Bill Bolton Flying Midshipman Part 5

"Reckon the _Pelican's_ chow ain't so good, the way you tackle yer dinner," laughed the man at the table's head.

"If they have fried chicken aboard, it never gets for'ard of the cabin,"

Bill grinned back. He knew that his ident.i.ty might be discovered at any time and planned to make the most of the meal while he could.

"I run the commissariat and the men here at the barracks," his new acquaintance informed him. "Y' got to feed 'em right to keep 'em contented. The boss is liberal. 'He knows his oats. b.u.m chow makes fer fights and knifin's in this climate."

Bill nodded and kept on eating. A man further down the table raised his voice above the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the hum of conversation.

"Did you hear about the two guys that blew in here on a plane this morning, Tom?" he asked the man at the end of the table.

"I sure did," laughed that person. "I guess they didn't know what they was b.u.mpin' into when they hit Sh.e.l.l Island. You guys won't have to take so many trips to the mainland if suckers come here of their own accord, eh?"

The laughter became general. The men apparently enjoyed the joke.

"Where are they now?" inquired another.

"Tony and Diego's got them over to the calaboose. They was up to the big house and Martinengo looked 'em over. It's Bolton, the sugar millionaire, and his boy."

"The boss could squeeze a bunch o' kale outen that pair!"

"But then he'd have to let 'em go," said Tom. "And that would blow the gaff. He's s.h.i.+ppin' them up to the workin's this afternoon with the rest of the bunch."

"I bet there'll be a holler raised, when old man Bolton doesn't show up at home," observed a voice far down the table. "That gang's got influence and friends. Yer can't cop a millionaire without runnin' into trouble."

"That's where yer all wet, Zeppi," called down Tom. "Bolton's influence won't count him nothin' with the Martinengo boys; and his friends will think he's dead. Went down with his son in the blow last night. There won't be no comeback. The two of 'em will be dead soon. The workin's ain't no health resort."

"I'll say they're not," returned Zeppi. "Martinengo wouldn't get me to stick 'round that dump-double pay or no double pay."

"Oh, yes, he would-and on the jump," Tom contradicted. "You're a new man, Zeppi. Y' got a lot to learn, and the first thing is that the boss don't ask-he orders-and so do I. Them what tries to make trouble is put on the spot. Get me?"

Tom turned to Bill. "Some o' these b.o.o.bs don't know when they's well off," he remarked genially. "What do they call yer, young feller?"

"Bill," said Bill. He finished the last bit of his food and poured himself another gla.s.s of lemonade.

"Well, Bill, if you hike back to the _Pelican_, that bo'sun will put you to swabbin' decks or somethin'. I need you later and I'll fix it up with him. You go into the bunk room and turn in with the rest of this crew.

Gotta take yer rest now-the bunch o' you'll be up all night."

Bill saw that he had no option but to obey, so when the men left the table he went with them. His plan had been to go to the jail, overpower Tony and release his father. They would then make for the harbor, take his amphibian or one of the others moored in the little bay and fly away. Now he realized that he must conform to circ.u.mstances as he found them. n.o.body knew that he was not what Tom took him for, a deck hand on the yacht _Pelican_. If only Diego were not discovered, he would make another sortie in an hour or so, when the men were deep in their siesta.

No sound came from behind the closed door to the room where he had left the gunman, lying gagged and bound, as he trooped down the hall with the rest. The rear of the long corridor opened into a huge, airy apartment which ran the full width of the building. Screened windows opened on to verandas on three sides. The room looked like a hospital ward, with its long rows of cots. At the head of each bed was a wooden chest with a padlock for the owner's belongings. A single sheet and a blanket were folded at the foot of the bed, under the pillow. Everything was neat, and evidently kept in the orderly arrangement of a military barracks.

Framed signs on the four walls read, "Silence-No Talking." Tom, though seemingly a genial soul, ruled with an iron hand.

Bill spread his sheet on the cot pointed out to him, and placed his pillow at the head of the bed. Then he kicked off his sneakers and lay down. Except for the sound of breathing and the buzzing of a bluebottle against a window screen, the place was absolutely quiet. It was hot, notwithstanding the ventilation, but the cot was comfortable, and try as he might, Bill could not fight off the drowsiness that a.s.sailed him.

He awoke with a guilty start to the loud clang of a s.h.i.+p's bell and sat up on his cot. The hands of the clock on the wall opposite marked five o'clock. He had slept four hours.

"I reckon you had a good snooze by the look of them eyes o' yourn,"

remarked a jovial voice and Bill looked up to see Tom standing at the foot of the bed. "Make it snappy, now," he continued. "Take yer gun an'

wait fer me on the front porch. I'll be along in a minute and I'm puttin' you on the detail that's goin' down to the harbor with them boys in the calaboose."

Bill nodded and slipped into his sneakers. He jammed his hat on his head, and picking up his rifle, hurried from the room. He was angry with himself for having fallen asleep, and now that he had the chance, he meant to take it. Tom, when he came out, would not find him on the veranda. Bill made up his mind to beat the detail over to the jail and to follow out his original plan of rescuing his father and making their getaway before the men arrived.

He pa.s.sed down the hall and on through the lounge room, and was running lightly down the piazza steps when a voice hailed him.

"Hey, youse! Where d' you think yer headin' for? Didn't yer hear Tom tell yer to stick around with this detail until he came?"

Bill stopped and looked back. The man called Zeppi was leaning over the railing. Behind him ten or a dozen men were lounging in various indolent att.i.tudes and laughing at this diversion. Bill saw that they all carried rifles.

"I guess youse ain't been round dis dump long," Zeppi was still speaking. "Let me tell yer, kid, t'ain't healthy to disobey orders, 'specially Tom's. He's a soft-speakin' guy, Tom is-but I seen him shoot three guys in the last three weeks fer doin' no more than you done just now. Get up on this porch before he shows up, if yer ain't tired o'

livin'."

Bill hid his disappointment and chagrin and ran up the steps.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm half asleep, Zeppi. I didn't think where I was going."

"Okay with me, kid. I'm fair sick of seein' guys put on the spot fer nuthin' at all. Just remember that when yer told the _porch_, don't go out in the road, or anywheres else, when they's Tom's orders."

"Who's talkin' about me," gruffed Tom from the doorway. "Oh, it's you, Zeppi! Well, what's the trouble now?"

With a sleight-of-hand motion, he jerked an automatic revolver from a holster under his left armpit and covered the man.

"Okay, Tom." Zeppi dropped his rifle and raised his hands above his head. "I was just tellin' the kid here that he should shake a leg when it come to takin' your orders, or-"

"Oh, _that_ was it, eh?" Tom cut him short and put away the gun. "Sorry, Zeppi-I come near drillin' you. I'm always a bit rough after a sleep-must watch myself. We're losing too many men. Get into line, you bozos," he commanded, "follow me by twos-march!"

Bill fell in beside Zeppi, who winked at him. The party clattered down the steps and started along the white road at a smart pace. He felt much as a man might who is being led to execution. His only hope was that Tony would remain inside the jail and that the detail would not be forced to enter.

When Tom turned into the place, motioning the others to follow him, Bill's usually optimistic spirits fell. Tony was found pouring over a _Police Gazette_, his chair tilted back against the rough plaster wall.

"h.e.l.lo, Tom," he greeted, raising his eyes from the pages. Then his chair came down with a crash and he sprang to his feet.

"What's that feller doin' wid you, Tom?" he cried. "What's he done wid Diego?"

"What feller? What you shoutin' about, Tony?" growled the barracks boss.

Seeing that the game was up, Bill rested his gun against the wall and stepped forward.

"It's me he's talking about," he said. "I'm Bill Bolton."

CHAPTER V-TAKEN FOR A RIDE

The barracks boss stared at Bill in undisguised amazement, while the others fingered their rifles. Slowly a twinkle came into the man's eyes and he broke into a roar of laughter.

"When it comes to cast-iron, dyed in the wool _nerve_?" he choked, "you're sure a winner, Bill-Bolton! I took a fancy to yer when I first laid eyes on yer and I'm sorry for yer now. If I wasn't," he shot out venomously, "I'd certainly put a bullet in yer carca.s.s. The joke has been on me, all right-now it's on you. If you b.u.mped Diego off, the boss'll put yer on the spot. Them's rules. What did yer do with him?"