  The moment that the match struck the water found Bill wriggling across the deck like a sand-eel. The red tip of the cigarette in the man’s mouth glowed and waned as he drew in the smoke. A bright point in the darkness, it moved forward, and in its soft luster Bill could distinguish the shiny peak and white linen top of the man’s yachting cap, beneath which his face was a dim brown blur. Everything else was in black obscurity. As quickly as a cat, Bill slipped down the ladder and, pressing his body against the side of the yacht, lay motionless. It was unlikely that the man would descend, for Bill had seen no boat tethered at the tiny square stage below. And now he prayed that this yacht’s officer would not select the spot directly above him to pause for contemplation of the night sky. The man drew nearer, hesitated, as if halted by the sound of talk in the saloon below, then passed on. The slow tread of his rubber soles grew fainter, and Bill knew that he had strolled to the other side of the deck. Now was his chance. For an instant he glanced down at the dinghy. That would be the easier way, but—well, there was no telling what might happen if he went ashore. He hastily unlaced his shoes, stuffed them in his coat pocket, and bending low, ran lightly along the deck toward the door whence the officer had emerged. Down the companionway he darted and at the bottom found himself in a narrow passage which bisected this part of the yacht fore and aft. Being familiar with this type of craft, he guessed that the passage ran forward from the saloon where Slim and Sanders were still conferring, to the galley and the crew’s quarters. On either side were the closed doors of the cabins. He listened for a second at the door nearest the stairs, turned the knob and pushed it open. “That you, Petersen?” inquired a sleepy voice from within the dark cabin. “The owner wants young Evans in the saloon,” growled Bill, trusting that his voice sounded not too unlike Petersen’s, who he guessed was finishing his smoke on deck. He was without weapon of any kind. If the man in the cabin became suspicious, he must run for it. He heard a prodigious yawn. “Well, I ain’t that kid’s nurse,” he grumbled. “You ought to know, he’s in Number 3. The key’s in the door. Fetch him yourself. High tide’s at two bells and we shove off then. For the love of Mike, get out of here and let me catch forty winks!” Bill hurriedly closed the door and looked around for Number 3. There was a night light burning in the passage and by its dim rays he soon found the cabin, just forward of the companionway. He unlocked it, slipped inside and shut the door after him. “Say!” piped a shrill voice, and one that he recognized this time. “What’s the big idea? For the twenty-seventh time I’ll tell you I don’t know where my father is—and I care less. Beat it, and let a feller sleep!” “Pipe down, Charlie, it’s Bill!” “Bill!” almost shrieked the boy. “Gee whizz, but I’m glad you’ve come. It’s so dark in here—I thought—” “Never mind what you thought. Hustle it up, kid—we’ve got to get out of here in a hurry.” “Wait till I get my clothes on—” Bill felt rather than saw the small figure beside him and caught Charlie’s arm. “No time for clothes. You’re wearing something—what is it?” “One of old Sanders’ nightshirts,” Charlie ruefully returned. “It’s a million sizes too big—as usual, they chuck anything at a—” “Who do you think you are—” whispered Bill, “the Prince of Wales?” He pulled Charlie toward the door, opened it and looked out. Someone was coming down the companionway, whistling Yankee Doodle and flatting horribly. Bill jerked back, kept the cabin door on a crack and waited. Presently a door further down the passage slammed and Yankee Doodle was suddenly and mercifully cut short. Bill wasted no time. Into the corridor, followed by Charlie, he sprang. Number 3 was hurriedly locked and the two ran up the companionway, their bare feet making no noise on the brass-bound rubber treads. Both lads leapt across the deck, slithered into the dinghy and pushed off. The tide was on the flood and made a splashing noise against the hull sufficient to muffle the click of the oars as Bill dropped them into the row-locks. Gritting his teeth, he took three or four long strokes and then sat still. In the swing of the tide the dinghy drifted silently away from the vessel, and was lost among other crafts at anchor nearby. They gave the yacht a wide berth, one lad at the oars, the other crouched in the stern of the rowboat. Bill used its lights, however, to get his bearings on the pier steps. He half expected some angry yachtsman to be waiting with threats to wring his neck for such bare-faced robbery. They were still a couple of hundred yards off the wharf when a sea-going tug swung round the riding lights of an anchored sloop. Bill heard the clang of the engine room bell, and almost directly the powerful craft slowed down, her propeller blades churning the water to foam. A voice hailed them from the deck forward. “Dinghy ahoy! Scull over here and let’s see who ye are!” “Who wants to know?” piped up Charlie. “The Stamford Harbor Police Patrol wants ter know, sonny—that’s who. Give us no more of your lip. Come aboard and let’s see what ye got in that there rowboat!” “Coming!” said Bill, and pulled toward the tug which was drifting slowly with the tide. They were but a few yards off her side when a blinding light struck the dinghy. “Why didn’t ye get that dum thing workin’ before, Pat?” growled another voice above their heads. “Them ain’t the guys we’re lookin’ for. There ain’t no booze aboard that dinghy—nothin’ but a couple o’ lads. An’ one of em’s stole his grandmother’s night shirt.” “Grandmother, your eye!” sang out Charlie, who knew he looked ridiculous, and was in no mood to appreciate the tug crew’s laughter. “Shut up, kid,” ordered Bill, and then in a louder voice: “We are looking for the police. There’s worse than booze-running going on out here tonight. Any objection to our coming aboard?” “Come aboard, bub—tell us yer troubles.” They were helped overside by a man in trousers and a cotton undershirt. Upon closer inspection he proved to be a short and stubby individual with very black eyes and hair and a round face badly in need of a shave. “An’ now what’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you in command of this craft?” “I am, young man. Sergeant Duffy’s the name. Now let’s have yer monikers—an’ all about it.” “My name is Bolton, I live in New Canaan,” began Bill. “What? Not the midshipman whose name was in all the papers fer capturin’ that pirate liner!” “I guess,” said Bill, “I have to plead guilty to the charge.” Sergeant Duffy shook him warmly by the hand. “I recognize ye now from the pictures,” he beamed. “I’m glad to meet ye, sor. It’s an honor, it is.... An’ the young man wid ye—he’ll be Charlie Evans, if I’m not mistaken? Where in the seven seas did ye locate the lad? His father had his kidnappin’ broadcasted t’night, but it said them fellies had got him away down east—Clayton, Maine, was the place.” “Well, I found him locked up aboard that yacht, the one that’s showing lights over there.” “The Katrina?” “I didn’t know her name—” “The Katrina’s right,” cut in Charlie. “A feller by the name of Sanders is owner,” offered the Sergeant. “He lives on Shippan Point.” “That,” said Bill, “is the guy. Anyway, he’s in cahoots with Slim Johnson, the gangster whom I saw murder a man called Hank tonight. They’re both on board the Katrina now, and I have every reason to believe that Sanders was the brains of von Hiemskirk’s pirate gang. That yacht, by the way, is shoving off for Maine at the turn of the tide.” “Oh, no, she ain’t—” declared the policeman. “By gorry, we’ll attend to the Katrina in a jiffy. I’m sendin’ ye ashore wid Kelly. He’s got to call up headquarters, and you can ’phone Mr. Evans at the same time.” “Can’t we go with you and see the fun?” begged Charlie. “No, ye can’t, young man. Ye’re my responsibility now, and the two of ye have had enough excitement fer tonight, I’ll be thinkin’.” “We’re very much obliged to you, Sergeant,” said Bill, shaking hands again. Sergeant Duffy shook his bullet head. “It’s me who’s thankin’ you, sor. This is big business in our line. It’s the chanct I’ve been waitin’ more than five years for. It will mean my lieutenancy, Mister Bolton. And just remember, sor, if any o’ thim dumb motorcycle cops hold ye up fer speedin’ any time, tell ’em you’re a friend o’ Duffy’s! If they don’t let ye go, I’ll break ’em.” Bill grinned and nodded and they hurried overside into the dinghy where a husky policeman was already at the oars. “Beat it, Kelly,” Duffy flung after them, “and ’phone the chief to break out a bunch of his flat-feet and get ’em down to the wharf on the run. Now you men,” they heard him say as they drew away from the patrol boat, “rip them covers off the guns and git under way. The Katrina over yonder’s got a bunch o’ murderin’ kidnappers on her, and we’re the lads what will run ’em in the cells, sure as Saint Patrick run the snakes out o’ the old country!” The wharf was deserted. After knotting the dinghy’s painter to an iron ringbolt, the lads followed Kelly across the rough planking to the small shack Bill had hidden behind while watching Slim Johnson. Kelly produced a key and went inside. From the doorway they heard him call Police Headquarters and pour forth the sergeant’s message into the ’phone. “Well, Bill,” said Charlie, “you certainly handed Sanders and his bunch a red hot wallop. What will they do to them, do you think?” “Murder is a hanging matter in this state, Charlie, and kidnapping means a long term in state’s prison. When Sanders and Company get through with that, there will still be a federal charge of piracy against them on the Flying Fish job that we cleaned up a few weeks ago.” He broke off as Kelly came out and told him he could use the ’phone. Two minutes later, he had Mr. Evans on the wire. “Bill Bolton speaking, sir,” he said. “I’ve found Charlie. He’s safe and sound and with me now.” “Thank God!” Bill heard him exclaim, and went on talking. “I’m sorry I was so rude earlier this evening,” he apologized. “I misjudged you, sir.” “I understand how you felt, Bill. But I’d already broadcasted the boy’s abduction when you called, and—but never mind about that now. Where are you, and what’s happened?” Bill gave him a hurried resume of the evening’s adventures. “Sanders,” said Charlie’s father, “got one thing wrong. I wasn’t transporting that gold to Europe in the Merrymaid. It was bound for two banks in New Orleans—ten million dollars of it. The reason I didn’t call in the police was not because I feared Federal censure, but because I was afraid if Sanders was frightened, he would drop depth bombs on the place and scatter the gold so that no one could find it. I knew it had been sunk by von Hiemskirk and his pirates somewhere off Twin Heads, but had no idea it was in the harbor. Now we’ll get it easily enough. And that reminds me, Deborah telephoned half an hour ago. Osceola found Sanders’ headquarters this afternoon. He had an armed camp in the woods across the harbor from Turner’s. The chief got the State’s police on the job and tonight they captured the place and every man-jack of them except Sanders, who you say is aboard his yacht down here—” “Wait a minute,” interrupted Bill. He listened while Kelly called to him from the open doorway. “The policeman with us,” he continued, “says the Katrina has been taken. He can see the prisoners being moved aboard the patrol boat. He also tells me he will run us up town in his flivver. Goodbye for the present. I’ll have Charlie with you just as soon as we can get there.” Five minutes later, while they were being driven toward the heart of Stamford in the police car, Charlie turned to his friend. “Gee whizz, Bill, I clean forgot to thank you for getting me away from that gang!” Bill laughed. “Don’t mention it, kid. You’d do the same for me any day, I know.” Charlie smiled complacently. “I sure would, Bill,” he declared, “but take it from me, if you’re going to get kidnapped, bring a pair of pajamas along—these nightshirts make a monkey out of a man!” Those who have enjoyed this book and Bill’s previous adventures, Bill Bolton—Flying Midshipman, and Bill Bolton and The Flying Fish, will be sure to find even more to interest them in the next book of this series,—Bill Bolton and The Winged Cartwheels. THE END |
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