Copyright © 1963 by Doubleday & Company, Inc.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Something Strange Is Going On

      Pete Dana leaned on the railing at the edge of the boat yard and looked out toward the sound. It was a perfect day. A warm sun beat down from a clear blue sky and a light breeze sent ripples across the waters of Hidden Harbor.

      Below Pete, the gas float rocked gently. For the fifth time that day Pete looked at the new sign that had been put up the day before, the same day he had been graduated from high school. It stood just above the steps that led from the yard down to the gas float and said:

      HIDDEN HARBOR BOAT YARD

      —Pete & Wesley Dana—

      GAS * ICE * FUEL

      BAIT * STORAGE * REPAIRS

      The new sign was the same as the old one, except for one new word—Pete’s name.

      Pete and his father looked like father and son. Both were tall, neither had an ounce of spare flesh. Their blond hair was almost the same color, but where the father’s was turning gray Pete’s was almost white from the sun.

      Far across the water the buzz of a fast motor boat floated back to Pete. He turned and his eyes searched the entire harbor, but he could not see it.

      Turning back to the yard, he saw his father painting a boat. And at the far end of the yard, Nick Zenos was piling up timbers. Nick was the Greek-American who had come to Hidden Harbor after a hitch in the Navy, to work at the yard.

      Seeing them together, Pete wondered if he should be going off on a one-week camping trip. The new sign over his head reminded him that he was now a real partner in the yard. It didn’t seem fair for Pete to have a vacation. But Wesley Dana had insisted.

      “You have earned a few days off, Pete,” he had said. “You did pretty well in your final grades. You are almost eighteen years old and you have a long life of work ahead of you. So do some fishing while you can. The work will be here when you come back.”

      Pete picked up his sleeping roll and sea bag full of clothes and equipment, and walked down to the float to put them in his sailboat. Dropping them in, he heard the sound of the fast motor boat again. As he started back to the main dock for his box of food, the sound of the boat grew louder. When he reached the upper dock and turned, Pete saw a red speed boat coming in to the boat yard’s gas dock.

      When the red boat was less than fifty yards out, it was still coming at full speed. Pete jumped back.

      “Hey! Slow down!” he shouted.

      Even as he called out, the driver’s arm came up in a wave. At the last second, the man behind the wheel cut the power and threw the motor into reverse. As he neared the dock, he gunned the motor, bringing the boat to a sudden stop. With a roar, the boat rocked and a wave rolled across the gas float, soaking Pete’s sneakers and pants.

      Before Pete could say anything, the driver jumped out and on to the dock. He walked right past Pete. He wore clothes, Pete noticed, the way he handled a boat—loud and splashy. He paused on the dock.

      “Make you jump, eh, boy?” he said. “Well, that’s what this sick town needs—a shot in the arm! I told your father that the other day and he agreed with me.” He gave Pete a big smile. “Fill her up, boy, and hop!”

      He turned and was gone up into the yard, walking toward Wesley Dana. Pete was so surprised he just stood there without saying a word. Who was this character with the loud mouth, and how did he have the nerve to call Hidden Harbor “sick”? Pete loved his home town and he didn’t like strangers finding fault with it.

      Then Pete thought that the man probably was Jeffrey Fannin, who had rented the old factory at the far end of the harbor. Pete’s father had told him that Fannin was opening a boat business—selling a line of red speed boats called Sea Sharks. One thing was sure, Jeffrey Fannin was a nut when it came to handling boats.

      Still, it was none of his business, Pete thought. He filled the gas tank on the boat and made out a sales slip.

      A minute later Fannin—if it was he—came down to the float, looked at the sales slip Pete gave him and handed Pete a couple of dollar bills. “Keep the change, boy,” he said.

      Then he jumped into his boat, started the engine and swung away from the dock in a wide turn, without looking where he was going. Fifty yards off the end of the dock he started moving at top speed through the fleet of boats in the mooring area. He paid no attention to the big red and white sign that said:

      MOORING AREA

      TOP SPEED

      5 MPH

      Finally, the red boat disappeared in the direction of the old factory. Pete walked up into the yard.

      “Who is that?” he asked his father.

      “You don’t sound as if you thought much of him.”

      “Not the way he handles a boat.”

      Wesley Dana stepped back. “Well, Pete, I guess if you are selling speed boats you just naturally want to show people how fast they can go.”

      “We don’t want that kind of boat man around here, do we, Dad?”

      “We may not want him,” Wesley Dana said, “but we sure need him.”

      Pete was surprised. “Why, for crying out loud?”

      Wesley Dana turned and looked at his son. “Pete, Hidden Harbor needs business. And the Dana Boat Yard needs business. We need new life around here. Jeffrey Fannin may be just the man to give it to us.”

      Pete knew that what his father said made sense but it did not make him like Fannin any better.

      “Did you see the way he came in through our fleet?”

      “No, I did not,” Wesley Dana said, “but I could tell by the sound that it was pretty fast.”

      “I will never forget how you read me the riot act when I did that once.”

      “Oh, he will learn!”

      “And did you see that smile of his?” Pete asked. “It was about as honest as a sand shark’s.”

      Wesley Dana paused again. “Come on, now, Pete, don’t judge the man so soon. Give him a chance to learn. We need Jeffrey Fannin. Times are changing, Pete. And now that you are a full partner, you have to think of the boat yard.”

      Pete suddenly found the thought of being on vacation—far from Jeffrey Fannin—a very pleasant idea indeed.

      “I guess it is time to shove off,” he said.

      As they headed across the yard, Wesley Dana said, “Are you going to stay the week?”

      Pete nodded. “I will if the weather holds.”

      They had reached the dock. Pete began to raise his main sail. Wesley Dana cast off the lines. The breeze picked up and Pete steered away from the dock.

      “Check in every other day, just so I know you are all right,” his father called.

      “I will,” Pete promised. He waved and his father waved back. Pete had the wind in his favor and was soon making good time.

      Sailing across the water, Pete enjoyed watching for all the familiar signs. Hidden Harbor was a small town, with less than 10,000 people. Pete knew at least half of them by sight if not by name.

      Around the rim of the harbor he saw the pine trees on the rocky slopes that ran down to the water’s edge. At the east end, to Pete’s left, were shallow