Bill Bolton—Flying Midshipman

BILL BOLTON

Flying Midshipman

BY

Lieutenant Noel Sainsbury, Jr.

Author of

Bill Bolton and Winged Cartwheels

Bill Bolton and the Flying Fish

Bill Bolton and Hidden Danger

THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.

CHICAGO

Copyright, 1933

The Goldsmith Publishing Company

MADE IN U. S. A.

Dedication

To

OLIVER TEMPLETON JOHNSON, JR.

known to his friends as “Buzz”—an

inveterate reader of my books.

CONTENTS

BILL BOLTON—FLYING MIDSHIPMAN

[CHAPTER I—THE HURRICANE]

“I can’t keep her in the air any longer, Dad!”

Bill Bolton shot the words into the mouthpiece of his headphone and pushed the stick gently forward. The amphibian which he was driving nosed into a long gliding arc toward the angry whitecaps of the Bay of Florida, a thousand feet below.

“Too much wind?” called back Mr. Bolton from his seat in the rear cockpit.

With a sharp bank Bill saved the plane a side-slip as an unusually heavy gust caught her.

“Too much wind is right. Those black clouds to the southeast mean a hurricane or I’m a landlubber. We’re soon going to be in for it good and plenty. It’s already kicked up a heavy sea below. I should have landed sooner.”

“If we crash, we’ll have a long swim,” was his father’s sole comment.

Bill cut his gun and having brought the plane into the teeth of the wind which was increasing in violence momentarily, he shot a quick glance overside. Row after row of spume-capped combers met his eye and his face became grim with determination.

At an altitude of perhaps twenty-five feet he began to draw the stick slowly backward, breaking his glide. Careful not to stall her, with his eyes on the water just ahead he allowed the nose to come gradually up until the amphibian was in level flight. In such a wind this proved a most difficult evolution, for savage squalls lashed the plane until she acted like a wild colt on a leading rope; and a crash seemed imminent.

Struggling to keep the plane on an even keel, Bill continued to pull back his stick, raising the nose and depressing the tail. Then with a final pull he stalled her, the heel of the step made contact with the top of a whitecap and amid a cloud of spray the amphibian skimmed ahead on the water. Before her nose could play off, Bill had the sea anchor overside and a moment later the heavy boat was tugging on the line to the collapsible canvas bucket that kept her head into the wind.

Bill whipped off his headphone and goggles. Then he made the pilot’s cockpit secure by cleating down a waterproof tarpaulin over the top, flush with the deck, and climbed into the rear cockpit which had seats for two passengers.

Vast clouds growing out of the southeast almost covered the heavens now, concealing the sun. And as it grew darker the wind’s velocity steadily increased.

“She’ll ride better with me aft,” he explained to his father, “and the tarpaulin will shed water like a deck. If the fore cockpit shipped one of those big seas, we’d fill up and go down like a plummet.”

“I admit that I’m not much of a seafaring man,” said Mr. Bolton, “but why you keep the plane heading into those combers is beyond me! Why not run before the gale? Wouldn’t we ride easier?”

“Possibly—but we can’t get into position to do that now. I threw over the sea anchor to keep her as she is.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because if I hadn’t, she’d have nosed round broadside to the waves and foundered with the weight of the water pouring down on her lower wing sections. If I tried to bring her before the wind now, she’d do exactly that as soon as her head played off.”

In the white glare of a lightning flash which brightened the horizon for an instant, Mr. Bolton glimpsed his son, staring into the teeth of the storm.

“Then why didn’t you land the plane with the wind instead of heading into it?” he queried in a perplexed tone.

“All landings must be made directly into the wind, Dad,” Bill explained patiently. “A plane stalls when its speed through the air drops below a certain point. If there’s no wind its speed over the surface will be the same as its speed through the air. But any wind at once affects its velocity over the surface, which will be the composition of the speed of the plane through the air with the speed of the air over the surface. You see, a plane which stalls at forty miles an hour will, when landing into a fifteen-mile wind, make contact at twenty-five miles an hour. The same plane headed down-wind would land at fifty-five miles an hour. And that difference of thirty miles an hour in landing speed might easily spell the difference between a good landing and a wrecked plane.”

His father smiled in the darkness.

“You talk like a textbook, Bill. But you do seem to have learned something at Annapolis during the past year.”

“Learned that in flight training, before I entered the Naval Academy,” replied his son. He ducked his head as an unusually vicious wave swept over the forward decking, deluging the two in the cockpit with stinging spray. “This is going to be a wet vacation, by the looks of things.”

“Who’d have thought we’d be in this fix when we left Key West at four this afternoon! Now we’re stranded—somewhere in the Bay of Florida—and instead of dining cheerily with the Wilsons at Miami, and going on to that important business conference afterwards—”

“We’re likely to make good bait for the sharks in this neighborhood!”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything we can do, son?”

“Not a thing—but grin and bear it until this wind blows itself out.”

“And it will get worse before it gets better!”

“Sure! Cheer up, Dad—we’ll weather it yet.”

“Don’t mind me, Bill. I’m—that is, I’m not feeling quite myself. Haven’t since we came down, as a matter of fact. I’ve never been—seasick—before—” Mr. Bolton’s voice sounded rather feeble.

“It’s the motion, combined with the smell of gasoline, Dad. Every naval flyer knows that feeling, your son included, at this particular time. You’ll feel better when you’re empty.”

“I certainly hope so,” faltered Mr. Bolton.

“Just let your mind rest on a fatty piece of pork swimming in its own hot grease, for a starter,” Bill suggested, grinning to himself.

“Mmmm—” Bill’s father stood up suddenly and leaned far overside.

His son followed suit almost immediately.

Presently they returned to their places, weak and empty, but considerably more comfortable.

“I wonder why the thought of fat pork always gets one going,” mused Bill, handing his father the water bottle.

Mr. Bolton slaked his thirst and handed it back, whereupon Bill took a couple of long pulls.

“Feel better, Dad?”

“Yes, thanks.” He paused a moment, then continued in his normal tone. “The plane doesn’t seem to be pitching so wildly—”

“No, the wind is increasing steadily, and flattening out the water.”

“Isn’t there something we can do now?”

“Yes. It’s getting pretty wet in here. Give me a hand with this tarpaulin, please.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Batten down the cockpit cover.”

“But, my boy!” Mr. Bolton’s voice showed a trace of nervousness for the first time. “If we put the cover on the cockpit, we’ll be drowned like rats in a trap if the plane goes down. I confess I’m not keen on the idea.”

“If the plane founders, we’ll drown anyway,” was his son’s business-like reply. “No swimmer could live more than a minute in water like this. We’re in a tight fix, Dad, and our only chance is to ride out the gale. This plane will sink like a stone, once the real hurricane hits us, unless she is pretty near watertight overall. Let’s get busy before the wind makes the job impossible.”

“I guess you’re skipper,” Mr. Bolton replied, and he hastened to comply with Bill’s request.

It was difficult work fastening on the waterproof cover from the inside, but at last it was accomplished, and Bill flashed on his electric torch. With some trouble, because of the violent pitching and rolling of their little ship, he took down the two passenger seats which were collapsible, and stowed them in the luggage hold aft. It now became possible for father and son to sit upright on the flooring.

“We’re as snug as a couple of bugs in a rug, now,” breezed Bill with satisfaction as he made the last seat secure.

“More like nailing down the lid of our coffin,” observed his father. “I hope I’m not afraid to meet my Maker, but I’d much prefer doing so in the open. However, I am certainly proud of the way you’re handling things, my boy. From now on, I’ll stop grumbling. When you reach my age, you’ll find that an upset stomach paints everything else black.”

With startling suddenness, the howl of the wind stilled, and the two in the cockpit could hear plainly the splash of the waves against the hull. This eerie silence lasted for perhaps a minute, to be superseded by a dull roar that grew stronger and louder every split second.

“Hold fast! Here she comes!” shouted Bill. With his back against one wall and his feet against the other, he braced his body for the shock of the wind.

In a crescendo of thunderous warning the hurricane struck them. Down and still further down went the nose of the plane beneath the smashing wind.

Would she never come up? Would the anchor line hold? Bill wondered frantically. Then he caught his father’s twisted smile, and answered it with another. Dad was a real sport—true, he was a business man, and more at home in a swivel-chair behind a desk than in a pounding seaplane in a gale. But the old man was right there when it came to real pluck. That smile, with beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead proved it. Bill tingled with pride and satisfaction.

It was different, of course, with himself. He was a midshipman and a flyer, and it was his business to take risks. This was about the tightest fix he had been in so far, he thought. Never had he heard anything like the fearsome, shrieking roar of this wind.

Ah! The plane’s head was rising! He could feel it. Soon the sea would get up again. Would they be able to ride out the storm?

Mr. Bolton fished a notebook and pencil out of his pocket, and after writing a few words, passed them to Bill.

“Have you a map of these waters?” he had written.

Bill shook his head. “It’s in the forward cockpit,” he wrote. “We were about twenty-five miles south of Oyster Keys when we landed. The mainland is a few miles north of them. Uninhabited mangrove swamps, I think.”

He passed back the notebook and pencil. And after glancing at what he had written, Mr. Bolton scribbled a few more words and handed Bill the book again.

“How about Oyster Keys?” read his son.

The wind was making less commotion now, so Bill tried using his voice.

“Low-lying islets,” he shouted. “I don’t think anybody lives there. Even head on to the storm as we are, the plane is drifting toward the keys—sure to be.”

“That’s good,” shouted back his father. “Maybe we’ll make one of them by morning.”

“I hope not!” was Bill’s reply. “Not in the sea that will be running by then. We’d smash up sure in the breakers.”

Mr. Bolton made no answer to this announcement and Bill spoke again. “We may need this flashlight again before morning, Dad. The batteries are small. They won’t last forever. Sorry, but I’m afraid we’ll have to sit it out in the dark.”

Mr. Bolton nodded. “Goodnight—-and good luck, son.”

Bill snapped off the light. For what seemed a long time he sat there in darkness so black that with a hand held close to his eyes, he was unable to see the faintest outline of it. The strain and excitement were beginning to make themselves felt. Bill began to realize that he was tired. He curled up into a more comfortable position and rested his head on his arms. Five minutes later he was sound asleep.

He was awakened from dreamless slumber as his head struck something hard and unyielding. His hand sought the electric torch in his pocket and drew it forth. By its light he saw his father sleeping on the flooring close to him. A glance at his wristwatch showed that it was five o’clock, and therefore daylight. He wound the watch, and without waking his father, undid a corner of the cockpit cover.

The wind had fallen to a fraction of its former strength. A grey, cloudswept sky met his gaze, and below it, towering waves which seemed bent on burying the small craft beneath tumbling torrents of angry water. The plane was probably leaking a bit, but that was to be expected after the beating she had been taking all night long, and was still taking. Staunch little bus!

Then he turned his head and involuntarily caught his breath. Dead aft and not a quarter of a mile away lay a long line of pounding breakers!

[CHAPTER II—THE KEY]

“Good morning, son,” said a voice behind Bill. “Reckon the Old Man got his wish. One of the Oyster Keys, isn’t it?”

“Shouldn’t be surprised,” returned Bill without enthusiasm. “We’ll soon know more about it. At the rate the plane is drifting backwards, we’ll be up to the breakers in about an hour.”

“How about starting the engine and—er—sheering off?”

“Not in a sea like this, Dad. She’d go down in a minute, just as soon as her head played off. Our only chance is that she drifts past that point over there to starboard. There may be a bay behind it and if we can make quieter water, we may win out yet.”

Mr. Bolton slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the way to talk! You’re a great comfort to your old Dad. How about a little breakfast before rounding the point, eh?”

Bill laughed. “You’re on, sir,—if you’ll take off these cockpit covers, I’ll go below for the emergency rations!”

“Make it snappy, then. I’m hungry enough to eat a horse. Or fat pork swimming in its own grease, for that matter!”

By the time Mr. Bolton had the tarpaulins stowed away. Bill produced sandwiches and coffee hot from the thermos bottle.

“New life and no mistake,” Mr. Bolton remarked, munching contentedly. “What do you think of our chances now that you’re able to satisfy the inner man, Bill?”

“Not very good, sir. The tide is carrying us toward the point, but this wind is causing us to drift backward onto the breakers at a rate of at least three feet to the tide’s one.”

“I don’t see any signs of life on the island,” observed his father.

“No, if anybody lives on that key, the house is behind the cliffs. I’ve been watching for a sign of smoke, but haven’t sighted anything so far. Queer formation, those cliffs, for this part of the world. Most of the islands are so low and flat they’re covered with water at high tide.”

They finished their breakfast in a leisurely manner, and stowed away the remainder of the food.

“I guess we aren’t going to make the point,” said Bill when their tailplane lay not more than a quarter of a mile off the breakers. “I’ve got another idea, though. Stupid of me not to have thought of it before. It’s a ticklish job, but if I don’t swamp her, we ought to get round that promontory.”

“Anything is better than this inaction. What’s the good word?”

“I’m going into the fore cockpit and start the engine.”

“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 ashore. 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 cockpit 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 cockpit 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 cockpit 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 cockpit, 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 passenger cockpit 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 cockpit 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 cockpit 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 manœuvered 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 shoreward 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 nobody 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 ashore? 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 ashore. 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 shoreline 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 butt of dis rifle between de eyes. Pick up dem bags and march. Straight down de road—dat’s de way.”

Forced to obey, the Boltons took up their suitcases again and continued along the dusty highway, but this time accompanied by an armed rear guard.

“We’re arriving in style, anyway, with an armed guard,” Bill muttered to his father. “What sort of a dump do you suppose we’ve crashed into?”

Mr. Bolton, whose face was crimson with annoyance, shot a glance of reproof at the tall, broad-shouldered young fellow at his side.

“Whatever it is, you’ll only make things worse by trying to heckle these people. The men behind are quite evidently underlings. When we meet this boss they speak of, it will be time enough to demand an explanation. Why the owner of this place should treat strangers in this cavalier manner is beyond me, I confess.”

“If you ask me, Dad, I believe we are walking into a mess that has last night’s seance at sea beat forty ways to Sunday.”

“I hope you are wrong,” his father answered stiffly. “But if Diego and his loud-voiced friend aren’t criminals they should be, with faces like theirs. We certainly seem to have been blown out of the frying pan straight into the fire.”

Quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to the first of the buildings they had sighted from the hillside. Closer inspection proved it to be a long, one-storied affair with a flat roof and whitewashed stucco walls. It looked hot and stuffy, and the Boltons noted that the small windows set high up were barred with rusty iron.

“Looks like a Mexican jail to me,” declared Bill.

“I’ve never seen one,” his father replied. Mr. Bolton was in no state, physically or mentally, for facetious conversation.

“Neither have I, except in the movies—”

“An’ dis is where we stops. In yer goes!”

Diego’s partner appeared at Bill’s elbow and motioned toward the building with the muzzle of his gun. Diego, who so far had made no observation of his own, produced a key. The heavy door swung inward and the Boltons were rudely forced to enter.

They came into a fair-sized room, sparsely furnished with a chair and a few wooden benches. As they passed into a long corridor lined with cells, Diego’s pal relieved them of their suitcases, while Diego unlocked a door and motioned with his rifle for father and son to step into the cell.

“This is an outrage!” exploded Mr. Bolton.

Without a word, Diego slammed and locked the door behind them.

Bill, who feared that a show of resistance might cause the men to separate him from his father, cut in upon his parent’s fury.

“Hey, you, Diego!” he called.

Diego stopped and turned round.

“Speak English?” Bill pressed his face against the bars and stared at the man, who exhibited no sign that he understood.

“My Naval Academy Spanish won’t pass muster, so I reckon it must be English,” continued Bill ruefully. “Anyway, I’ll take a chance. Look here, Diego. Bring my father and me something to drink—something cool and wet—with ice in it if you can—and I’ll make it all right with you when the boss learns who we are and lets us go. If I’m talking too fast for you to follow, I’ll say it all over again. How about it, my lad, do you get me?”

A sour grin spread over Diego’s none too prepossessing visage.

“Youse an’ yer ole man go blow yer tops!” he replied in the best Bowery argot. “Whadda yer take dis joint for—de Waldorf?”

He spat his contempt on the filthy floor and passed out of sight.

“You never can tell when you’ll run into home-folks,” said Bill with a smile at Mr. Bolton.

Bill’s father looked hot and desperately weary. He spoke in a dejected tone. “I admire your cheerfulness, son, in this trying position. But if you will desist from buffooning the situation, it would be a relief to me. Of course, I realize our arrest is a mistake. And the owner of this island will surely make amends as soon as I tell him who we are. In missing that conference in Miami last night, my entire business interests were jeopardized. If I can’t get there before those men leave for the North, you and I, boy, are liable to suffer a heavy financial loss.”

Bill tossed his jacket on the dirty floor and sat down with his back to the wall. “Thanks, Dad—but I guess you know I’m not playing for admiration. I realize the seriousness of this mess we’re in just as fully as you do. And one thing I do believe: we’re going to have to shell out plenty of cash in a very little while, if you let the ‘boss’ over at the big house know you’re Bolton of the Bolton Sugar Corporation!”

His father looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I believe,” went on Bill, “that this is going to be a hold-up game from start to finish. If we haven’t dropped into the winter hangout of some Chicago beer baron or New York racketeer, I’m a ground hog!”

“Mmm—ransom, you mean?”

“I do. I shouldn’t be surprised at anything after meeting Diego and his bullying pal. Any man who would hire a couple of gunmen like those fellows is sure to be a bad egg. And we’re getting a taste of his generous hospitality right now. Of course, I don’t know what his particular game is, but it’s bound to be something pretty low. When he finds out you’re a power in the business world, he’s sure to bleed you.”

“I dare say you’re right,” his father returned gloomily. “I’ll have to keep my identity hidden. By thunder!” he slapped his knee in vexation. “The man knows now, exactly who I am. Those villains took my wallet! My cards and some valuable papers were in it, to say nothing of the currency I carried, though he can have that and welcome.”

“Tough luck, Dad—-I never thought of that. Now we are in for it. Ugh! I wish those birds would bring us a drink. My mouth hurts, it’s so dry.”

“Filthy place, this—what with the stench and the heat—One of these days I’ll make it even hotter for the man who is accountable for this!”

“Sh!” cautioned Bill. “Here they come!”

Diego and the other man came into sight between the bars. Diego unlocked the cell door.

“On yer way!” he barked. “De big boss wants ter look youse over.”

“Anything’s better than this hole,” observed Mr. Bolton, and picking up his coat he preceded Bill out of the cell.

“Mebbe—and mebbe not,” said Diego’s partner, and they both chuckled hoarsely.

“How about some water to drink?” inquired Bill.

“Do I look like a soda fountain? Tell yer troubles to de boss. Servin’ drinks ain’t my job.”

The sun’s heat was terrific out on the road, and the glare was blinding. All wind from the sea was cut off by the valley, and the very trees seemed to shimmer under the broiling rays.

They passed several other buildings which looked like barracks and warehouses, but saw no people. If there were any, they remained indoors.

“This is a sweet place to pick for a winter home,” gasped Bill, mopping his streaming forehead. “The thug who runs things here must be a darned cold-blooded guy.”

“Very probably,” returned Mr. Bolton, “but the place, though hot, has its advantages, if he is what we surmise. It is quite out of the world, and except from the air, no one would guess that the island is inhabited.”

“Home at last,” remarked Bill after a few minutes, as they turned up the incline toward the white house on the knoll. “Thank heaven there’s a bit of a breeze up here. Whew! This bird certainly lives in style!”

The road swept up through beautifully kept flower gardens to the front of the house, which appeared to be a really huge mansion. Wide verandas surrounded the rambling building on three sides, and the cream stucco walls contrasted pleasingly with the dark green of its tile roof. Money had been spent here with a lavish hand. The place looked cool and inviting. The Boltons wondered what it would hold for them.

They were led into a spacious hall, panelled in mahogany. Here again, the Persian rugs scattered over the polished floor, the fine wood and carving of the furniture, and a number of excellent paintings on the walls, all bespoke the hand of wealth.

Bidding his prisoners remain where they were, Diego crossed the hall and knocked at a closed door.

“Come in,” called a man’s voice, and Diego disappeared into the room, closing the door behind him.

Bill started to make some comment on their surroundings to his father, but their other guard growled at him to keep quiet. Then Diego reappeared and beckoned them into the room.

This large apartment was handsomely furnished in the manner of a business office. Behind a huge, flat-topped desk sat a fat young man dressed in immaculate white linens. Blue-black hair and an olive complexion bespoke his Latin origin. Two other young men, clad also in white, and bearing a strong resemblance to the man at the desk, lounged in wicker arm chairs. All were smoking long black cigars.

“And what, may I ask, is the reason for this outrage?” began Mr. Bolton, walking up to the desk. “Is it your custom to have visitors to this island treated like criminals and thrown into jail?”

“It is,” the fat man remarked blandly, without removing the cigar from his lips.

Bill’s father was taken aback by this unadulterated candor, but neither by manner nor change of tone did he betray his surprise. “How much do you want to let us go?”

The man at the desk knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Why, it’s not a question of money at the present moment, Mr. Bolton. That will undoubtedly come later. Just now, my brothers and I have need of you in other ways.”

“You mean that we are to be kept here as your prisoners?”

“You have guessed the secret, Mr. Bolton. And my advice to you and to your son is to do exactly as you are told, without argument or question. Strangers on Shell Island have always found that to disobey commands here is a particularly unhealthy pastime. Obey on the jump—is our slogan. I hope for your sakes that neither of you forgets it.” He smiled at them affably and puffed on his cigar.

Mr. Bolton was about to speak his mind when Bill caught his arm. “Stow it, Dad,” he said. “That lad has us just where he wants us. I’d like to say what I think, too,—but what’s the use?”

Their host waved his hand and their guards led the Boltons out of the house.

Once on the road, tramping back toward the settlement below, Mr. Bolton passed his arm through Bill’s.

“Your Naval Academy training has put a head on your shoulders, son,” he said affectionately. “You have developed better control of your temper under stress than I have. I’m glad you stopped me. Ordinarily a man of my position in the world is in the habit of speaking his mind when provoked.”

Bill nodded. “One of these days,” he said grimly, “I’m going to get that fat slob in there—and when I do, there won’t be enough left of him for the state to burn. What’s his game? Have you any idea?”

Mr. Bolton shook his head. “Not the slightest glimmer. It doesn’t appear to be a case of ransom—or at least, not just yet. Whatever he is up to is obviously illegal. But we’ll probably learn about it before long. The man is an educated criminal. His actions prove it. Our position is certainly serious—very serious.”

“I vote we make a stab at getting out of that cell tonight,” suggested Bill. “If I can get hold of our bus or one of the other amphibians, we’ll get clear of Shell Island in short order.”

“We’ll spend the day thinking up a plan of operations,” agreed his father.

As they came into the settlement, Diego tapped Bill on the shoulder. “Come along with me, guy,” he ordered. “Not you—” he snarled at Mr. Bolton as he started to turn out of the road with his son. “Back to the lockup for yours!”

“Good bye, Dad, and good luck,” Bill called as Diego’s partner herded his father down the road.

“Good luck, and keep a brave heart,” answered Mr. Bolton.

He called out something else, but Bill could not catch the words, for Diego had him by the arm and forced him through the doorway of the barracks before which they had been standing.

He found himself in a large room where thirty or forty men quite as villainous-looking as his guard were lounging about, smoking, sleeping or playing cards. Diego hurried him through this apartment, and down a bare hallway to the open door of a small room. Bill saw that except for an unpainted table and a chair of the kitchen variety, the place was empty of furniture. Over the chair a coarse cotton shirt and a pair of cotton trousers were draped. Leg-irons and a pair of handcuffs lay on the table.

“Strip!” Diego pointed to the chair. “Them’s your clothes, guy. Get into ’em.”

“How about wearing my own?” Bill was fast losing his temper. Only the rifle which Diego held pointed in his direction prevented him from sending a right hand jab to the point of the thug’s chin and taking his chance with the others in the room beyond.

“Nuttin’ doin’, bo—” snarled Diego. “Dem’s de boss’s orders. Make it snappy. We gotta get out o’ here right away an’ I want to pin de jewelry on yer.”

“Where are we going?”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere—but you are—” He grinned evilly at the lad—“youse is goin’ ter be took fer a ride.”

[CHAPTER IV—THE INVITATION]

Diego gave vent to a raucous laugh after making this announcement. He walked across the room, leaned his rifle against the table, and picking up the handcuffs inspected them critically. His prisoner was unarmed and too far away to offer an assault before he could snatch up his gun again. He did not fear Bill physically. But many people misjudged that slender body with the broad shoulders. The young midshipman was not yet seventeen; nevertheless he was star right end on the Navy team and as strong as a steel bridge. Now he saw his chance and took it.

Bending down as though to untie the pair of rubber soled sneakers he wore, Bill suddenly half straightened and his lithe form shot through the air. Before Diego could drop the handcuffs, one hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle struck him just above the knees and he crashed over backward beneath a perfect tackle. The unexpected jar and shock half-stunned him and before he could gather his faculties, Bill’s fist, backed by the venom of a sorely tried temper smashed him behind his left ear. All lights went out for Diego, gangster and gunman, right there.

Bill scrambled to his feet, ran to the open door and peered out. The corridor was empty. He closed and bolted the door and after a moment’s thought, he approached the unconscious gangster.

Five minutes later, a young man clad in cotton undershirt, ragged cotton trousers and rubber soled sneakers stepped through an open window on to the wide veranda which ran along the side of the barracks. On the young man’s head was a floppy broadbrimmed hat of straw. He carried a rifle. The owner of these articles lay on the floor behind the window, quite oblivious. When he came to again, he would find his wrists manacled behind his back, his right leg chained to the table, and a gag in his mouth. As Bill Bolton walked swiftly along the veranda, he conjured up the pleasing picture of Diego’s awakening, and grinned.

With the hat’s brim pulled well down and acting as a partial screen to his features, he ran down the broad wooden steps and out to the road. Not a soul was in sight. Then suddenly his heart missed a beat.

“Hey, you! Where you goin’?” called a voice from the porch behind him, and a man he had not seen before ran down the steps. Just then a large handbell was rung somewhere within the building.

“Come in and get yer chow,” called the man.

Bill felt that he would certainly cause suspicion if he refused to obey this suggestion. Moreover, he was thirsty and half famished. So he walked back to the steps.

“I reckon you’re one of the new hands on the yacht,” observed the man.

“That’s right,” admitted Bill.

“Thought so, when I seen yer beatin’ down toward the harbor just afore dinner time. The boss feeds us swell here. Has to, with this gang to look after. Men get easy discontented in a sweatbox like this here island. How’s the grub aboard the Pelican?. Useter be pretty bad.”

“I’ve eaten worse,” said Bill.

“Well, come along in and feed here today,” turning back up the steps with him. “It’s a hot walk along that shell road, and I’ll need yer to help herd some of them prisoners down there later on.”

Bill followed him into the building. This time he found the large room deserted, and passing through a doorway to the right, the two entered a big hall, down the middle of which ran two long, narrow tables.

The men were already seated at dinner, and nobody paid the slightest attention to the new arrivals. Bill’s companion took his place at the head of a table and motioned the lad to a vacant seat just below. A pitcher of what proved to be lemonade was within Bill’s reach. He filled and emptied his glass three times before he began to feel refreshed. A slatternly negress placed a plate piled high with fried chicken, rice and fried plantains before him and he dug into it with the relish of a starved man.

“Reckon the Pelican’s chow ain’t so good, the way you tackle yer dinner,” laughed the man at the table’s head.

“If they have fried chicken aboard, it never gets for’ard of the cabin,” Bill grinned back. He knew that his identity might be discovered at any time and planned to make the most of the meal while he could.

“I run the commissariat and the men here at the barracks,” his new acquaintance informed him. “Y’ got to feed ’em right to keep ’em contented. The boss is liberal. ‘He knows his oats. Bum chow makes fer fights and knifin’s in this climate.”

Bill nodded and kept on eating. A man further down the table raised his voice above the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the hum of conversation.

“Did you hear about the two guys that blew in here on a plane this morning, Tom?” he asked the man at the end of the table.

“I sure did,” laughed that person. “I guess they didn’t know what they was bumpin’ into when they hit Shell Island. You guys won’t have to take so many trips to the mainland if suckers come here of their own accord, eh?”

The laughter became general. The men apparently enjoyed the joke.

“Where are they now?” inquired another.

“Tony and Diego’s got them over to the calaboose. They was up to the big house and Martinengo looked ’em over. It’s Bolton, the sugar millionaire, and his boy.”

“The boss could squeeze a bunch o’ kale outen that pair!”

“But then he’d have to let ’em go,” said Tom. “And that would blow the gaff. He’s shippin’ them up to the workin’s this afternoon with the rest of the bunch.”

“I bet there’ll be a holler raised, when old man Bolton doesn’t show up at home,” observed a voice far down the table. “That gang’s got influence and friends. Yer can’t cop a millionaire without runnin’ into trouble.”

“That’s where yer all wet, Zeppi,” called down Tom. “Bolton’s influence won’t count him nothin’ with the Martinengo boys; and his friends will think he’s dead. Went down with his son in the blow last night. There won’t be no comeback. The two of ’em will be dead soon. The workin’s ain’t no health resort.”

“I’ll say they’re not,” returned Zeppi. “Martinengo wouldn’t get me to stick ‘round that dump—double pay or no double pay.”

“Oh, yes, he would—and on the jump,” Tom contradicted. “You’re a new man, Zeppi. Y’ got a lot to learn, and the first thing is that the boss don’t ask—he orders—and so do I. Them what tries to make trouble is put on the spot. Get me?”

Tom turned to Bill. “Some o’ these boobs don’t know when they’s well off,” he remarked genially. “What do they call yer, young feller?”

“Bill,” said Bill. He finished the last bit of his food and poured himself another glass of lemonade.

“Well, Bill, if you hike back to the Pelican, that bo’sun will put you to swabbin’ decks or somethin’. I need you later and I’ll fix it up with him. You go into the bunk room and turn in with the rest of this crew. Gotta take yer rest now—the bunch o’ you’ll be up all night.”

Bill saw that he had no option but to obey, so when the men left the table he went with them. His plan had been to go to the jail, overpower Tony and release his father. They would then make for the harbor, take his amphibian or one of the others moored in the little bay and fly away. Now he realized that he must conform to circumstances as he found them. Nobody knew that he was not what Tom took him for, a deck hand on the yacht Pelican. If only Diego were not discovered, he would make another sortie in an hour or so, when the men were deep in their siesta.

No sound came from behind the closed door to the room where he had left the gunman, lying gagged and bound, as he trooped down the hall with the rest. The rear of the long corridor opened into a huge, airy apartment which ran the full width of the building. Screened windows opened on to verandas on three sides. The room looked like a hospital ward, with its long rows of cots. At the head of each bed was a wooden chest with a padlock for the owner’s belongings. A single sheet and a blanket were folded at the foot of the bed, under the pillow. Everything was neat, and evidently kept in the orderly arrangement of a military barracks. Framed signs on the four walls read, “Silence—No Talking.” Tom, though seemingly a genial soul, ruled with an iron hand.

Bill spread his sheet on the cot pointed out to him, and placed his pillow at the head of the bed. Then he kicked off his sneakers and lay down. Except for the sound of breathing and the buzzing of a bluebottle against a window screen, the place was absolutely quiet. It was hot, notwithstanding the ventilation, but the cot was comfortable, and try as he might, Bill could not fight off the drowsiness that assailed him.

He awoke with a guilty start to the loud clang of a ship’s bell and sat up on his cot. The hands of the clock on the wall opposite marked five o’clock. He had slept four hours.

“I reckon you had a good snooze by the look of them eyes o’ yourn,” remarked a jovial voice and Bill looked up to see Tom standing at the foot of the bed. “Make it snappy, now,” he continued. “Take yer gun an’ wait fer me on the front porch. I’ll be along in a minute and I’m puttin’ you on the detail that’s goin’ down to the harbor with them boys in the calaboose.”

Bill nodded and slipped into his sneakers. He jammed his hat on his head, and picking up his rifle, hurried from the room. He was angry with himself for having fallen asleep, and now that he had the chance, he meant to take it. Tom, when he came out, would not find him on the veranda. Bill made up his mind to beat the detail over to the jail and to follow out his original plan of rescuing his father and making their getaway before the men arrived.

He passed down the hall and on through the lounge room, and was running lightly down the piazza steps when a voice hailed him.

“Hey, youse! Where d’ you think yer headin’ for? Didn’t yer hear Tom tell yer to stick around with this detail until he came?”

Bill stopped and looked back. The man called Zeppi was leaning over the railing. Behind him ten or a dozen men were lounging in various indolent attitudes and laughing at this diversion. Bill saw that they all carried rifles.

“I guess youse ain’t been round dis dump long,” Zeppi was still speaking. “Let me tell yer, kid, t’ain’t healthy to disobey orders, ‘specially Tom’s. He’s a soft-speakin’ guy, Tom is—but I seen him shoot three guys in the last three weeks fer doin’ no more than you done just now. Get up on this porch before he shows up, if yer ain’t tired o’ livin’.”

Bill hid his disappointment and chagrin and ran up the steps.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m half asleep, Zeppi. I didn’t think where I was going.”

“Okay with me, kid. I’m fair sick of seein’ guys put on the spot fer nuthin’ at all. Just remember that when yer told the porch, don’t go out in the road, or anywheres else, when they’s Tom’s orders.”

“Who’s talkin’ about me,” gruffed Tom from the doorway. “Oh, it’s you, Zeppi! Well, what’s the trouble now?”

With a sleight-of-hand motion, he jerked an automatic revolver from a holster under his left armpit and covered the man.

“Okay, Tom.” Zeppi dropped his rifle and raised his hands above his head. “I was just tellin’ the kid here that he should shake a leg when it come to takin’ your orders, or—”

“Oh, that was it, eh?” Tom cut him short and put away the gun. “Sorry, Zeppi—I come near drillin’ you. I’m always a bit rough after a sleep—must watch myself. We’re losing too many men. Get into line, you bozos,” he commanded, “follow me by twos—march!”

Bill fell in beside Zeppi, who winked at him. The party clattered down the steps and started along the white road at a smart pace. He felt much as a man might who is being led to execution. His only hope was that Tony would remain inside the jail and that the detail would not be forced to enter.

When Tom turned into the place, motioning the others to follow him, Bill’s usually optimistic spirits fell. Tony was found pouring over a Police Gazette, his chair tilted back against the rough plaster wall.

“Hello, Tom,” he greeted, raising his eyes from the pages. Then his chair came down with a crash and he sprang to his feet.

“What’s that feller doin’ wid you, Tom?” he cried. “What’s he done wid Diego?”

“What feller? What you shoutin’ about, Tony?” growled the barracks boss.

Seeing that the game was up, Bill rested his gun against the wall and stepped forward.

“It’s me he’s talking about,” he said. “I’m Bill Bolton.”

[CHAPTER V—TAKEN FOR A RIDE]

The barracks boss stared at Bill in undisguised amazement, while the others fingered their rifles. Slowly a twinkle came into the man’s eyes and he broke into a roar of laughter.

“When it comes to cast-iron, dyed in the wool nerve?” he choked, “you’re sure a winner, Bill—Bolton! I took a fancy to yer when I first laid eyes on yer and I’m sorry for yer now. If I wasn’t,” he shot out venomously, “I’d certainly put a bullet in yer carcass. The joke has been on me, all right—now it’s on you. If you bumped Diego off, the boss’ll put yer on the spot. Them’s rules. What did yer do with him?“

“He’s lying in the room over at the barracks where he was about to handcuff me and put me into a pair of leg irons. He’s wearing them now, or was when I left him.”

“Did you bump him off?”

“No. His jaw may be broken where I socked him—otherwise, I guess he’s O.K.”

Tom took half a cigar from his pocket, thrust it into his mouth and chewed steadily for a minute or two.

“Well, you’re a smart kid, Bill,” he admitted, “but not quite smart enough for this outfit. Got the keys to them cuffs and leg irons?”