  “You and I, Bill,” said Osceola, “are on top of the world and throwing rocks at rainbows!” The young Seminole chief, stooping quickly, picked something out of the short grass at the side of the Bolton driveway. “A couple of months ago I was a slave in a cypress swamp without a dollar to my name. Now I stumble over them!” “That’s queer,” said Bill, staring at the silver disk in his friend’s hand. “It’s one of those cartwheels they hurl at you out west instead of dollar bills.” “Nobody,” declared Osceola, “ever hurled dollar bills at me!” “I mean,” said Bill, “it’s queer finding one here. Wake up—don’t let this new-found wealth cramp your usual technic. You’re in New Canaan, Connecticut, now—not far away on the western pl—” “There’s something queerer than that about this cartwheel—look!” Bill took the extended silver piece and examined it. The coin seemed genuine enough. Minted in 1897, the head of Liberty was portrayed on one side and backed by the well-known National Bird, who flaunted a streamer of E Pluribus Unum in his beak. But this particular silver dollar was no longer good as “coin of the realm.” Across Liberty’s face a pair of spread wings was cut deep into the metal, while the American eagle was defaced by two numerals, 1 and 3. “Somebody’s pocket-piece, don’t you think?” suggested Osceola. Bill nodded. “That design and the numerals are diecut. Those wings over poor old Liberty’s pan look like an aviator’s device.” “Some cloud-dodger’s mascot, I expect. Thirteen’s probably his lucky number.” Bill handed back the coin. “Stick it in your pocket. If we see it advertised, you can easily return it. In the meantime, the mascot may help you to keep the luck you were crowing about just now.” “And why shouldn’t I crow? Instead of having to work my way through my last year at Carlisle, your father puts me in charge of the foundation he has inaugurated to help the Seminole Nation. Now, Deborah and I can get married in the fall. Why shouldn’t I take the count on my worries? And you’ve got no kick coming. You’re sitting pretty yourself.” “I sure am,” admitted Bill. “Our Navy’s a swell outfit but I never expected to stay in after my two years’ sea duty when I’d finished up at the Academy. Now that the President himself has let me resign and put me on Secret Service work—well, there’s only one thing I don’t like about it.” “What’s that?” “Oh, people—my friends, I mean, think I’m loafing. They don’t understand why I should suddenly leave the Navy. And of course I can’t tell them. This other job must be kept a secret. The President said so.” “I don’t believe anybody thinks you’re a quitter or a loafer,” argued the chief, “—not after the three big stunts you’ve pulled off this summer, and all the newspaper publicity you’ve had out of them. You’re talking through your sombrero, old son. Bill Bolton is front page news from Maine to California. If you keep hitting any more bullseyes, they’ll slap your phiz on a postage stamp!” “Oh, yeah? Speak for yourself, John—or words to that effect. Looks like a dead heat to me. How about it?” Osceola abruptly changed the subject. “If this silver dollar was lost by an aviator,” he observed, fingering the coin, “he never dropped it out of an airplane, I know.” “And so what?” Bill was mildly interested. “Well, the fool thing was lying on a leaf—and the leaf was only slightly bruised—” “Maybe it bounced or rolled onto the leaf after it fell onto the driveway?” “Not this cartwheel. There’s not a scratch on it, except for the wings and the number thirteen. Six bits to a counterfeit two-cent piece with a hole in it, the yap who owns this has a hole in his trousers pocket!” Osceola dropped to his knees and studied the short grass at the edge of the drive. “Yep, just as I thought—” He stood up and flecked a dab of mold from his immaculate flannels, “here’s the fella’s spoor. He wore rubber-soled shoes.” “I thought,” said Bill, “that Dorothy Dixon was the one and only Sherlock Holmes in this village. You certainly run her a close second, though. What did the aviator who didn’t aviate do next? Keep on out to the garage and scratch his initials on that new de luxe roadster you bought last week?” “Not on this hop, he didn’t. He—wait a sec till I get a squint at this. Yes! by Jove! it wasn’t me he was interested in, but your own sweet self.” “How do you get that way so soon after breakfast?” “Listen, you blind paleface, even from here I can see that his tracks go straight over to the house. He climbed up to the farther window of your room by way of that leader, and the ivy. Several pieces of the vine are lying on the grass where he broke them off getting up or down! Even you ought to be able to see that the wire on that window-screen has been tampered with. If you don’t believe me, shin up there and take a look!” “Oh, I’ll take your word for it.” Several times before, in his career, Bill had encountered evidence of the young Seminole’s truly marvelous eyesight. “Do those scintillating orbs of yours tell you when all this occurred?” “They most certainly do, you mole.” “When, then?” “Between nine and nine-thirty last night!” “Sure it wasn’t quarter to ten?” “Quite sure,” smiled Osceola. “I know,” said Bill, “that you can spot anything in daylight, or in the dark, for that matter, but when you claim to turn yourself into a human time clock, I ha’e me doots—” “Oh, yeah? Well, listen, kid, and I’ll prove to you that Red Men aren’t as bad as they’re painted. Last night I left you with the girls over at the Dixon’s, and walked in the front door just as your hall clock was striking nine-thirty.” “That’s right. You came over here to work on some figures for your new Seminole schools.” “O and likewise K. I went straight up to my room and took my work out on the sleeping porch, where it was cooler. You found me there when you got back at eleven, didn’t you?” “That’s all right, too. But what’s that got to do with the climbing aviator?” “Why, just this. From nine-thirty until eleven-thirty I was out on that porch with the light going. Then I went to bed there and slept till this morning. And let me tell you, Bill, old son, that the man has yet to be born who can shin up a rainpipe thirty feet away from me and I not know it, awake or asleep!” “Maybe he came before nine.” Bill was already convinced that his friend knew what he was talking about, but he wasn’t hauling down his flag without a last struggle. “It wasn’t dark last night until nine o’clock, daylight saving time,” Osceola explained patiently. “Also, last night there was a heavy dew, even you can see it on the grass still, and—” “And the silver dollar was wet while the leaf remained bone dry, showing that said cartwheel was dropped early in the evening!” “You certainly are the boy to ring the quoits,” mocked the chief. “But now that we know all about it, we really aren’t much forwarder. I don’t suppose you’ve missed anything in your room? You haven’t said anything about it.” “No,” Bill said thoughtfully, “I haven’t noticed anything, but we’d better go in and have a look. I wonder who that bird was and what he wanted. Funny! Nothing was disturbed so far as I can remember.” The two tall lads turned back toward the house. “And there’s where our second-story aviator swung off the grass on to the drive when he was going home,” exclaimed Osceola, pointing to a thin spot on the gravel which bore a well-defined footprint, pointing toward the road. “If it was worth while, which it isn’t, we could probably find the tire-marks of the car he drove off in beyond the stone fence down yonder.” Bill grunted. “When you say ‘second story,’ you probably hit the nail on the head. In future we’ll substitute worker for aviator, if you don’t mind. There are a lot of bum flyers with licenses, and a lot of bums who fly, but I wouldn’t insult the worst of them by classing him with a cheap sneak thief.” “Maybe,” remarked Osceola, “he wasn’t so cheap at that. But we’ll soon find out.” They went up the front veranda steps, into the house and upstairs to Bill’s room. “I don’t run to jewelry,” observed Bill, his eyes travelling around the bedroom, “but he hasn’t touched my silver-backed brushes, or that string of cups on the mantelpiece. And the maids didn’t report any silver missing downstairs, either. I wonder what in thunder he was after.” “Got anything of value in that drawer?” his friend inquired, pointing to a flat-top table desk between the windows. “Somebody’s been fooling with the lock. I can see the scratches on the wood—” “Nothing but some papers, worth nothing to anybody but me. Old newspaper clippings, Navy orders, my honorable discharge and the like. By gosh!” he cried, “the lock’s busted! And somebody’s messed up the entire drawer. Look here—these things were in piles with rubber bands around them. Now they’re scattered all over the place—” “Anything gone?” “Wait, I’ll see.” Hurriedly he sorted out his possessions, then shook his head. “Not a thing. What under the sky-blue canopy do you suppose that dollar-dropping buzzard was after?” “You haven’t said anything to anyone about the new job, have you?” “You and Dad are the only ones outside of the people in Washington who know about it.” “But this doesn’t look like it, Bill.” “You don’t mean that the goop who got in here last night was in the know! Why, I haven’t been assigned any work yet. What could he expect to find among my papers?” “Perhaps,” mused Osceola, “he, or whoever sent him, has an idea that you’ve been put to work already, and they want to know how much you’ve found out or what your instructions are.” “Some gang the government is after, you mean?” “It’s quite possible.” “But how could they learn that I—” “A sieve,” said Osceola sententiously, “isn’t the only thing that leaks. Someone in Washington has spilled the goldarned beans, inadvertently or not.” “If you’re right, Osceola, this is serious business.” “Of course it is. What are you going to do about it?” “Wait, watch and listen. I’m due in Washington next week to receive my orders. Until then, I shall do nothing.” “And I guess you’re right, at that. My surmises may be all wet, though I doubt it. Just the same, we’ve nothing concrete to go on except that a lad climbs in the window and goes through your desk.” Bill closed the drawer. “Let’s forget it, then,” he suggested. “At least for today. You and I, old Rain-in-the-face, have a heavy date. Had you forgotten it?” “Not likely. When you’re engaged, a fella can’t think of anything else but the next date!” “You’ve sure got it bad,” grinned Bill. “Thank goodness, I’m still heart whole and fancy free!” “What about Dorothy Dixon?” “Aw, shucks! We’re just good pals, and you know it.” “Says you!” “Says both of us. I’m seventeen, and she’s a year younger. Neither of us is thinking about getting married, or anything like that.” “Gee, I forget you’re really only a kid,” laughed Osceola. “Well, let’s shove off. The girls are going up there in Dorothy’s plane. They said they’d bring lunch. Where is this place we’re going to picnic, anyway?” “Up in the hills beyond Danbury. It’s quite near the far end of Candlewood Lake.” “Was it up that way you and Dorothy corralled the New Canaan bank robbers?” “Yes, quite near there. That’s how we learned of the wood lot. It’s secluded, there’s a good spring, and it’s really a peach of a place for a picnic.” “Well, let’s get goin’ then.” “Coming, Romeo—coming!” Bill followed his impatient friend out of the room. “What’s eatin’ you? It’s early yet.” “Maybe it is, but—well, laugh if you want to, I’m uneasy as blazes about those girls!” Bill caught up with him as they ran down the steps of the side porch and headed out to the hangar. “It must be awful to be in love. The girls are all right. Dorothy is an A-1 pilot. I ought to know. I taught her myself.” Osceola said nothing more until they had passed the garage and stables and were crossing the flat meadow where the Bolton hangar was located. “Thank goodness, Frank has run out that Ryan of yours,” he exclaimed as they came into view of a two-seater monoplane parked before the open doors of the converted haybarn. “Getting lazy in your old age, are you?” jeered Bill. “No, but I’ll admit the sooner we’re off and up in the hills, the better pleased I’ll be.” “Well, you can hop right in, old fuss budget. While you were working on your school plan, early this morning, I came out here and went over the bus from nose to tailplane. Pull out those wheel blocks and carry them into the rear cockpit with you. Meanwhile I’ll show you how the new inertia starter I’ve rigged her with can swing a prop. Make it snappy, big chief—this is an emergency patrol—the women must be saved at all costs!” Bill adopted a mock-heroic attitude and roared with laughter at Osceola’s disgust. Twenty minutes later, Bill, at the controls of the Ryan, sighted a rectangular patch of light green framed in the darker green of the Connecticut hills twenty-five hundred feet below the speeding plane. He clapped a pair of glasses to his eyes and the woodlot sprang up at him. It seemed he could almost reach out and pluck the flowers that dotted the high grass. Then he turned his gaze to the upper corner of the field. There lay Dorothy Dixon’s small amphibian, parked near the road which wound up the wooded valley. Close by, a motor car was drawn up at the edge of the field. For a moment he failed to sight either Dorothy, or her pretty Seminole friend, Deborah Lightfoot. “Under the trees beyond the plane!” Osceola’s shout almost broke Bill’s eardrums, coming as it did through the close-pressed receivers of his headphone set. Automatically, he dropped the glasses, caught at his safety-belt to see if it was fastened and shoved forward. The Ryan bucked into a nosedive and dropped earthward with the speed of a shooting star. Osceola’s premonition of danger had been a wise one. Beneath the trees, Dorothy and Deborah were struggling with two men. |
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