Bill Bolton Flying Midshipman Part 2

"You mean we can pull in the sea anchor and taxi out of this dangerous position?"

"Hardly that. The old bus would pound to pieces in this sea if I tried to send her over these waves. The idea is to give her just enough headway to offset the wind drift that is driving her ash.o.r.e. I want to keep her the same distance off the surf that she is now. The tide will then have a chance to carry us sideways round the point. There's bound to be quieter water to leeward of that headland."

"Sounds fine! Anyway, it gives us a chance. What can I do to help?"

"Crawl out on the nose, please. When I give the word, haul in the anchor line. If you try to get the sea anchor aboard from a c.o.c.kpit the bus will slew to the side and I'll never be able to keep her headed into the wind."

Bill took his place at the controls in the fore c.o.c.kpit and idled the engine until he was convinced everything was running smoothly. Then he placed his feet on the rudder pedals and motioned his father to proceed.

The huge white-capped rollers, aftermath of the hurricane, tossed the plane up and down as though each oncoming wave was bent on destroying her. Bill knew that his father's task was no easy one. The decking forward of the c.o.c.kpit was rounded and absolutely smooth. There were no handholds to prevent one slipping off its wet surface.

With a smile, the middle aged gentleman climbed out of the c.o.c.kpit, lay flat on the deck and wormed his way toward the nose with a wriggling motion that allowed both his arms and his legs to hug the slick planking.

Arrived at the end of his short but perilous journey he sat up, and straddled the deck as though he were riding a very broad horse. Then with a hand on the anchor line, he looked back over his shoulder.

Bill was ready for him to start, and with his stick held well back of neutral to prevent the nose dipping under the waves and throwing spray into the propeller, he held up his free hand.

Mr. Bolton immediately started to haul in the line and Bill opened his throttle. Keeping just enough headway on the plane to be sure he could hold her pointed as he wished, he waited until the sea anchor was on board and his father safely aft in the pa.s.senger c.o.c.kpit again, and then slightly accelerated the engine. Even this small burst of speed caused the amphibian to bury its nose in the combers; and all but foundered her under a torrent of sea water. Bill instantly idled down until the staunch little craft was moving through the water at the speed of a fast walk. He soon found that by keeping her going at this rate he prevented her drifting backward with the wind. Deviations from his heading were prevented by use of the throttle rudder and ailerons.

It was strenuous work, fighting waves in a heavy amphibian, and incomparably more tiring than driving her through the air. Moreover it took his whole power of will and concentration to keep her head from playing off and becoming the forerunner of sure disaster. His back and shoulders began to ache under the strain; and soon his leg muscles were an added source of torture because of the excessive pressure he was forced to use on the rudder pedals. He dared not shift his gaze aft, so when they had been travelling the monstrous treadmill grind for an hour by the clock, he hailed his father: "How are we making it?"

The roar of the propeller and engine almost drowned the words as the wind whipped them back to Mr. Bolton. Sensing, however, that his son wanted something, he donned a headphone and picked up Bill's set on the other end of the line. He climbed out of the c.o.c.kpit and leaned over Bill, adjusting the receiver and transmitter so that the busy pilot could talk to him.

"What did you say?" he asked from the rear c.o.c.kpit once more.

"Want to know if we'll round the point. If I turn to look, I'll swamp her."

"Sorry," returned his father. "I hadn't realized-- Yes, we're abreast of the head now. There seems to be quite a large cove and quiet water beyond. Can't make it out just yet. Anything else?"

"Yes. When we're round, let me know what's behind the head."

For nearly ten minutes there was no further conversation. Then Bill heard his father's voice in his ears again.

"We're past now. That head is the western end of the island, and behind it is an almost landlocked cove. You'll have to make a turn to the left to get in there. Think you can do it OK?"

"It's a case of have to, I guess," was Bill's answer.

He closed the throttle and, careful to maintain sufficient speed for steerageway, allowed the plane to drift backward in the heavy wind until the mouth of the little harbor lay off his port quarter. Exerting pressure on left rudder, he allowed the plane's nose to play off to port for the fraction of a second, then kicked her ahead and dead into the wind again, so as to take the advancing wave nose on.

Soon their slow progress to port was perceptible. As they drew closer into the lee of the headland, the wind was less violent, the waves though high lost their caps of white spume.

Bill gauged his distances to a nicety. His spurts to port became longer, until at last he manuvered his craft, floating backward and sideways, to leeward of the narrow opening between the cliffs. Then with a vigorous burst of the engine, he swung round to port and sent the amphibian hurtling into the harbor.

"Splendid, son, splendid!" sang out Mr. Bolton, as Bill cut his gun and ripped off his headphone. "We certainly are in luck. This island is evidently inhabited, after all. Look over there!"

Bill was already scanning the cove with a gaze that grasped every detail. As the plane continued to float sh.o.r.eward over the quiet water, he saw that the harbor was almost landlocked. Broad white beaches ended abruptly in steep cliffs, forty or fifty feet high. Directly ahead a long concrete pier jutted into the bay and nearby a large yacht and two big amphibians lay at their moorings.

"Yes, there are people here," replied Bill. "That road zig-zagging up the cliffs probably leads to the houses. Funny that n.o.body has sighted us. I wonder what they're doing with a sea-going yacht and a couple of planes?"

"Some millionaire's hobby, no doubt. This key probably belongs to him.

Hadn't we better tie up to the dock and go ash.o.r.e? We've had a strenuous time of it, and I frankly admit I'm dog tired. Clean sheets and a comfortable bed, for five or six hours, will make new men of us both."

"I'm with you," smiled his son and sent their plane skimming toward the pier. They made fast to a couple of ringbolts in the concrete and after securing the plane, picked up their suitcases and stepped ash.o.r.e.

Without further waste of time they breasted the winding road that led up the cliff.

"I hope you're right about the millionaire," remarked Bill, as he trudged beside his father. "That should mean a comfortable house and a good feed. Sandwiches are all right, but they don't go very far when you're downright hungry!"

"Well, this road cost a lot of money to build," puffed Mr. Bolton. "It seems to me that this key is the winter home of some pretty wealthy people. Ah, here we are-top at last!"

The cliff they had just ascended evidently extended entirely around the sh.o.r.eline of the key. Before them the ground sloped into a natural, bowl-like depression. This valley ran the length and breadth of the island, which was about five miles long by two miles wide. The road, gleaming white in the morning sun, ran straight down the valley, to a group of low white buildings, a mile or so away. A heavy growth of trees and shrubs covered the valley. There seemed to have been no attempt to cultivate the soil, and except for the road, the group of buildings and a large house that perched on a knoll in mid-valley, nature had been allowed to run its own pace.

"Quite a settlement," commented Mr. Bolton.

"And quite a walk-in this hot sun," grumbled Bill, shifting his loaded suitcase from one hand to the other.

"Oh, it will do us good to stretch our legs. Come along. Southern hospitality is famous, you know. We're sure to get a warm welcome, especially in this out-of-the-way place."

"It's warm enough for me, right now," retorted Bill. "Gee-what's that!"

"Halt!" cried a rough voice. "Stand where you are, or I'll fire!"

Two men sprang from behind the cover of a rocky outcropping near the roadside. Both of the newcomers held repeating rifles at the ready. They advanced down the incline toward the Boltons.

CHAPTER III-PRISONERS

The armed strangers were a swarthy, black-browed pair, clad in sleeveless cotton under-shirts and ragged cotton trousers of no particular hue. Both wore the floppy, broadbrimmed straw hats common in the tropics, both were barefoot and carried canvas cartridge belts slung over their left shoulders. A more villainous pair could not be found anywhere.

"Stick 'em up!" commanded the taller of the two.

Bill dropped his suitcase and defiantly thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches.

"We're not armed," he said steadily, and ignoring the man's angry growl, turned to his father. "If this is a sample of the famous hospitality you were talking about, Dad, a little of it is plenty!"

"Search 'em and search 'em good, Diego!" shouted the leader. "If they make a move ter pull a rod, I'll drill 'em."

"But, I say-- Hold on!" Mr. Bolton exclaimed indignantly as Diego relieved him of his watch and wallet.

"Hold up, you mean," remarked Bill grimly. "A sweet gang of robbers we've fallen into if the rest of them on this key are anything like these two thugs."

"Shut yer mouth, or it'll be the worse fer youse!" snapped the highwayman. "Mebbe yer get dese tings back when yer goes up ter de big house, an' mebbe yer don't. Dat's none o' my business. It's up ter de boss."

"I'll bet he's a gentleman of the old school," mocked Bill. "Tell me, Bozo, what do they call this place? Who is the hospitable owner?"

"Ain't none o' yer business," snarled the man. "Gimme more o' yer lip, an' I'll give yer de b.u.t.t of dis rifle between de eyes. Pick up dem bags and march. Straight down de road-dat's de way."