Jerry's car was an old sedan that had seen better days, but it could still cover ground at a good speed. The macadam highway unrolled before the bright head lamps at a steady rate while the beams illumined alternate patches of woods and small settlements.

There were no major towns between Whiteside and Seaford, but there were a number of summer beach colonies, most of them in an area about halfway between the two towns. The highway was little used. Most tourists and all through traffic preferred the main trunk highway leading southward from Newark. They saw only two other cars during the short drive.

Many months had passed since Rick's last visit to Seaford. He had gone there on a Sunday afternoon to try his hand at surf casting off Million Dollar Row, a stretch of beach noted for its huge, abandoned hotels. It was a good place to cast for striped bass during the right season.

"Smugglers' Reef," he said aloud. "Funny that a Seaford trawler should go ashore there. It's the best-known reef on the coast."

"Maybe the skipper was a greenhorn," Scotty remarked.

"Not likely," Jerry said. "In Seaford the custom is to pass fishing ships down from father to son. There hasn't been a new fishing family there for the past half century."

"You seem to know a lot about the place," Rick remarked.

"I go down pretty often. Fish makes news in this part of the country."

Scotty pointed to a sign as they sped over a wooden bridge. "Salt Creek."

Rick remembered. Salt Creek emptied into the sea on the north side of Smugglers' Reef. It was called Salt Creek because the tide backed up into it beyond the bridge they had just crossed. He had caught crabs just above the bridge. But between the road and the sea there was over a quarter mile of tidal swamp, filled with rushes and salt-marsh grasses through which the creek ran. At the edge of the swamp where Salt Creek met Smugglers' Reef stood the old Creek House, once a leading hotel, now an abandoned relic.

A short distance farther on, a road turned off to the left. A weathered sign pointed toward Seaford. In a few moments the first houses came into view. They were small, and well kept for the most part. Then the sedan rolled into the town itself, down the single business street which led to the fish piers.

A crowd waited in front of the red-brick town hall. Jerry swung into the curb. "Let's see what's going on."

Rick got his camera from the case, inserted a film pack, and stuffed a few flash bulbs into his pocket. Then he hurried up the steps of City Hall after Jerry and Scotty. Men, a number of them with the weathered faces of professional fishermen, were talking in low tones. A few looked at the boys with curiosity.

An old man with white hair and a strong, lined face was seated by the door, whittling on an elm twig. Jerry spoke to him.

"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me what's going on?"

Keen eyes took in the three boys. "I can. Any reason why I should?" The old man's voice held the twang peculiar to that part of the New Jersey coast.

"I'm a reporter," Jerry said. "Whiteside Morning Record."

The old man spat into the shrubbery. "Going to put in your paper that Tom Tyler ran aground on Smugglers' Reef, hey? Well, you can put it in, boy, because it's true. But don't make the mistake of calling Tom Tyler a fool, a drunkard, or a poor seaman, because he ain't any of those things."

"How did it happen?" Jerry asked.

"Reckon you better ask Tom Tyler."

"I will," Jerry said. "Where will I find him?"

"Inside. Surrounded by fools."

Jerry pushed through the door, Rick and Scotty following. Rick's quick glance took in the people waiting in the corridor, then shifted to a young woman and a little girl. The woman's face was strained and white, and she stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes. The little girl, a tiny blonde perhaps four years old, held tightly to her mother's hand.

Rick had a hunch. He stopped as Jerry and Scotty hurried down the corridor to where voices were loud through an open door. "Mrs. Tyler?" he asked.

The woman's head lifted sharply. Her eyes went dark with fear. "I can't tell you anything," she said in a rush. "I don't know anything." She dropped her head again and her hand tightened convulsively on the little girl's.

"Sorry," Rick said gently. He moved along the corridor, very thoughtful, and saw that Jerry and Scotty were turning into the room from which voices came. Mrs. Tyler might have been angry, upset, tearful, despondent, or defiant over the loss of her husband's trawler. Instead, she had been afraid in a situation that did not appear to call for fear.

He turned into the room. There were about a dozen men in it. Two were Coast Guardsmen, one a lieutenant and the other a chief petty officer. Two others were state highway patrolmen. Another, in a blue uniform, was evidently the local policeman. The rest were in civilian clothes. All of them were watching a lean, youthful man who sat ramrod straight in a chair.

A stocky man in a brown suit said impatiently, "There's more to it than that, Tom. Man, you've spent thirty years off Smugglers'. You'd no more crack up on it than I'd fall over my own front porch."

"I told you how it was," the fisherman said tonelessly.

Rick searched his face and liked it. Tom Tyler was perhaps forty, but he looked ten years younger. His face was burned from wind and sun, but it was not yet heavily lined. His eyes, gray in color, were clear and direct as he faced his questioners. He was a tall man; that was apparent even when he was seated. He had a lean, trim look that reminded Rick of a clean, seaworthy schooner.

The boy lifted his camera and took a picture. The group turned briefly as the flash bulb went off. They glared, then turned back to the fisherman again.

The town policeman spoke. "You know what this means, Tom? You not only lost your ship, but you're apt to lose your license, too. And you'll be lucky if the insurance company doesn't charge you with barratry."

"I've told you how it was," Captain Tyler repeated.

The man in the brown suit exploded. "Stop being a dadblasted fool, Tom! You expect us to swallow a yarn like that? We know you don't drink. How can you expect us to believe you ran the Sea Belle ashore while drunk?"

"I got no more to say," Tyler replied woodenly.

Jerry turned to Rick and Scotty and motioned toward the door. Rick led the way back into the corridor. "Getting anything out of this?" he asked.

"A little," Jerry said. "Let's go out and talk to that old man."

"Lead on," Scotty said. "I've always wanted to see a real news hound in action."

Rick dropped the used flash bulb into a convenient ash tray, replaced it with a new one, and reset the camera. At least he had one good picture. Tom Tyler, framed by his questioners, had looked somehow like a thoroughbred animal at bay.

Outside the door, the old man was still whittling. "Get a real scoop, sonny?" he asked Jerry.

"Sure did," Jerry returned. He leaned against the doorjamb. "I didn't get your name."

"Didn't give it."

"Will you?"

"Sure. I ain't ashamed. I'm Captain Michael Aloysius Kevin O'Shannon. Call me Cap'n Mike."

"All right, Cap'n Mike. Is it true Captain Tyler stands to lose his master's license and may be even charged with deliberately wrecking the ship?"

"It's true.

"He says he was drunk."

"He wasn't."

"How do you know?"

"I know Tom Tyler."

"Then how did it happen?"

Cap'n Mike rose and clicked his jackknife shut. He tossed away the elm twig. "You got a car?"

"Yes."

"Let's take a ride. You'll want to see the wreck, and I do, too. We can talk on the way."

The boys accepted with alacrity. Rick and Scotty sat in the back seat; the captain rode up front with Jerry. At the old man's direction, Jerry drove to the water front and then turned left.

"I'll start at the beginning," Cap'n Mike said. "I've had experience with reporters in my day. Best to tell 'em everything, otherwise they start leaping at conclusions and get everything backwards. Can't credit a reporter with too many brains."

"You're right there," Jerry said amiably.

Rick grinned. He had seen Jerry in operation before. The young reporter didn't mind any kind of insult if there were a story in the offing. Rick guessed the newspaper trade wasn't a place for thin skins.

"Well, here're the facts," the captain continued. "Tom Tyler, master and owner of the Sea Belle, was coming back from a day's run. He'd had a good day. The trawler was practically awash with a load of menhaden. In case you don't know, menhaden are fish. Not eating fish, but commercial. They get oil and chicken and cattle feed from 'em, and the trawlers out of this port collect 'em by the millions of tons every year."

"We know," Jerry said.

"Uhuh. As I said, the trawler was full up with menhaden. Tom was at the wheel himself. The rest of the crew, five of them, was making snug. There was a little weather making up, but not much, and not enough to interfere with Tom seeing the light at the tip of Smugglers' Reef. He saw it clear. Admits it. Now! All you need do is give the light a few fathoms clearance to starboard. But Tom Tyler didn't. And what happened?"

"He ran smack onto the reef," Scotty put in.

"He surely did. The crew, all of 'em being aft, didn't see a thing. First they knew they were flying through the air like a bunch of hooked mackerel and banging into the net gear. One broken arm and a lot of cuts and bruises among 'em. The trawler tore her bottom out and rested high and dry, scattering fish like a fertilizer spreader. Tom Tyler said he took one drink and it went to his head."

The old man snorted. "Bilge! Sheer bilge! He said hitting the reef sobered him up."

"Maybe it did," Jerry ventured.

"Hogwash. There wasn't a mite of drink on his breath. And what did he drink? There ain't nothing could make an old hand like Tom forget where a light was supposed to be. No, the whole thing is fishy as a bin of herring."

The boys were silent for a moment after the recital, then Rick blurted out the question in his mind. "What's his wife afraid of?"

The captain stiffened. "Who says she's afraid?"

"I do," Rick returned positively. "I saw her."

"You did? Well, I reckon you saw right."

"Maybe she's afraid of Tyler's losing his way of making a living," Scotty guessed.

Rick shook his head. "It wasn't that kind of fear."

The sedan had left the town proper and was rolling along the sea front on a wide highway. This was Million Dollar Row. In a moment Rick saw the first of the huge hotels that had given the road its name. It was called Sandy Shores. Once it had been landscaped, and probably beautiful. Now, he saw in the dim moonlight, the windows were shuttered and the grounds had gone back to bunch grass. The paint had peeled in the salt air and there was an air of decay and loneliness around the dark old place.

Extending up the drive were the Sea Girt, the Atlantic View, Shore Mansions, and finally, the Creek House. All were in similar condition. These hotels had been built in the booming twenties when the traditional sleepiness of Seaford had been disturbed by a rush of tourists. Then had come the business depression of the thirties and the tourists had stopped coming. They had never started again. The hotels, too expensive to operate and useless as anything but hotels, had been left to rot. Briefly, during World War II, they had served as barracks for a Coast Guard shore patrol base, but that activity was long past now, and they had been left to decay once more.

There were a number of cars on the road, going both ways. Captain Mike remarked on the fact. "They're curious about the wreck. Usually not a car moves on this road."

As they approached Smugglers' Reef, the cars got thicker. Then Rick saw lights in the massive Creek House. It was one of the biggest of the hotels, and it had been the most exclusive. It had its own dock on Salt Creek, and it was protected from prying eyes by a high board fence. Two rooms on the second floor were lit up.

"It's occupied," Cap'n Mike affirmed. "Family name of Kelso is renting it. Claim they need the salt air and water for their boy. He's ailing."

"Must be a big family," Scotty said.

"Oh, they don't use all of it. Just a couple of bedrooms and the kitchen. No one knows much about 'em and they don't seem to work at anything. City folks. Keep to themselves."

Rick guessed from the note of irritation in Cap'n Mike's voice that he resented the Kelsos' evident desire for privacy. Probably he had tried to satisfy his curiosity about them and had been rebuffed.

Jerry pulled up in front of the hotel and stopped the car. The boys piled out, anxious for a glimpse of the trawler. Rick crossed the road and looked out to sea.

Smugglers' Reef was a gradually narrowing arm of land that extended over a quarter mile out into the sea. In front of the hotel it was perhaps two hundred yards wide. Then it narrowed gradually until it was little more than a wall of piled boulders. On its north side, Salt Creek emptied into the sea. Beyond the creek was the marsh with its high grasses.

At the far tip of the reef, a light blinked intermittently. That was the light Tyler had failed to keep on his starboard beam. A few hundred feet this side of it was a moving cluster of flashlights. It was too dark to make out details, but Rick guessed the lights were at the wrecked trawler.

"Got your camera?" Jerry asked.

Rick held it up.

"Then let's go. Time is getting short and I have to get the story back."

With Cap'n Mike leading the way, surprisingly light on his feet for his age, the boys made their way out along the reef. A short distance before they reached the wreck they passed a rusted steel framework.

"Used to be a light tower," Cap'n Mike explained briefly. "They put up the new light on the point a few years back and put in an automatic system. This light had to be tended."

At the wreck they found almost two dozen people. Flashlights picked out the trawler. It had driven with force right up on the reef, ripping out the bottom and dumping thousands of dead menhaden into the water. They lay in clusters around the wreck, floating on the water in silvery shoals. The air was heavy with the reek of fish and spilled Diesel fuel.

There was little conversation among those who had come to visit the wreck. When they did talk, it was in low tones. Rick thought that was strange, because anything like this was usually a field day for self-appointed experts who discussed it in loud tones and offered opinions to all who would listen. Then, as he lifted his camera for a picture, he saw the men look up, startled at the flash. He saw them turn their backs quickly so their faces would not be seen if he were to take another picture.

He sensed tension in the air, and his lively curiosity quickened. This was no ordinary wreck. Something about it had brought fear. Or was it that the fear had brought the wreck?

"Let's go," Jerry said. "Got a deadline to make."

Rick lay awake and stared through the window at the darkness. Jerry had the pictures and story and there seemed to be nothing else to do except to cover the hearing that would follow. The results were a foregone conclusion. Trawler skipper admits he ran ship aground while drunk. Case closed.

Again Rick saw the fear written on Mrs. Tyler's face. Again he sensed the tension among the men who gathered at the wreck. And he believed Cap'n Mike had left some things unsaid in spite of his apparent frankness.

"Scotty?" he whispered.

Scotty's voice came low through the connecting door. "I'm asleep."

"Same here. Let's go fishing tomorrow."

"Okay. I know where the blackfish will be running."

"Do you? Where?"

Rick grinned sleepily as Scotty's whisper came back.

"Off Smugglers' Reef."