A STRIKE FOR UNCLE SAM.

How long it was that Ned sat reviewing the situation in all its bearings he never knew. But it must have been a considerable period, for, when he began to take notice of his surroundings once more, the first flush of an early summer's dawn was visible behind him as he faced what he judged to be the mainland.

The light showed the character of the country across the broad channel which separated him from it to be much the same as that of the island on which he had been marooned by the anarchists. It was criss-crossed with sand dunes till it resembled a crumpled bit of yellow parchment. Scanty, spear-like grass grew in hummocks on the undulations. As the light became stronger sea birds began to whirl about him, screaming weirdly.

Ned gazed seaward. Far out on the horizon was a smudge of black smoke. It was too great in volume for one vessel to have made. The cloud reached as far as the eye could see; as if a gigantic and dirty thumb had been swept across the sky line. To Ned it meant one thing.

"The fleet has passed down the coast on its way to Blackhaven," he mused. "Oh! for a chance to get to the mainland."

For a time he was in hopes that some fishing craft, or small boat, might pass within hail. But nothing of the kind occurred.

"I've got to get something to eat pretty soon," thought Ned, who was beginning to feel faint, "or—hullo! where have I seen that log before?"

His gaze was riveted on a big spar that was drifting idly through the arm of sea that swept between him and the land.

"I saw that fellow go through here last night; the tide must have turned and it's drifting back. Well, that settles it. There's almost as much water and current in there at low water as at high."

He fell to pacing the beach moodily. Once in desperation he waded into the turbid water and essayed to swim. But he was instantly swept from his feet, and a strong undertow seized on his legs and drew them down. When, panting and trembling, he stood once more on shore, he resolved not to risk his life in that manner again.

"An elephant couldn't swim that," he said to himself sadly.

All at once he looked up, from one of his despairing moods, to see something that caused him to choke and gasp with hope. Bobbing about on the water, not a hundred yards from the shore, was—of all things—a small boat!

Ned watched it fascinated.

Would the current drift it within his reach, or would it be carried tantalizingly past him? At the moment he gave little thought as to how it came to be there. It was enough for him that it was a boat, and offered—providing he could reach it—a means of getting to the mainland.

In an agony of apprehension he watched the little craft as it came on, dancing merrily on the choppy ripples of the inlet. Now it shot in toward the shore, as if it meant to drive bow-on upon the beach, and then, as Ned sprang forth to grasp it, the current would sweep it out of his reach. At last it was abreast of him, and in the next second it had passed beyond. Ned grew desperate.

"Better die in the effort to get to land than perish here of starvation and thirst," he thought.

Without bothering to kick his shoes off he sprang into the water, which was deep right up to the margin of the shore, and swam out after the boat.

In a flash he felt the undertow grip him. He struck out with every ounce of reserve strength that he possessed, but the current proved the stronger of the two. Ned, weakened by his long fast and rough experiences, found himself being rapidly drawn under.

Fighting every inch of the way he was gradually submerged. With a last effort he struck out again, but the final struggle proved too much for his already depleted muscles.

The boy was sucked under like a straw.

Where his head had appeared a second before, there was now nothing but the whirl of the waters.

Suddenly, just as it felt as if his lungs must burst, Ned was shot up to the surface once more. Too weak to strike out he flung out his hands in a desperate effort to clutch at anything to sustain his weight.

His hands closed on something solid that buoyed him up refreshingly. It was the gunwale of the boat!

Ned hung limply to her side, getting back his strength as she glided along. After several minutes he felt equal to the effort of trying to board her. He kicked his way round to the stern and clambered over the transom.

Once on board he lay languidly on the thwarts for some time, too much exhausted even to move. But by-and-bye, his strength began to trickle back. He raised himself and looked around him. About the first object his eyes lighted on was a bit of crumpled paper in the bottom of the craft.

"Maybe this is some sort of a clew as to how the boat happened along so providentially," thought Ned.

He opened the paper, scanned the few words it contained, and then his jaw dropped in sheer amazement. The words of the note were in Herc's big, scrawly handwriting.

"Ned, Hope you find the boat. I heard them say they had marooned you on an island, so I cut the rope. Herc."

Ned saw at once what had happened, even if a glance at the cut end of rope in the bow had not told him. Herc had managed to reach out of the cabin port and slash the rope by which the dinghy had been attached to the sloop's stern. It had been a long chance, but it had won out.

"I don't believe there's another chap in the world like good old Herc," thought Ned tenderly, with a suspicious mist in his eyes as he thought of his absent comrade; then he took up the oars.

"Now where shall I row to?" he asked himself, as he pulled the boat along.

He scanned the barren-looking coast, with its inhospitable sand dunes and melancholy-colored grass, with the sea birds wheeling and screaming above.

"Humph! Not much choice, apparently. I guess I'll pull just inside of that little point yonder, and then strike out across the country. I'll have to trust to luck to find somebody who'll give me a hand."

Half an hour later Ned pulled the small boat ashore and abandoned it.

When he landed he had cherished some hopes of finding a fisherman's hut, or "beachcomber's" dwelling behind the rampart of sand dunes. But no trace of even such primitive habitations met his eye. Salt meadows, threaded by muddy, sluggish creeks, lay inland, and beyond was rising ground dotted with clumps of woodland.

This looked hopeful. Determined to keep pegging along to the uttermost that was in him, Ned struck out across the salt meadows.

It was harder work than he had thought. Under the hot sun the miasmic salt land steamed and perspired. Rank odors arose, and the muddy creeks steamed. Once or twice he had to wade through the foul water courses, and, at such times myriads of bloated-looking crabs, that had been sunning themselves, scuttled, with splashes, into the water.

To add to his discomfort, as the sun grew higher, millions of black flies and stinging midges arose to plague him. They settled on him in swarms. Every time Ned wiped out a legion of the tormentors that had settled on his face, his countenance bore a red smudge. By the time he had—he hardly knew how—traversed this bad bit of country and found himself on a dusty white highroad, Ned was scarcely a presentable-looking object. Mud, from the creeks he had waded, caked his legs; his face was red and bloody from the onslaughts of the insects. His clothes were tattered from his fight on the sloop, and, altogether, he was not an object to inspire confidence.

To add to his misfortunes, he had no money, and Ned knew enough of the world to know that a lad in his condition, tattered and penniless, does not, as a rule, excite any feeling but suspicion. However, when about half a mile further on he came to a small house nestling among rose vines and creepers, he walked bravely up to the door and knocked.

A prim-looking old maid, in a checked apron, opened the door. As soon as her eyes fell on Ned she uttered a shrill scream and slammed the door with an exclamation of alarm and indignation.

"Get along with you, you tramp!" she cried.

Ned turned and trudged down the footpath. But, as he reached the gate, he heard a commotion behind him. He turned just in time to face a big, savage-looking bulldog that was about to fly at his leg. Ned raised his foot and planted it fair and square on the snarling animal's mouth.

The dog fled with a yelp of pain. Ned followed it with his eyes.

"I'll bet that cur has fared better than I have for the last twenty-four hours," he muttered as he once more began his weary trudging along the dusty highroad.