. Chillingworth was anxious for the party to return to his ranch, but the boys and Mr. Dacre both felt that they had seen about all they wanted of that part of the country. They therefore accepted the professor’s invitation to visit him later at his home on the Great Lakes. First, however, they gave their evidence against the captured mutineers, all of whom were given sentences of more or less severity, including the treacherous Fu.

We could tell many things about the pleasant times the boys spent in the great metropolis of the northwest, and of some of the wonders they saw in that part of the wonderful Pacific Slope. But it is now time to leave them for a brief space.

We shall meet them again in a new tale of their adventures, even more exciting and thrilling than its forerunners. This volume will be called “The Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes.”