Bill Bolton Flying Midshipman Part 14

"Morning," he greeted affably as the leaders drew near. "All pa.s.sengers?"

"All but me-fer the island," announced the man in advance of the rest, a cadaverous person with a Vermont tw.a.n.g in his voice. "I got too much to do round here to go joy ridin'. Guess I ain't seen you before. Funny, but I thought Thompson piloted the plane up last night."

"Not this plane, Mr.-?"

"Weed's my name, youngster. Who be ye anyway?"

Bill smiled at the matter-of-fact Mr. Weed. "First pilot of this amphibian," he answered calmly.

Several of the other men chuckled. "That's one fer ye," exploded one, "what's his moniker matter, so's he can fly the plane?"

"That's my business," growled the Vermonter. "Shut yer face, Pete!

You're too goldarned mouthy!"

"Who sez so?" Pete scowled at him and laid a hand on the revolver he carried in a holster under his left arm. "Not you, you nosey hayseed-cut yer cackle and let's get goin'. I'm fed up to the eyes with you and this stinkin' swamp."

He beckoned to the others to follow and the party filed aboard the amphibian.

Weed splashed the dock with tobacco juice. "Guess you must be one of them new aviators the boss has hired," he observed in his nasal tw.a.n.g.

"I guess you're right," said Bill. "Made my first trip yesterday. Any orders?"

"Nope-no orders. You've got a bunch of gold aboard-be careful of it, that's all. What's become of Thompson? He wasn't so goldarned stuckup as most of you fellers."

"Search me-I'm not wet nurse to every b.u.m pilot Martinengo hires," Bill shot back carelessly. "If that's all, I reckon I'll say bye-bye and shove off. The big boss doesn't pay me to argue with slave drivers."

"Is that so?" snapped Weed. "Well, let me tell you, young feller, that I'm boss of this camp. What I say here _goes!_"

"Good!" said Bill. "That's just what I'm going to do now!"

He cast off the lines that moored the plane to the dock. Then he sprang aboard and slid the cabin door shut and locked it amid a torrent of abuse from the camp boss.

Without a word to the grinning men seated in the cabin, he went forward and into the pilot's c.o.c.kpit shutting this door after him as well. With a wink at Osceola he slipped into his seat behind the wheel and after giving the plane's three engines a short test, he let in his clutch.

The big s.h.i.+p, which had been slowly drifting away from the dock and the irate Mr. Weed, began to gather headway. Bill taxied her round in a wide half circle until he got her head into the light wind with a long stretch of open lagoon ahead. A slight widening of the throttle sent the big bus hurtling down the straight-away. Then Bill jerked her onto the step and a moment or two later she was in the air.

Bill climbed until the altimeter on the instrument board marked four thousand feet. Then he leveled off and after a slight bank to port, headed the big amphibian due east. Flying conditions were excellent. A light wind blew out of the southeast, but the air was smooth, without a ripple. A cloudless sky of light blue dipped to a sharply defined horizon; and near the rim of the inverted bowl the pale green of the Everglades contrasted with the darker foliage of the cypress swamps.

Here and there and everywhere, lakes, lagoons and wandering streams sparkled and danced in the sun glare like uncut brilliants on a bed of green velvet.

With his free hand, Bill unhooked a headphone set from the side of his seat and adjusted it. At the same time he motioned Osceola to don the set at the other end of the cord.

"So far, so good," he spoke into the transmitter which hung on his chest. "I don't think we'll have trouble with our pa.s.sengers for a while yet, anyway. They seem to have no suspicion but what we are Martinengo's pilots."

"But you do expect trouble?"

"Bound to have it. We are off the regular course to Sh.e.l.l Island now.

Those lads aft probably won't smell a rat until we get over the Everglades. Then they'll want to know the reason why."

"What can we do about it?"

"Stall 'em off somehow. I'll think of some gag to tell them. When we get nearer Miami, I can wire the chief of police to bring some of his men and meet the plane at the airport."

Osceola's tone was not encouraging. "I wonder," he said.

"Wonder what?"

"I'm afraid you're too sanguine, Bill. I know this type of bully and scoundrel we're up against. What is more-several of those men back there in the cabin know me-I bear the marks of their whips on my back."

"Umm!" grunted Bill, his fingers drumming a tattoo on the wheel.

"They'll have to smash the cabin door to get out here. I shot the bolt when I came forward."

"But that door won't hold them if they once get going," he argued.

"They'll probably bust through-stick a gun to your head and force you to fly them to the Island."

"But they won't shoot," replied Bill with conviction. "They'll know that that would mean a crash and pretty certain death."

"How do you figure that? If they don't recognize me in this rig, they'll think I can take over from you and fly this s.h.i.+p-after your lights have been put out. I tell you, Bill, we're up against it, good and plenty!"

"I reckon you're right," sighed Bill, and was silent.

Presently he spoke again. "A captain should stay with his s.h.i.+p to the last," he murmured, as if giving vent to his secret thoughts. "But there are exceptions to every rule."

"What are you saying?" Osceola was puzzled.

Bill hesitated for a moment, then went on with sudden energy.

"Open the locker under this seat. There are three or four parachutes stowed away there. I saw them when I first came aboard. Pull out three of them-one for each of us. When you and Sam have got into yours, I'll put on mine."

"How are you going to fly the plane and do that, too?"

"Get yours on and I'll show you."

Osceola brought forth two of the parachutes and pa.s.sed one over the seat to Sam. A motion or two from Bill gave them an idea of how to adjust the harness, and presently Osceola brought out the one for Bill. That young gentleman laid it on his wheel and began to issue further instructions.

"Place your feet on your rudder pedals, Osceola, and keep her nose pointed just as she is. That's right. Now take hold of your wheel.

No-don't clamp onto it that way. Hold it lightly-that's better. This wooden yoke to which your wheel and mine are attached controls the elevators, those horizontal planes on either side of the rudder-Push your wheel forward and with it the yoke-your plane flies downward. Pull back your wheel and she flies upward."

"I didn't expect to be given flight instruction today-"

Bill laughed. "That isn't the half of it, boy. I'm telling you this much just so you can guide the s.h.i.+p while I put on my parachute. But here's some more dope. These wheels are attached by wire cables to the ailerons, those hinged surfaces at the end of each wing. Their function, as they say in the Air Service, is primarily to impress a rolling movement to the airplane; just as the elevators are to impress a pitching movement. You see, in flying a plane, one not only has to steer it and balance it for the roll to either side like riding a bicycle,-the plane has to be balanced for the pitch fore and aft as well."

Osceola nodded his understanding. "I get you. Balance for the roll sideways by turning this wheel in the opposite direction from which she's tipping."

"Right-o!"

"To raise the nose, I pull back the wheel; to lower it, I push it forward."

"Go to the top of the cla.s.s," grinned his friend. "You're letter perfect, at least."