“Eight o’clock, suh! A fine hot day—an’ yo’ baf is runnin’.”

Bill opened his eyes and stared upward from a soft pillow into the grinning face of an ancient negro.

“Ise Sam. Reckon Marse Osceola done tell yo’all ‘bout me. Yessuh—yo’ baf is runnin’.”

Bill stretched and sat up in bed. “Pinch me, Sam,” he yawned. “Did you really say ‘bath’—or am I still sound asleep?”

“No, suh, yo’ sure is awake, Marse Osceola has just got out o’ the tub. He done tol’ me to wake yo’all.” The old darkey seemed a bit flustered. “Ef yo’ll kindly tell me how yo’ likes yo’ eggs, Marse Bolton, I’ll go on in de kitchen and dish up breakfast.”

“Sam,” said Bill, springing out of bed. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, and your voice is music. Lead me to that bath you mentioned, and lead me quick. Real soap and clean water! Gee—it’s wonderful!”

“An’ de eggs, suh?”

“As long as they are fresh and there’s plenty of them, you cook them any way your heart desires.”

“Yessuh——I will, suh. De bathroom’s through dat door over yonder.”

Thirty minutes later, two spruce young fellows in freshly laundered uniforms of white duck met at the breakfast table in the dining room of the bungalow.

“Is it really the wild Seminole chief, Osceola?” grinned Bill as he stood and gazed admiringly at his friend.

Osceola grinned back at him. “It sure is,” he laughed and took his seat at the table. “They tell me that clothes don’t make the man, but—well, I’d never have known you for the chap I said good night to a few hours ago.”

“I feel like a million dollars!” Bill unfolded a snowy white napkin, while Sam filled his coffee cup. “Rest, good food and decent clothes, not to speak of a bath, sure do make a difference. These uniforms fit as if they’d been built for us, too.”

Osceola nodded. “These white shoes I’ve got on pinch a bit, but even so, I’m probably a darn sight more comfortable than the lad who owns them. It must be getting pretty hot under the roof by this time.” He motioned toward the ceiling.

“They’ll be found and released later on,” said Bill, his mouth full of buttered toast. “In fact, I’ll leave a note on the table here, when we go, telling where we’ve hidden them.”

“They don’t deserve it,” returned Osceola, “but you’re the boss. Do as you like about it.”

“What time is the plane scheduled to shove off?”

“She generally takes the air about ten. We’ve plenty of time.”

“O.K. We’ll finish breakfast, then I’ll write the note, and we’ll go down to the dock. I want to get to the plane early. A helmet and goggles for each of us will be a grand help to this disguise. What’s worrying me is the getting down there. If the guard at the gate happens to know those lads upstairs, and smells a rat, things are likely to become rather unpleasant.”

“They are,” said Osceola with conviction. “If we are stopped, there’s nothing for it but to shoot our way out and beat it down to the plane. Maybe we’ll make it and maybe we won’t—— Anyway, we’ll have lived like human beings again for a few hours—and that’s something!”

“You’re right there, old man!” Bill pushed back his chair. “Come in here, Sam,” he called. Then as the darkey appeared through the swinging door, “How’d you like to take a hop, Sam?”

“Oh, suh,—if you on’y could take me with you!” The old man’s voice was husky with excitement and longing.

“If we go, you go,” declared Bill.

“God’ull bless yo’all for dis, Marse Bolton. ‘Deed he will. I done give up all hope o’ seein’ Lize an’ de chilluns long ago. I——”

Bill stood up and clapped him on the shoulder.

“That’s all right, uncle. If things go as we hope, we’ll all be seeing our folks soon. Go into the room I slept in. There’s a suitcase in there, and there’s one in the other bedroom, too. Pack them with anything you please, and follow us down to the dock with both bags when we leave here. Carry them aboard the plane and forget to come ashore. I’ll find a place you can stow away, never fear.”

He cut short the old darkey’s thanks and sent him hurrying off to pack. Then, after rummaging about, he found paper and pencil. A moment or two later he tossed the note he had written on to the table, for Osceola to read.

“I don’t suppose there’s much of a chance we’ll have the bus to ourselves?”

“Hardly. She only runs three times a week and from what I’ve heard, there are always passengers to be taken to Shell Island. Where will you head for?”

“Miami, I guess. Any town with a police station and a jail for our passengers! But Dad and I have slews of friends in Miami, and we may need friends badly before we’re clear of this business. How does that suit you?”

“It’s as good a spot to land as another. I want to see this place and Shell Island cleaned out before I go home.”

“Just one thing more, Osceola.”

“What’s that?”

“If there’s trouble aboard the amphibian—with the passengers, I mean—well—I’m not coming back unless I can bring a posse.”

“You’ll crash her first?”

“Just that—agree?”

“Of course I agree to it. I’d a thousand times rather be dead than live the life of the last few weeks over again. If there’s no other way out, crash her. That’s a quick end—but to be brought back here means death by inches for both of us.”

Sam appeared in the doorway, carrying a couple of suitcases. “I’se all ready, gennulmen, when yo’all is.”

“That being the case,” smiled Bill, “my vote goes for a speedy departure. Ready, Osceola?”

“Rearing to go.” He picked up his gold braided cap and clapped it on his head. “It always sets me on edge to wait—for danger.”

“So you rush into battle so as to get it over with, eh?” Bill laughed.

“Something like that. To tell the truth, I think we’re both just a bit beyond ourselves at present. Let’s get out of here.” He walked to the front door and flung it open.

Bill caught up his cap and followed Osceola, with Sam at his heels.

Sun from the cloudless sky poured down on the unlovely prospect before them in a deluge of steaming, tropical heat. The compound, except for a mangy cur or two and a remarkably thin cat, was deserted. The members of Martinengo’s company who were not driving his slaves in the swamp preferred the shade afforded by their quarters rather than this blistering sunlight. Presently the little party came to the closed gates of the stockade.

A man shambled out of the guardhouse with a huge key in his hand.

“Youse high-flyers certainly have the life,” he grumbled and rattled the padlock that held the gates. “Nuthin’ ter do but take nice breezy rides and have niggers to wait on you. And me sweatin’ blood ter let you in and out of this here stockade!”

He pushed open the heavy doors just far enough for one man to pass through at a time, stood aside and scowled at them.

“So much obliged, Oswald, old chap,” beamed Bill. “Sorry I’ve got nothing smaller than a demi-grand. Sam, if the worthy turn-key insists on a tip, hand him a cake of soap. He’ll smell the sweeter for it.”

He passed out of the stockade behind Osceola, with Sam grinning from ear to ear, bringing up the rear. Through the closing gates came a torrent of sizzling invective.

“Kind of risky, wasn’t it, Bill?” The Seminole waited for his white friend, then paced beside him down the winding corduroy road.

Bill grinned. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But he seemed to expect an exchange of courtesies. He’s used to getting an earful from the pilots, I’ll bet. And returning it with interest, for that matter. Well, here we are at the dock—and there’s the old bus waiting for us!”

“And nobody around yet but our own sweet selves!” exulted his friend. “But I’m a blushing rose today when it comes to showing my lovely phiz. Me for a helmet and goggles as soon as possible. Let’s get aboard.”

They slid back the door to the cabin and passed inside. The long apartment was equipped with comfortable passenger seats, five on each side of the narrow central aisle. Big observation windows ran the length of the cabin, and a door at the rear led direct to the prison hold in which Bill had made the trip from Shell Island. Investigation proved that the wooden bars of the cells had been removed and piled at the farther end. Neatly stacked in bins arranged for the purpose were a goodly number of small canvas sacks. Each bag was padlocked.

Bill lifted one of the sacks. “Gold!” he cried. “Nothing else could be so heavy. The Martinengos certainly are making a fortune out of these diggings if this is a sample shipment!”

“They’ll not get a chance to lay their filthy paws on that lot if I can help it,” said Osceola grimly. “Let’s go up front. I haven’t seen a hole a mouse could hide in so far, much less Sam. Perhaps that door with the window in it, at the other end of the passenger cabin will solve the problem.”

“I can tell you now that it opens into the pilot’s cockpit.” Bill started forward.

Upon reaching it, he slid open the door to find himself in a roomy cockpit, fitted with two pilots’ seats and complete dual control of the wheel and column type. A three piece glass windshield gave such protection that Bill knew goggles would not be necessary under normal flying conditions.

“It’s a swell boat,” he remarked. “Luxurious devils, these slave drivers.”

Osceola nodded. “Looks pretty nice to me. Certainly is a big ship. Do you know anything about her? I mean to say, can you fly this kind of an airplane?”

Bill smiled good humoredly at the Seminole’s worried expression. “This bus is a tailor-made job—no stock model was ever built like this. But I can fly her all right, once I’ve seen that her tanks are full and tested her three engines. The man who assembled this ship knew what he was doing. There’s nothing better for commercial work than the 200 horsepower, air-cooled radial engines she’s equipped with.”

“I’ll take your word for it, old man. But why not get busy and take off right now? If there are any passengers, they’re likely to spot us for what we are. I’m not eager to shirk a fight, you know, but things are sure to become hectic when they find out we’re not bound for Shell Island.”

“True,” said Bill. “But I reckon we’ve got to go through with it. Your idea’s a good one, Osceola, but it just won’t work. I thought of the same thing on the way down here. Cast your eye yonder, old sport. Martinengo’s minions are taking no chances with pilots pulling anything phoney on their own hook!”

Both Osceola and old Sam glanced in the direction indicated by Bill. On a broad mound of earth, half way up the incline toward the stockade, the ugly nose of a field gun could be plainly seen, Beside the gun stood a sentry.

“That gun would blow this bus to kingdom come if I ‘got busy’—as you call it. I’m going to give the ship a looking-over now, but that’s all, till I get word to shove off.”

Osceola’s face was a study in chagrin and gloom.

“You’re right, of course, Bill. I’d forgotten about that gun. Tell me—what are we going to do with Sam?”

“Oh, he can stay in this cockpit. Crawl in behind the pilot’s seat, Sam. Lie down on the deck, and curl up so your legs don’t show. The partition will screen you from the passengers. Better hop in there now—there’s no telling when they’ll be along.”

“Yassuh, boss, Ise a-gwine dar now. I ain’t takin’ no chances.”

Sam wriggled into his hideaway and Bill turned to Osceola.

“Slip into that jumper and put on your helmet,” he suggested. “It looks no end professional. There’s nothing for you to do but sit in that seat. You can’t very well put down your goggles until just before the take off. So if anyone shows curiosity, pretend to be fixing something on the instrument board. You’ll find a screwdriver in the locker, I guess. That ought to help the picture fifty percent at least,” he grinned, then went on—“But if you love your life, don’t unscrew or tighten anything! There are some men coming down the road now. I’ve got an inspection to make and then—I’ve got to get out on the dock and meet them.”

“Can’t you stick around here, get the motors started or something?” Osceola’s voice was muffled by the jumper he was pulling over his head.

“I'd like to,” Bill assured him. “But it would look queer and somebody would be sure to smell a rat. There’ll be a guy down here to give me orders, all right. From what we know, the pilots of this outfit keep pretty much to themselves. Here’s hoping I don’t run into any of their pals.”

“I’ve got my gun handy, and you’re wearing one,” said Osceola pointedly, as he adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet. “If it comes to a pinch, we’ll shoot it out—field gun or no field gun.”

“That’s the way to talk!”

Bill slapped his friend’s shoulder and went into the cabin.