The cook of the S-18 had been badly beaten and Tim realized that he was in need of immediate medical attention. He managed to get the unconscious Hardy over his shoulders and he staggered down the block until he was under the street light.

Glancing up and down the street, Tim saw that he was alone. He lowered the cook from his shoulders and laid him on the walk under the light. Then he raced down the street toward a cluster of lights several blocks away, where he was fortunate enough to find a night patrolman on duty there and the officer summoned an ambulance.

When the ambulance reached the lonely street, they bundled the cook aboard and Tim climbed up in the front seat beside the driver while the interne rode inside.

It was after midnight before the cook regained consciousness and another two hours before he was strong enough to see Tim.

When the flying reporter entered the hospital room the cook looked out at him from beneath a mass of bandages.

“He’s got lots of endurance,” said the doctor on duty, “or he wouldn’t have been able to live through the terrific beating he got. Don’t talk to him any longer than necessary.”

Tim sat down by the bed.

“Tell me what happened, Al.”

The cook’s voice was little more than a whisper and Tim leaned over to catch the words.

“I was on my way back to the wharf, when they ganged me and dragged me into a deserted warehouse.”

Even one sentence had visibly sapped his strength and the cook rested before continuing.

“They wanted to know our destination. When I wouldn’t tell them they beat me.”

Tim’s eyes blazed with anger. There was no question in his mind who the “they” Al was referring to meant. It was the boatload of ruffians he and Pat had seen rowing in from the open sea. Undoubtedly they were from the Iron Mate, Sladek’s ship.

“I went almost crazy with the pain.” There was a choked sob in the cook’s voice. “They burned the bottom of my feet with cigarettes.”

There was a long pause and Tim waited patiently, wondering whether Al Hardy had finally given away the secret of their destination.

“They were going to kill me,” the cook went on, each word an obvious effort. “Finally, finally I told them it was an island off the coast of Yucatan, but no one but the commander knew what one.”

“Did they believe you?” asked Tim.

“They must have. That’s all I remember until I came to in the hospital. I’m sorry I talked.”

“Don’t worry about that, Al,” said Tim, gripping the cook’s hand firmly. “Any of the rest of us would have talked a lot sooner. I’m going to leave you now. I’ve got to contact the S-18 with the seaplane in the morning. I’ve made arrangements for them to take good care of you here. By the time you’re well we’ll be on our way back and you’ll have a good share of the treasure.”

Before leaving the the floor, Tim stopped at the desk.

“Just how badly is he injured?” he asked the doctor.

“An average man would die from shock, but he looks like he has a fine constitution. I believe he’ll pull through.”

“See that he has everything he needs,” said Tim. “In case of an emergency you can communicate with Commander Ford’s representative in New York for further instructions.”

The information Al Hardy had given made Tim change his plans completely. Sladek and his crew knew the S-18 was bound for the coast of Yucatan and Tim felt sure they would abandon any attempt to follow the S-18 across the Caribbean. Instead they would use their own seaplane to locate Commander Ford’s expedition after it reached the island which held the secret of the Southern Queen.

To Tim it seemed the most important thing was to get in touch with Commander Ford and appraise him of the sudden turn in events. Instead of waiting to keep the rendezvous on the following day, he would attempt to overtake the S-18 as soon as dawn broke.

On his way back to the waterfront Tim stopped at an all-night restaurant and ate a hearty breakfast. The watchman at the dock lent a willing hand and by dawn Tim had the Sea King ready to take the air.

“I don’t like the looks of the sky,” said the watchman. “There’s wind and a nasty sea in them clouds.”

“I’ll risk it anyway,” said Tim. “It’s important.”

“Then keep an eye on a handy cay where you can find shelter in the lee,” advised the watchman as Tim started the motor of the Sea King. The powerful engine ran true and sweet and after getting it thoroughly warmed up, Tim scudded across the gray water and lifted the dripping pontoons into the sky.

He knew the S-18 would be following the course to the rendezvous set for the next day and he charted a compass path through the air.

Key West dropped from sight in the greyness of the morning and he winged a solitary way out over the Caribbean. Below the swells were sharper. It wouldn’t be easy landing and getting the Sea King aboard the S-18.

For nearly an hour Tim bored into the west. He should be near the S-18 and he scanned the surface of the ocean with anxious eyes. For half an hour he circled in wide swoops. The wind was freshening and the sea beneath him was choppy when he finally sighted the conning tower of the submarine.

Tim dropped down until he was just above the surface of the water. The nose of the S-18 was plowing through the swells and there were only two huddled figures in the conning tower. Tim recognized them as he flashed by, Commander Ford and Pat. They waved wildly as Tim gauged the strength of wind and wave. It was too risky to attempt a landing and he scrawled a note on a sheet of paper and crammed it into an old tobacco can he had found along the waterfront and brought along for just such a purpose.

With his motor almost idling, he swept down on the S-18 again. Watching his speed carefully, he hurled the tin can toward the submarine. It landed well in front and bobbed restless on the water.

Commander Ford and Pat had seen the can strike the surface and under their skillful hands the submarine was brought to a halt. A wave washed the tin alongside where another member of the crew, who had emerged from the control room, retrieved it, and handed the can up to the conning tower.

Pat signalled that they understood the contents of Tim’s message, and the flying reporter zoomed the Sea King sharply in a farewell salute as he opened the throttle and roared back toward Key West. On the way back he sighted the Iron Mate far to his right and a good thirty miles behind the S-18. If anything, the submarine was a good two knots and hour faster than the Iron Mate when it was running on the surface.

Tim reached Key West safely, saw that the Sea King was refueled and ready to go on short notice, and then went to the hospital to see the cook. Al Hardy was sleeping soundly and Tim continued to a hotel where he went to bed to get some much needed rest.

It was late afternoon before he awoke. He made another call at the hospital, but was advised not to see the cook. After supper he went to a movie and then turned in early for with the dawn would come another long flight.

During the night the wind subsided and ideal flying weather greeted Tim when he reached the waterfront. The sun was casting a rosy hue over red-tiled roofs and Tim welcomed the chance to soar into the cool, sweet morning air.

The Sea King responded to the impulse of the starter with a roar and Tim flashed across the surface of the bay and into the air. He made a half circle into the west and lined away for a fast flight to overhaul the S-18.

It was better than two hours later and fifty miles beyond their rendezvous when Tim finally sighted the submarine, sliding through the water at a strong twelve knots an hour.

He brought the Sea King down to an easy landing and then taxied alongside the S-18, which was now lying motionless. Willing hands helped fasten the crane and its rigging to the seaplane and the craft was soon lodged safely on the deck of the submarine. Then they were under way again, the thin nose of the S-18 cleaving its way toward the sunken treasure in the hold of the Southern Queen.