“I’m glad you feel that way,” Osceola remarked. “Things were getting a bit strained, I thought.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. But I have had a terrible day, my friend. That devil-child put my temper on edge. And a dozen wildcats are as nothing to the boy’s mother when she found we’d left him behind. God be thanked, that is over. I cannot let you and Bolton continue your journey at present, but at least you will live well, and have an interesting time. In saving the life of Fritz, you two have rendered me a service. Karl von Hiemskirk does not forget such favors.”
“Thanks for dragging me in,” laughed Osceola. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Hah! You dived in after them while my men looked on like half-wits!” bridled the Baron. “You brought these two unconscious fellows to the surface! I call that a very great deal.”
Bill heard him sigh, but although he was now fully awake, he kept his eyes closed and listened attentively to the Baron’s next words.
“The thing of great importance that is worrying me is that Fritz was first pilot of my command. I, myself, am an aviator, a combat flyer, who had the great honor to be a member of what you call the circus of the unsurpassed Graf von Richthofen, of glorious memory.”
Bill opened his eyes to find himself on the Merrymaid’s deck. He sat up and began to speak rapidly. “Richthofen was undoubtedly the greatest air strategean who ever flew,” he declared, “they tell me that his combat formations and the battle manoeuvers of his famous circus have never been improved upon. Sorry I wasn’t old enough then to take a crack at you myself—you must be a humdinger, Baron, when it comes to this flying game! If you want to use my bus and friend Fritz is temporarily out of the picture—why not fly her yourself?”
Osceola put his arm about Bill’s shoulders, and the Baron bowed from the waist.
“Thank you, indeed, my dear young friend,” he said formally, “both for your eulogy of my long-time-dead friend von Richthofen, and because, after stunning my cousin, you had the courage and graciousness to save his life at risk of your own.”
“Oh, please don’t.” Bill colored a dusky red. “Or I shall have to pass out a second time.” With the chief’s help he rose and held out his hand. The Baron shook it heartily.
“We will let our has-beens be never-wases.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to Osceola when I was regaining consciousness,” went on Bill. “So as long as you can’t see your way clear to letting us go, I’ll do my best to be peaceable in the future.”
“Say nothing more about it, my boy.” The Baron fairly oozed urbanity. “Es tut mer sehr leid, I mean, it makes me very sorry to have to detail you chaps, but it is the fate of war.”
Bill and Osceola looked their surprise. “War?”
“I have to inform you that my command is at war with society. I can not allow my liking for individuals to deter me from my aim.”
“And what is that?” inquired Osceola.
“We will talk of that later. Now, there is work to be done. Too much time has been wasted already. I need an airplane pilot, Bolton, because with my multitudinous duties, it is impossible for me always to handle the controls. I will make you two what you Americans call a proposition. You will fly where and when I tell you, Bolton. You will give me your word of honor to do that and no more. The chief here will also be given congenial duties. Obey my commands and you need not give your parole—there is no escape except by air and that will be circumnavigated by your word!”
“And you can sure use big words, Baron,” observed a much subdued Charlie, who had been silently taking in the conversation.
“Perhaps,” the Baron smiled, “but if you will take my advice, such things are better left unsaid. Your tongue has already got you and a number of others into trouble today.” He turned again to Bill. “I am awaiting your decision,” he said.
“And—the alternative in this case?”
“You and the chief will be kept prisoners until such time as I can negotiate your ransoms.”
Bill looked at Osceola, who nodded slightly. “All right, then, Baron, I promise to fly your planes as you dictate, but I suspect that your war is nothing more than hijacking on a big scale. And I’m hanged if I have anything to do with that!”
The Baron bowed. “It is a bargain. I will now conclude my work on this vessel. Fritz has already been taken aboard the other craft, and when I am through here, Chief Osceola will go in her with me and my men. You, Bolton, will follow us with Charlie, in your amphibian.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned Bill with Naval Academy crispness, now that he had recognized the baron as his superior officer. “You will keep above surface, I suppose, otherwise, I am likely to loose your ship.”
“Oh, no, we won’t,” broke in Charlie the irrepressible. “He’s going in the air!”
“The air? Don’t be silly, kid—”
“I’m not the silly one—” retorted the youngster. “I’m right, ain’t I, Baron?”
“That submarine is an invention of my own,” declared the commander. “The boy speaks correctly. I shall fly her.”
An hour later, Charlie sat aboard Bill’s amphibian which now lay moored to a sea-anchor a quarter of a mile to leeward of the Merrymaid. A hundred yards from the plane, the gray submarine rocked gently to a long Atlantic ground swell. Charlie, a pair of field glasses glued to his eyes, focussed them alternately on the yacht and on the deck of the submarine which was crowded with men.
The object of all this interest was a group of three aboard the Merrymaid—three men and a youth. Left on board the vessel with a boat wherewith to make their escape, these men were to open the seacocks of the fated ship.
In the side of every vessel, somewhat below the waterline is a large circular manhole, two or more feet in diameter into which fits a steel plate or plug. The plate is fastened to the reinforced sides of the ship by means of bolts arranged at intervals of a few inches around the circumference of the hole. Into this plate fit large pipes which, communicating with the sea, form an intake for salt water. This plug and its manhole are together called the ship’s seacocks.
Opening a ship’s seacocks is a feat of not a little skill and danger. The nuts of the bolts which fasten the plate to its manhole must be unscrewed in such a manner that the plate loosens suddenly and not gradually, so that the sailor who opens it may work until the last minute and then escape from the inrushing water. To do this, special strategy is necessary.
The men from the submarine went about the operation in the following way: Early that morning when the Merrymaid was first captured, some men were sent down into her hold to begin preliminary work on the seacocks. Two of these men carefully unscrewed one rusty nut at a time, thoroughly greased its threads, and then screwed it back into place again before loosening the next. While this was being done, the other men unbolted the pipes leading into the seacock and removed all obstructions in the way of hasty escape from its neighborhood.
This preliminary work of greasing and loosening was done merely in order that the seacocks might be in readiness for immediate opening without loss of time should an enemy appear or other emergency require hasty action. The seacocks thus greased and disencumbered of pipes and impediments were then left in place, and the men returned to the submarine.
The men who had accomplished this work were now aboard the fated yacht once more to finish the opening of her seacocks. With them were Bill Bolton and the Baron. Bill, who had had never witnessed this particular operation before, though heartily condoning the act, was deeply interested. Knowing that he was a midshipman on summer leave from the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Baron von Hiemskirk permitted him to remain as a responsible party.
The Baron, a sailor and Bill stood on deck while another seaman named Muller, a strong, heavy-faced fellow who made a specialty of this work, climbed down to the seacock, equipped with a monkey wrench and a sledge hammer. Around his waist was tied a rope, the other end of which was held by the three above for use in emergency.
Muller, under direction of the Baron, took off the nuts from every second bolt in the circle. Being recently loosened and greased, this was easily done. After he had gone completely around the circumference of the plate, the plug was being held by only half its former number of bolts. Beginning once more, the adroit seaman again removed every second nut, from the remaining bolts. The plate was now held by only one-fourth the original number of bolts. This process of halving was continued until the plug was finally being held by only two bolts on diametrically opposite sides of the circumference of the seacock. By this time, the pressure of the water outside was meeting with so little resistance that the plate was bending slightly inward, letting water spurt between the rubber packing and the steel plate up into the hold.
Muller, sweating in every pore, now thrust his wrench into his overalls pocket, picked up his sledge, and called out: “Ready!”
At his signal, the men on deck took in the slack of the rope so that if necessary they could hoist the imperilled seaman up out of danger.
Muller now lifted his sledge hammer, took accurate aim, and with a single vigorous blow, smashed one of the two protruding bolts through its nut and hole. As the plate did not fly loose, he let the heavy hammer fall again, throwing all his strength into the blow, this time upon the remaining bolt. With a dull explosion, the whole two-foot plate flew loose, and a geyser of sea water gushed upward into the hold.
Muller at once leaped for the ladder and, still holding the sledge, clambered to safety. Had he slipped, or been washed away by the force of the water, his comrades on deck would have fished him up by means of the rope.
By this time the yacht was rapidly filling. As the doors through all compartments had previously been opened, the water coming through this one seacock at once began flowing to all parts of the hold. The men on deck were now in real danger, for a sudden listing of the vessel, or its unexpectedly rapid sinking might mean their death.
All, therefore, at once scrambled overside to their boat, the Baron last of all, and pulled away as quickly as possible, lest they be sucked into the vortex of the sinking ship.
For a short space the Merrymaid settled rapidly, giving the watchers reason to expect her to go to the bottom within fifteen or twenty minutes. Their expectations, however, were not realized, for the ship soon began to rest at the same level.
The Baron turned to Bill. “Doubtless air has lodged in the tops of compartments and is imprisoned elsewhere. She must ultimately go down, of course, but there is no telling how long it will take—and I am in a hurry to get away.”
“What are you going to do, use dynamite?”
“Yes. We’ve got sufficient here in the boat, for such an emergency. We’ll row back now, and get busy.”
Dynamite was presently placed at the base of the ship’s two masts and amidships, and the fuses lit. They then rowed swiftly away, and had hardly reached a position where they would be out of danger, when the explosion came. Three crashes, one after the other, shattered the sides and decks of the vessel. The Merrymaid was sinking rapidly. First her bow filled; then the gallant yacht stood perpendicularly on her prow, and slid with a rush out of sight.
At the instant her funnel plunged under, a final tremendous explosion took place, throwing a cloud of steam and water high into the air. A moment later, only a vortex of oily, tossing water gave evidence that a million dollar yacht had gone to the bottom.
“It’s a dirty shame!” Bill spat the words without caring whether the Baron took umbrage or not.
“It is indeed,” that blond giant answered seriously. “But this is war, remember. I cannot use her, still less can I afford to have her discovered. Yes, it is a shame. Vandalism, if you like, but none the less, a necessity.” The Baron shook his head, then went on pompously: “An hour ago that splendid little ship might have been of great service to mankind. Now she is no more. Let it be her epitaph that she was fulfilling her destiny, with work well done. May the world say the same of me when I have gone to the eternal reward.”
Bill kept silent and managed to conceal his disgust. He did not appreciate such philosophizing. Neither could he agree with the Baron’s estimate of his own worth. His work might be well done, but in itself piracy on the high seas could hardly be called more than a disgraceful profession. Bill began to realize that the commander’s brain, although active enough, was more than slightly warped.
They rowed over the spot where the Merrymaid had gone down, and looked about for any stray bits of wreckage which might have floated to the surface. They found none, so made for the amphibian at once.
“You will wait until you see us take off before you do the same, Mr. Bolton,” directed the Baron with a return of his superior-officer manner, as Bill boarded the plane.
“Aye, aye, sir. Any further orders?” Bill returned the military manner with interest.
“Yes. You will follow my craft as though you were number two of a patrol. Land when I land, and taxi over for further instructions.”
“Very good, sir.”
“A pleasant flight, Bolton.”
“Thank you, Baron. The same to you, sir.”
The boat moved off in the direction of the submarine and Bill climbed into his fore cockpit. Charlie was already in his place in the rear cockpit, and Bill noticed that he seemed strangely quiet, almost sullen.
“What’s eating you, old boy?” Bill turned round to face him, then added kindly, “I don’t blame you for feeling low. It’s hard lines about the Merrymaid. Made me feel rotten myself. Nastier piece of vandalism was never committed. But you mustn’t take it out on me.”
“Well, I thought you and the chief were my friends,” began Charlie aggrievedly.
“But we are—what makes you think we’re not?”
“Oh, I know you saved me a hiding—and risked your life for that pirate. That was a bully thing to do, but now you and Chief Osceola have joined up with them and—”
“How come—joined up with them?”
“Why, didn’t I hear you, myself, tell the Baron you would work for him—do exactly what he told you to do?”
“So that’s it.” Bill’s laugh was without humor. “There’s no good reason why I should explain my actions to you, but I like you, Charlie, and I’m sorry for you into the bargain. Now, pin back your ears—”
“Well, I’m listening!”
“But, before I tell you what’s what, I want your promise to keep your mouth shut!”
Charlie produced a packet of gum. He tossed Bill a stick and began to munch another. “Okay,” he said earnestly, his eyes on the older lad’s, “let’s have it.”
“I should think you might have guessed it—but neither Osceola nor myself have gone in with these pirates. I gave the Baron my word to obey orders—but only so far as they have to do with driving his planes. It was either that or being locked up—and cutting out any chance there might be to escape. It’s the same with Osceola. He saw my scheme quick as winking—which is more than you did—but then, you’re just a kid, of course.” Bill’s eyes twinkled as he saw the boy’s discomfiture, but he went on more seriously. “The Baron is so sure of himself and his strong organization that he has no fear that we two can do anything to hinder his plans. But unless we’re allowed some freedom, don’t you see, Osceola and I might just as well have given up before we started?”
Charlie was profoundly interested and ashamed of himself. “Gee, I was a pill, all right. But, Bill—do you really think the three of us could break up the gang?”
“Well, you never can tell till you try,” Bill answered. “First of all, we must pretend to work in with this bunch of sea bandits—do our best not to arouse their suspicions, you know. Then, when we learn more about them and their ways of doing business, it will be time enough to start planning on our own account.”
“That’s right. And don’t you worry. I’ll keep quiet. I wouldn’t breathe a word!”
“You mustn’t, kid—not even to your dad and mother when you see them.”
“Cross my heart—hope to die if I do, Bill.”
“That’s all right, then. And always remember that it’s the three of us against a great big organization. A single slip on our part—and well, so far as we’re concerned, it would be just too bad.”
“I’ll keep my promise, Bill. Any idea where these pirates have their hangout? Where we are bound for now?”
“I have not. Why?”
“Some hideout on the coast, I suppose. Shouldn’t wonder if maybe it was somewhere in Pamlico or Albemarle Sound. There used to be lots of pirates in those waters long ago, before the Revolution, I mean. There’s a book at home, tells all about them.”
“Times have changed a lot since then,” mused Bill, “and piracy, too, I reckon.”
“Then you don’t think they’ve a base of some kind over there?”
Bill was facing forward now, staring steadily out over the water. “Something quite different, Charlie,” he muttered; and then in a sharp tone that made the boy start—“So that’s the way they work it!”
“Gee whiz!” Charlie craned his neck and gazed in the same direction. “The submarine’s sprouting wings!”
The two lads, Bill and Charlie, stared with undivided attention at the astonishing spectacle. Two large fins which evidently had been lying close to the submarine’s sides, were rising into the air. With a speed that seemed remarkable these fins reached a vertical position. For a moment they remained pointing straight toward the high blue arc of the heavens. Then they swung outward, lowering horizontally from the ship’s sides, to come to rest when level with the deck, and about five feet above the surface of the water—a complete set of airplane wings.
“Gosh, she’s a monoplane now!” exclaimed Charlie.
“Wonder how they’ll produce a tail unit?”
“You mean a rudder?”
“Yes. That, together with a stabilizer, fin and elevator.”
But before the words were well out of Bill’s mouth, the miracle occurred. A large rudder lifted itself out of the water, and opening out as it came to rest, seemed to sprout like a giant seabud into a complete tail group.
“Can she use the water propeller in the air?” Charlie kept his eyes glued on the submarine. “It seems to me that would hardly be big enough to fly with.”
“Hardly. That outfit is the queerest engineering jumble I’ve ever seen. But unless the Herr Baron can work absolute miracles, it will take more than one motor and propeller to move her.”
The submarine lay to windward of the amphibian. The lads therefore obtained a stern view of the ship and it was difficult for them to see exactly what was going on forward.
Suddenly Charlie raised another shout. “Look, Bill, look! Here comes the motor. Some jack-in-the-box, I call it.”
“And there’s another one! And still another! Gee-jumpin’-gee-roosalem—the blamed thing is coughing up motors like—”
“Like a cat with the belly-ache,” suggested Charlie.
“Inelegant, but apt. Let’s see, there are one, two . . . five of them!”
“Some packet!”
“Some packet is right. I’d pay admission to see this any day.”
The reason for this excited dialogue had been, first, the raising of that section of the deck between the two great wing sections until from wing-tip to wing-tip, one continuous horizontal plane was formed. Next, up through what was probably a hatch in this center wing section, though of course invisible at that distance from the lads, appeared an airplane motor. This rose on its own engine struts, slid to starboard along the wing and came to rest. Another made its appearance and moved to starboard in line with the first. The next two found places on the port wing, and the last engine remained directly above the hatch which probably closed with a sliding cover. Then the mechanics came topside, through another hatchway, bearing propellers which were fitted to the engines, fore and aft.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen two propellers on the same engine!” cried Charlie. “What’s the reason for it, Bill?”
Bill turned round in his seat. “Each one of those engines, as you call them, Charlie, is a double unit. In other words, two motors joined together, one forward and one aft. There are ten propellers, because there are ten motors in that line. The propellers forward are tractors, those aft pushers. The Dornier, the big German DO-X passenger plane, has the same arrangement of motors.”
“Guess they must generate a heap of power?”
“Plenty. But you need it to propel a heavy ship like that sub. By the way, do you happen to know what they call her?”
“The Flying Fish—one of the gobs told me.”
“Say, where do you get that Navy stuff?”
“Gobs?” Charlie chuckled. “Oh, I’ve got a sea-goin’ dad. He had a U.S.N.R.F. commission during the war.”
“That so? Great!”
“You bet yer. Say, Bill, hadn’t you better get our own engine going? The Flying Fish will be taking off right away. She’s a regular monoplane now.”
Bill shook his head, and turned to face the submarine again.
“They won’t take off for a few minutes yet. As she is, those wings will never hold her weight in the air. And for another thing, she sets much too low in the water to ever get off.”
“But, see, Bill—she’s rising. She’s getting higher in the water all the time.”
“By Jingoes! She is, at that!”
“How do they do it?”
“Same method as a submarine helps to raise itself from the bottom. Water is forced out of certain compartments and air pumped in.”
“Gee, it’s a marvel! And look, there are short wings or fins, extending from the hull under each wing. What do they need them for?”
“Wing-strut supports, I guess. Yes, there come the men with the struts. See how they are securing them from the wing sections to the fins below, and shorter ones from the fins to the hull?”
“Is that what you meant when you said that the wings of the Flying Fish wouldn’t hold her?”
“That’s it. Without struts to support that spread, the wings would surely crumple with her weight in the air.”
“Well, I guess she’s all set for the take off now.”
“Reckon she is. Yes, there go her motors idling! Hear ’em?”
“What shall I do now?”
“Strap on your helmet and your goggles. Then go forward and haul in our sea anchor. When you get back to your cockpit, keep your hands off the controls in there and adjust the headphone set hanging below the instrument board. Some day, if we ever get out of this mess, I may give you flight instruction, but not on this hop.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. And this is important—for safety’s sake, remember. I’m skipper of this craft. What I say goes—and goes with a bang. Savez?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie’s voice was sober and subdued.
“O.K., then. Hop to it, kid, I want to get moving.”
A very important Charlie quickly buckled the chin-strap of his helmet and scrambled forward. He followed directions exceedingly well, considering the fact that he had never been in a plane before. Once out on the nose he pulled in the mooring line and the collapsible canvas bucket known as the sea anchor, and carried them back to the rear cockpit. There he stowed them away. Back in the pilot’s seat again, he adjusted his goggles and the headphone set. Then he stood up, and grasping the cockpit’s cowl, he leaned forward so as to watch Bill manipulate the controls in the fore cockpit.
From the time that he was a little tad of a fellow, Charlie had been crazy to fly. At home, his bedroom was decorated with pictures of famous flyers and their planes. He fairly ate up airplane stories and his book shelves were crowded with literature on flying, although he found some of the volumes too technical. Now that he had a chance to witness a take-off at first hand, he wasn’t going to miss a single detail if he could help it.
Charlie knew that the take-off includes the handling of a plane from the time the throttle is opened until the ship is in level flight directly above the surface. He had also read somewhere that in order to leave the ground or the water, it is necessary for the plane to have flying speed, the minimum speed at which the lift of the wings will equal the weight; for the object of the take-off is to gain this speed. The plane must first be manoeuvered into an attitude which facilitates a quick increase in speed. It must be held in this attitude while moving forward at an increasing rate and must finally be taken off in such a way that it is under full control from the instant it leaves the surface. He also knew that all take-offs must be made directly into the wind.
The Flying Fish was already moving through the water, her ten engines roaring like an express train, when Charlie saw Bill set their own motor idling. Rudder and ailerons were placed in neutral and the amphibian allowed to swing until it was headed directly into the wind. Then Bill slowly but steadily opened wide the throttle. At the same time, the youngster saw him pull the stick back in order to raise their bow out of the water. This he knew was necessary, both to gain planing speed and to keep the propeller out of the spray which might damage it.
Six or eight seconds after opening the throttle, with the bow well up and the amphibian gaining momentum every instant, Bill pushed the stick all the way forward, and did so in order to raise the tail and depress the nose. But as the plane was moving at some speed, the bow could not be pushed down into the water. Instead, the speed at which they were taxying gradually forced it upward until they were skimming the surface on their step. Bill then eased the stick back to neutral and maintained it there while speed was being gathered. Spray was dashing against Charlie’s face and chest as they sped along. The sensation of traveling at terrific speed was enormous.
“Gee! This sure is great!”
“Getting a kick out of it?” asked a voice in his ear, causing him almost to lose his balance. Then he remembered the transmitter on his chest and realized he had been talking into it.
“I sure am, Bill. What’s the next thing you have to do?”
“The next thing for you to do, young feller, is to get back to your seat and buckle on your safety-belt. If you are so keen to learn, I’ll talk as I run this old crate into the air, and you watch what I’m doing. Maybe that will keep you from trying to climb down the back of my neck.”
“Thanks, Bill, that’ll be great. I’ll sit tight, honest I will.”
“All right, then. We are skimming the surface on the step now, as you’ve noticed. No more large movements of the controls may be made, as the plane is now sensitive to them. I’m paying particular attention to the lateral balance from this stage on.”
Bill stopped talking for a moment, then went on again:
“Remember this, Charlie. It’s important. The plane must not be taken off until speed adequate to give complete control has been attained. Any attempt on my part to pull it off prematurely will result in a take-off at the stalling point, where control is uncertain. Now we’ve gained flying speed, so I break her out of the water with a momentary pressure on the elevators. That pressure was very slight and I eased it at the moment of take-off.
“When the plane left the water, its speed was only slightly above minimum flying speed. Any decrease in this would naturally mean a stall. Therefore, I’m keeping the nose level for six to eight seconds in order to get a safe margin above the stalling point before beginning to climb. Safety first always—when flying, Charlie. Now she’s all right, the engine’s running smooth and sweet. So I pull my stick back gently, and as you see, we’re leaving the water behind.”
Half a mile or so ahead of Bill’s plane, the great sea monster, the Flying Fish, leveled off at an altitude of twenty-five hundred feet, and headed out on a northeasterly course.
Bill continued to climb his amphibian until they too reached that height, then he spoke to Charlie again.
“Now that we’re high enough, I’ve got to make a right turn in order to follow that ship. So I push my stick slowly forward, drop the nose to level like this, and maintain it there throughout the turn. Next I give her right aileron and increase right rudder considerably at the same time.”
“And we’ve gone into a bank. I see.” Charlie unconsciously leant toward the raised wing.
“That’s it. And now that I’ve tilted her far enough, I check the wing with the ailerons, and at the same time ease the pressure on the rudder. I maintain a constant bank, you see, and a constant pressure on the rudder bar throughout the turn.
“Now we are round to where we want to go, so I resume level flight by applying left aileron and left rudder. The wings are level once more, so I neutralize the ailerons and give her a normal amount of right rudder. And we’re pointed in a direct line for the Flying Fish!”
“Gosh, but there’s an awful lot to it,” muttered Charlie into his transmitter. “Looks so simple and easy when you’re on the ground, watching a plane flying. How do you ever remember it all?”
“Oh, at first it’s a bit confusing, until you get the hang of the thing—but it soon becomes second nature to do the right trick. When you come to fly you’ll find that there isn’t time for slow thinking in the air. In fact, as my instructor used to say, a flyer must develop instinctive coordination between the sensory organs and the muscles.”
“You can’t prove it by me!”
“Well, it simply means that when flying a pilot must act quicker than he can think.”
“Humph! Like Dad does when he gets mad and gives me a walloping.”
Bill laughed heartily. “Hair brush or slipper?”
“Oh, I always get the hair brush. He can get a better grip on it. But I get a choice at that—back or bristles.”
“I should think that bristles might be the less unpleasant.”
“So did I. Just once. Never again, though. I had to carry a pillow around with me for a week after that session.”
“If I,” remarked Bill, “had your imagination, Charlie, I’d be worth more than John D. Rockefeller!”
“Raspberries!”
For a time they kept silence, unbroken save for the humming drone of the engine.
“I wonder where that hideaway is we were talking about?” Charlie said after a while.
“Well, it isn’t located on our coast, if we’re bound there now. This plane is pointing straight for Northern Europe.”
“Gee! Do you really think we’re going across—making a trans-Atlantic flight?”
“Not a chance, kid, with the gas we’ve got aboard this crate. If you ask me, the Flying Fish is heading for a mother ship of some sort. This gang will have to operate from a steamer if they have no land base. Slap on those sea glasses you were using and take a squint dead ahead beyond the Fish—Smoke on the horizon, isn’t there?”
“Sure is. Yes, I can make it out plainly now. Say, you don’t realize how fast we’re traveling until you get a bead on something in the distance. The ship is still hull down, but the smoke seems to be getting denser—”
“I can see it now,” said Bill, giving the amphibian more altitude in order to gain a better view. “That’s no single-stacker, or I’m a landsman.”
“You’re right—she isn’t! I can see—one—two—three—four funnels! Jingoes! She must be a whopper!”
“I wonder,” muttered Bill, half to himself.
“What? But I can see—”
“Oh, I’m not doubting your word, Charles.”
“What are you wondering about then?”
“Remember the Amtonia?”
“Amtonia? Why, she’s the big British liner that was held up at sea a couple of months ago!”
“Yes. A freighter SOS’d and when the Amtonia went to offer help, the crew of the tramp forced the liner’s crew and passengers to swap steamers. Then they made off with the big ship.”
“Sure, I remember all about that. Harry Davis’ dad was on the Amtonia, coming home from England, when it happened. It was in the papers but I got the inside dope from Harry. His old man told him all about it.”
“Dollars to a dead stick, you’ll be able to tell Harry Davis more about the Amtonia than he ever dreamed of, one of these days.”
“You mean—that ship over there is the Amtonia?”
“Exactly. See—she’s hove to now—and the Flying Fish is nosing over for a landing!”
The two in the speeding amphibian saw the Flying Fish descend in a long glide to the surface of the ocean and taxi toward the great steamer.
“She’s the Amtonia, all right, all right!” said Bill.
“Gosh, she’s big. What’s her tonnage?”
“Twenty-five thousand tons, I think.”
“Whew!—Say, listen, do you suppose Mother and Dad are on board her now?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if your Mother and Father and some other boys’ papas and mammas, along with them.”
“That is, unless business in the ransom line is bad.”
“Which,” said Bill, “considering the number of passengers watching us and the Flying Fish from her decks—it isn’t. Shut up now, kid,” he added, cutting his gun and pushing forward the stick. “We’re going down and it sure would look rotten to nose into the drink with that gallery’s eyes on us.”
“Humph! And what about us in that case?”
“Boston papers,” said Bill, “please copy!”
Down they soared, straight into the wind to land with hardly a splash, went skimming over the water for fifty or sixty yards and came to rest just behind the Flying Fish. Charlie, at Bill’s bidding, flung out the sea anchor.
To port lay the Amtonia, now Baron von Hiemskirk’s traffic raider, and neither lad was surprised to see that she was blatantly flying the flag of piracy, a skull and crossed bones of white on a black field.
Bill had no difficulty in recognizing the Amtonia. She was one of the largest passenger ships afloat, and consequently hard to disguise. Her camouflaged hull and stacks, painted in broad wavy stripes of grey-green and black made it still harder to judge her length on the waterline. He knew, however, that she must be quite as long as two city blocks, and her many decks rose above the amphibian to the height of a ten-story building. Her four gigantic funnels—so huge that the greatest locomotive could have passed through one of them lengthwise without scraping—and her tall masts, made her easily recognizable to the young midshipman.
“Hello!” exclaimed Charlie, “there’s a gob on the Flying Fish signalling the liner. Gee, I wish I understood wigwag.”
“If you did,” said Bill, standing up on the pilot’s seat and flapping his arms like a semaphore, “you’d know he was signalling us and not the Amtonia. For heaven’s sake, kid, button that lip of yours. I want to get this message.”
Bill then snatched up the helmet he had just doffed and clapped it on again, buckling the flaps over his ears. Charlie watched proceedings with interest that for once was wordless. Presently the sailor aboard the Flying Fish stopped waving his two red flags. Bill answered him with his arms, and the man rolled up his flags and went below.
Bill Bolton unbuckled the chin-strap of his helmet and turned toward the rear cockpit.
“Snap on that safety belt and put on your helmet again,” he ordered, “and don’t take it off this time until I tell you to. We are going aboard.”
“Aboard what?”
“The Amtonia, of course.”
“But how can I go aboard that liner if I’m tied to this seat?”
“Wait and see—I’m too busy to talk now—even if you’re not!”
Bill got down, started the engine idling and commenced to haul in their sea anchor.
Charlie stood up in the rear cockpit and called to him.
“Hey, Bill!”
“Well, what is it now?”
“How are we going aboard if I’m to be tied up in this belt?”
“Great jumping snakes!” exploded Bill, with a furious glance over his shoulder. “Have you still got that safety-belt on the brain?”
“No—around the middle!”
“For a counterfeit two-cent piece with a hole in it, I’d throw you into the Atlantic and let you swim aboard!”
“Aw, please tell me, Bill!”
“Well, if you must know each detail, we’re going aboard by way of the electric crane—”
“Aw, quit yer kidding—there ain’t any electric trains out here!”
“Not train, bozo—c-r-a-n-e—hoist!”
“Oh! an electric crane! Are they going to hoist us up?”