CHAPTER XVII
“SOMETHING ROTTEN IN DENMARK”
The Winged Arrow spiraled above the Icelandic port until she was so close to the ground that all landmarks could be easily distinguished. There were open fields behind the town, and Tom marked one of these cleared spaces for his landing.
They saw a good part of the inhabitants of Reykjavik trooping out of the town toward the place where it was evident the huge flying boat would make her landing. Tom and his crew were so much engaged in the work of bringing down the plane that at first the nature of the throng hurrying out from the town did not impress itself upon their attention.
The Winged Arrow swooped and rebounded from her wheels. The truck groaned and the tail of the boat began to drag. Her speed was soon brought down, she halted, Koku slid back the main door in the hull of the boat and was about to thrust out the narrow gangplank.
But Ned had spied something that the others had not at first noted. Marching in the van of the crowd from town were about two dozen uniformed men bearing rifles on their shoulders.
“Seems to me,” said Ned, pointing out this military party, “the Iceland militia may want to interfere with our landing, Tom. What say?”
“A warm reception, is it?” asked Kingston, sticking his head out of the radio coop.
“Hold on!” cried Tom, beckoning to Koku. “Don’t let anybody get aboard yet, boy.”
Koku dropped the end of the gangplank and in a couple of strides reached his long spear and war club. When he appeared at the open door again his appearance was, to say the least, rather warlike.
The military, or policemen, or whatever they were, warned the boys back, and most of the men and women remained at a safe distance from the flying boat. But one excited individual, who seemed to have some influence with the squad of soldiers, pushed up close to the seaplane and began to shout.
“If the only language they use here is the kind that old friend of Mr. Damon’s tried to use in New York,” said Ned, who had heard about Aman Dele’s troubles, “we’ll have a sweet time learning what they want or making them understand what we want.”
“Of course many folks on the island understand English,” declared Tom, and went to the open door which Koku so savagely guarded.
“This is the flying boat from America—yes?” asked the excited man in broken English.
“Were you expecting two?” asked Tom, chuckling. “I guess this is she.”
“I represent the Soviet Government,” was the man’s next astonishing declaration. “By cablegram I was told to expect this flying wonder. You and your crew, Captain, may land. I take charge of the flying boat from now on. It is arranged to send her on to Russia with our own men.”
“To Russia?” gasped Tom Swift. “You represent the Bolshevist Government of Russia?”
“The Soviet Government—yes. The Governor of Reykjavik has agreed to allow the exchange to be made here——”
“Nonsense!” broke in the young inventor. “Either you are out of your mind, or somebody has been fooling you. I built this flying boat myself and I have no intention of selling it to Russia or any other country.”
“What is that? You deny that our representative, Monsieur Polansky, bought this flying boat and cabled me to take it over when it landed here?”
“You are crazy!” exclaimed Tom Swift, in disgust. He beckoned to the uniformed officer in command of the military force. “Do you speak English?” he cried.
“But yes, Monsieur. Speak slowly. I can understand you,” said the officer.
“Then understand me right now,” Tom said, with emphasis. “This fellow who says he represents Russia, has absolutely nothing to do with this flying boat.”
“No? But he has writings from the Governor——”
“I am here,” interrupted Tom, in firm tones, “to search for two friends—Mr. Damon and Mr. Nestor—who were lost from the wreck of the motor schooner Kalrye. Do you understand me? Where is Captain Olaf Karofsen?”
“I do not understand!” cried the officer anxiously. “I am instructed to take charge of this machine until the Russian official brings his crew to sail her away.”
“You will not take charge of my flying boat, and no bunch of Russian Reds will ever get hold of it!” declared Tom warmly. “I begin to smell the rat in this meal bin,” he added over his shoulder to Ned.
“What is it? Oh! That Frenchy who was so anxious to come with us?”
“Bet you a copper cent!” ejaculated Tom. “But he was no Frenchman. A Russian!” Then to the disturbed officer of the Danish squad he said: “Better send this Soviet Consul, or whatever he is, home with a flea in his ear. We are on an important mission, and if we are interfered with I will send for Mr. Shantuck, the representative of the United States. You know him?”
“Quite so, Monsieur,” said the officer, who evidently understood French better than he did English, and of which language Tom Swift could speak a few words. “But this gentleman——”
“He has absolutely nothing to do with my flying boat,” declared the young inventor. “See! Who is that coming?”
He had caught sight of a figure almost as tall as Koku’s pushing its way through the crowd of interested spectators. Tom had noticed that there were many tall men in the throng, but this person was head and shoulders above most of them. He was heavily bearded and wore a knitted jersey and cap, as some foreign sailors do.
“This may be your Captain Karofsen,” said the military officer.
The burly giant who approached swiftly impressed Tom on nearer view most favorably. While the self-styled representative of the Soviet Government sputtered to the military officer, the big sailor came close to the side of the seaplane.
“Misder Swift—yes?” he said in a deep voice. “When I got telegram you come in t’ree days I say: ‘Das American come t’roo de air—yes?’ Undt, py jolly! so he came—yes. I sail to America once, twice. So I spe’k de English goot.”
“You surely do, Captain,” declared Tom delightedly, realizing that this man was too simple a soul to have entered into any plot against Mr. Damon and Mr. Nestor. “But it looks as if we might have trouble if we stop here for long.”
“Vot trouble iss dot?” demanded Captain Karofsen.
Tom explained briefly about the claim made by the Red who still gabbled angrily to the military officer. He was threatening to call upon the Governor of Reykjavik to reiterate an order to seize the seaplane.
“And we must get some more gasoline before we try to find that iceberg,” concluded Tom.
“Yes—I see,” agreed Captain Karofsen. “You go find Misder Damon undt the sick man with this flying boat? I been trying to charter one sailing boat—yes.”
“What do you think? You’ll go with us, won’t you?”
“Jes. She peat all de sailing poats in de vorl’,” cried the captain emphatically. “I see her sail down out of the skies, so like von bird. Wonderful!”
“But the gasoline?”
“Gasoline we shall buy at a station on the north coast of Iceland. A Standard Oil tanker bane stop dere twice in de year now—yes. You pay me for my time, Misder Swift?”
“I surely will. You will lose nothing by going to help us,” cried Tom.
“I go. I gif you back de eight hunder’ gold crowns you send me undt you pay me my captain’s wages like I have before de Kalrye she was sink. Eh?”
“A bargain!” declared Tom. “When do we go?”
“Let dat big man give me de hand up, and we start now,” answered Skipper Karofsen placidly. “When dat man down dere want to make trouble we will not be here. Ja—yes?”
The coolness of this proposition delighted Ned immensely; and Tom was satisfied that it would be the best and wisest way out of the difficulty. He did not intend to be delayed here if he could help it.
“Guess we’d better take his tip and go,” Tom remarked with a questioning look at Ned.
“As Shakespeare once wrote, ‘there is something rotten in Denmark,’” rejoined Ned, in a low voice, peering out at the excited Bolshevist. “If the Island authorities wish to call us to account for what we do, we’d better hunt for the castaways first. Come aboard, Captain Karofsen.”
Tom motioned to Koku, who dropped his spear and club and stooped to seize the other giant’s wrist. Koku lifted and Captain Karofsen heaved himself up with surprising agility. Without using the gangplank he reached the sill.
“Mark the place we shall stop for gasoline on that chart, Captain,” said Tom, pointing to the chart table.
The next moment he signaled Brannigan to start the motors. The flying boat began to quiver throughout her length. They were about to make the jump-off.