  Three youths, thrilled by the prospect of a mysterious adventure, and a war pilot, intent on a friendly service, discussed plans for protecting the Everdail Emeralds. “I don’t see how anything can slip up,” Larry gave his opinion. “I don’t know,” Jeff spoke dubiously, uncertainly. “We’ve gone over all the things we can think of that might go wrong—but——” “But—what?” demanded Dick. “I had a fortune teller read the cards for me,” Jeff told him. “The nine o’ spades—the worst card of warning in the pack—was right over me and that means trouble—and the ace of spades, a bad card——” “Crickety-Christmas!” Larry was amazed. “Are you really telling us you believe in all that?” “I’ve seen that-there card fortune work out before.” “You’ve twisted things that happened to fit what you wanted to believe,” argued Larry. “Oh, well,” Jeff did not want to discuss his superstitions, “maybe it won’t come out so bad. I met a pair of colored twins yesterday. That’s a good-luck sign——” “Look here!” Dick began to chuckle. “We’ve got a queer combination to work with—our Sky Patrol has! Suspicious Sandy—and—Superstitious Jeff!” Sandy grinned ruefully, a little sheepishly. Larry smiled and shook his head, warning Dick not to carry his sarcasm any further, as Jeff frowned. “How will you know when the yacht is due?” Larry asked. “I fixed up Atley’s old short-wave radio, in the old house—and I’ve been getting dope from the yacht the last couple of nights. In about an hour we’ll take off, fly out beyond the lighthouse and patrol.” “Will you have enough gas?” Larry inquired. “Had some delivered in cans early this morning—down at the boathouse,” Jeff told him. “We can fill up the main tank and get a reserve in my small wing-tanks—enough for ten hours altogether.” “Let’s get busy!” urged Sandy. The three comrades were busy from then on. Only when Jeff was warming up the engine, checking carefully on his instruments, taking every precaution against any predictable failure, was there time for a moment together and alone. “Now what do you think of your suspicions?” Dick demanded. Sandy shook his head. “Most of the time I think I was letting imaginitis get the best of me—but every once in awhile I wonder—for one thing, why doesn’t the yacht sail right on to the New York wharf and let the captain take those emeralds to safe deposit?” “Golly-to-goodness, you’re right, at that!” Larry nodded his head. “For another thing,” Sandy went on, “anybody could write that letter Jeff showed me—and who is Jeff, when all is said and done?” “Oh, I think he’s all right,” argued Larry. “Well, then, let that go. But—he chews gum and there’s gum stuck all over in this amphibian—he’s been here, nights——” “Suspicion may be all right,” Larry commented, “but what does it bring out, Sandy? What is your idea——” “This is my idea! Nothing is what it seems to be. Jeff pretends to be a joy-ride pilot, but he never takes up passengers—hardly ever. The engine dies, only it’s Jeff stopping the ‘juice.’ This old amphibian crate looks as though it’s ready to come to pieces and yet, somebody has been working on it—that chewing gum wasn’t stale and hard, because I made sure. Well—suppose that Jeff was in a gang of international jewel robbers——” “Next you’ll be saying the letter was in a registered envelope from California and was written in Cairo!” laughed Dick. “Or in New York!” corrected Sandy meaningly. “Jewel robbers,” Larry was serious. “I don’t think that holds water, Sandy. First of all, Jeff claims to know that the emerald imitations had acid poured on them—acid to destroy them. That must be some chemical that corrodes or eats emeralds. Now, robbers wouldn’t——” “Why not?” Sandy was stubborn. “Suppose they had gone to all that trouble to get into the suite and discovered the false emeralds? What would you do?” “I might rip them apart—but do you think robbers carry acids along to eat up emeralds if they think they are going to profit by taking them?” “Suspicious Sandy,” Dick began to chant a rhyme he invented on the spur of the moment, “Suspicious Sandy, Suspicious Sandy, he thinks everything is like April-Fool candy! Nothing is what it seems to be and soon he’ll suspect both Larry and me!” Sandy turned away, hurt, and strolled to the amphibian with its retractable wheels for land use and its pontoons for setting down on water. Jeff called and signaled that all was ready. Larry summoned Sandy but the latter lingered, while Dick, a little sorry he had taunted so much, followed Larry toward the waiting airplane. But Sandy, scowling, hesitated whether he would go or be angry and refuse to join the Sky Patrol. Then, as he clambered onto the forward bracing of the under wing and leaned on the cockpit cowling, his face assumed a startled, intent expression. There was no chewing gum in the craft! His first impulse was to rush out and declare his discovery. His next was to keep silent and avoid further taunting. “Jeff chews gum,” he mused. “He pretended not to know any was in this amphibian. But it’s gone! Well,” he told himself, “I’ll watch and see what he’s up to. He’ll give himself away yet!” Assuming an air of having forgotten all about Dick’s rhyme, he went to his place in the seat behind Jeff and the instant his safety belt was snapped Jeff signaled to a farmer who had come over to investigate and satisfy himself that the airplane had legitimate business there; the farmer kicked the stones used as chocks from under the landing tires and Jeff opened up the throttle. With wind unchanged the trees which had complicated their landing were behind them. Jeff’s only problem, Larry saw, was to get the craft, heavier with its wing tanks full, off the short runway and over the hangar. “If he gets a ‘dead stick’ here,” Larry mused, “it will be just too bad!” He had no trouble lifting the craft and flying for seconds just above the ground to get flying speed after the take-off, then giving it full gun and roaring up at a safe angle to clear the obstruction. “We’re off!” exulted Dick. They were—off on an adventure that was to start with a mad race and terminate—in smoke! Down the backbone of Long Island, not very high, they flew. The farms, landscaped estates and straight roads of the central zone were in striking contrast to the bay and inlet dented North Shore with its fleets of small boats, its fishing hamlets, rolling hills and curving motor drives and the seaside with its beach resorts, yellow-brown sand and tall marsh grass clustered between crab-infested salt water channels. Passing over the fashionable Summer homes of wealthy people at Southampton, they held the course until Montauk Point light was to the left of the airplane, then Jeff swung in a wide circle out over the desolate sand dunes, the ooze and waving eel-grass of marshes and the tossing combers of the surf. “There’s the hydroplane!” Dick, leaning over the left side, made a pointing gesture. Larry, watching seaward, had not been looking in the right direction. Sandy, alert to pass signals, touched Jeff and received a nod from the pilot. The first step of the plan was taken. They had made contact with the small, speedy craft which, on a later signal that they had “picked up” the incoming yacht, would speed out to sea to meet her. “Now we’ll climb!” decided Sandy. Climb they did, until the sea dropped down to a gray-green, flat expanse and only the powerful binoculars Larry was using could pick out the cruising hydroplane slowly verging away from the shore in an apparently aimless voyage. “This isn’t such a bad scheme, at that,” Dick concluded mentally. “If there should be anybody on the lookout—robbers or somebody who wants to see what’s going on—no one will see any connection between us passing here and then climbing to get a good wind for a run down the coast toward Maine, and a hydroplane that’s acting as if it had some engine trouble.” Higher and higher they went, probably out of sight of anyone without strong field glasses, and while they swung in a wide circle, Larry’s binoculars swept the horizon. “Smoke!” He turned the focusing adjustment a trifle. “Too soon to signal—it may be an oil-burning steamer and not the yacht—or a rum-runner of a revenue patrol—it’s thick, black oil smoke, the sort the yacht would give—it is a small boat—yes——” His signal, relayed through Dick and Sandy to Jeff, shifted the gently banked curve into a straighter line and swiftly the lines of the oncoming craft, miles away, became clear. Larry verified his decision that the low, gray hull, with its projecting bowsprit, the rakish funnel atop the low trunk of the central cabin, and the yacht ensign, identified the Tramp. The signal went forward. Jeff, glancing back, caught Sandy’s nod. “Now we’ll dive to where the hydroplane can see us, and the dive will signal the yacht that we’re the airplane they’ll be watching for,” Dick decided. The maneuver was executed, ending in a fairly tight circle after Jeff had skilfully leveled out of the drop. “Smoke was trailing over the yacht’s stern,” Sandy murmured. “Now it’s blowing off to the starboard side. She’s swinging toward us.” Through his glasses Larry saw the hydroplane awaken the sea to a split crest of foam, saw a cascade of moiling water begin to chase her, and knew that the tiny craft was racing out to the meeting. “All’s well!” he grinned as Dick looked back. Dick nodded and passed the report to Sandy. Sandy did not smile. Instead, as they swung, he scanned the sky. That was not his instructions, but it was his determined plan. “I’ll see the amphibian Jeff was working on, nights,” he mused. “It ought to be in sight now——” Convinced that both the hydroplane and the yacht would have located the spot on the sea where they would meet, Jeff broke the tedium of his tight circle by a reverse of controls, banking to the other side and swinging in a climbing spiral to the right. Closer and closer together came the swift turbine propelled yacht and the surface-skimming hydroplane. “I was right!” shouted Sandy, unheard but triumphant—and also a little startled that he had so closely guessed what would happen. He swung his head, signaled Dick, waved an arm, pointing. Dick and Larry stared, while Sandy poked Jeff and repeated his gestures. On the horizon, coming at moderate speed, but growing large enough so that there could be no error of identification, came the amphibian. Its dun color and its tail marking were unmistakable. “The amphibian!” cried Larry. “I wonder why——” “I wonder who’s in it?” Dick mused as Jeff cut the gun and went into a glide, the better to get a look at the oncoming craft low over the seashore. Larry realized with a pang that he was neglecting Jeff’s plan. He looked down. No glass was needed to show him the yacht, swiftly being brought almost under them by its speed and theirs. A quarter of a mile away was the hydroplane, coming fast. A mile to the south flew the approaching amphibian. And in every mind—even Jeff’s, had they been able to read it—was the puzzled question, “Why?” Jeff began to climb in a tight upward spiral to keep as well over the scene of activity as he could without being in the way. “And to be high enough to interfere if something has slipped,” Larry decided on the purpose in Jeff’s mind. Then, as the amphibian came roaring up a hundred yards to their left, and in a wide swing began to circle the yacht, Sandy screeched in excitement and pointed downward. “Something’s happening!” he screamed. Swiftly Larry threw his binoculars into focus as he swept the length of the yacht to discover what caused Sandy’s cry, for with a wing in his way he did not see the stern. They swung and he gave a shout of dismay and amazement. “Somebody’s overboard!” Instantly he corrected himself. “No—but there’s a life preserver in the water—it was thrown over but the yacht isn’t stopping.” His glasses swept the bridge, the deck. “No excitement—now, I wonder——” The lenses brought the stern and after cabin into view. Turning away, back to his view, in a dark dress, a woman who had been at the extreme after rail was racing out of sight behind the cabin. “There’s a life preserver in the water!” Dick could see it without glasses. Sandy looked. “The amphibian is making for it!” he yelled. “The hydroplane can’t get there in time!” shouted Larry. None of them realized that Jeff’s roaring engine drowned their cries. “Jeff! Look——” Wildly Sandy gesticulated. Fast and high, in a swift glide, coming like a hawk dropping to its prey, a light seaplane, skimming the edge of an incoming fog bank, showed its slim, boatlike fuselage and wide wingspan, with two small pontoons at wingtips to support it in the surf. There was a swift drop of their own craft as Jeff dived, came into a good position and zoomed past the yacht, close to it. Wildly, as those on the bridge came into clear view, Sandy, Larry, Dick and Jeff gesticulated, pointing astern. Bells were jangled, the yacht was sharply brought up by reversed propellers and a tender was swiftly being put down from its davits, an excited sailor working to start its engine, even as it was lowered. Then, helpless to take active part because they had no pontoons, the Sky Patrol witnessed the maddest, strangest race staged since aviation became a reality. And the prize? A mysteriously flung life preserver! |
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