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The Aeroplane Boys Series
The Boy Aeronauts’ Club
OR
Flying for Fun
The Aeroplane Boys Series
By ASHTON LAMAR
I IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps.
II THE STOLEN AEROPLANE
Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good.
III THE AEROPLANE EXPRESS
Or, The Boy Aeronaut’s Grit.
IV THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB
Or, Flying For Fun.
V A CRUISE IN THE SKY
Or, The Legend of the Great Pink Pearl.
VI BATTLING THE BIG HORN
Or, The Aeroplane in the Rockies.
OTHER TITLES TO FOLLOW
These stories are the newest and most up-to-date. All aeroplane details
are correct. Fully Illustrated. Colored frontispiece. Cloth, 12mos.
Price, 60 cents each.
The Airship Boys Series
By H. L. SAYLER
I THE AIRSHIP BOYS
Or, The Quest of the Aztec Treasure.
II THE AIRSHIP BOYS ADRIFT
Or, Saved by an Aeroplane.
III THE AIRSHIP BOYS DUE NORTH
Or, By Balloon to the Pole.
IV THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN THE BARREN LANDS
Or, The Secret of the White Eskimos.
V THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN FINANCE
Or, The Flight of the Flying Cow.
VI THE AIRSHIP BOYS’ OCEAN FLYER
Or, New York to London in Twelve Hours.
These thrilling stories deal with the wonderful new science of aerial
navigation. Every boy will be interested and instructed by reading
them. Illustrated. Cloth binding. Price, $1.00 each.
The above books are sold everywhere or will be sent postpaid on receipt
of price by the
Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago
_Complete catalog sent, postpaid on request_
[Illustration: “* * * PULLING HIMSELF UP TO SAFETY.”]
The Boy
Aeronauts’ Club
OR
Flying for Fun
BY
ASHTON LAMAR
[Illustration: _The_
AEROPLANE
BOYS
SERIES]
Illustrated by S. H. Riesenberg
Chicago
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Publishers
COPYRIGHT, 1910,
by
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I THE CREOLE COFFEE HOUSE 9
II AN IRREGULAR MEETING OF THE ANCLOTE FISHING CLUB 20
III AN EARLY TASTE OF SALT WATER 32
IV THE CLUB HOLDS A SHORT SESSION 46
V IN WHICH JERRY BLOSSOM SUDDENLY APPEARS 58
VI THE _Three Sisters_ SETS SAIL 72
VII BOB MAKES ANOTHER RESCUE 84
VIII THE _Escambia_ TO THE RESCUE 98
IX A FEAT OF SEAMANSHIP 113
X A LITTLE LUNCHEON ON THE _Elias Ward_ 126
XI BOB BALFOUR UPSETS PLANS 139
XII THE COMMITTEE BUYS AN AEROPLANE 151
XIII A MIDNIGHT COMPACT CONCERNING THE BLACK PIRATE 164
XIV THE _Anclote_ MAKES A FLIGHT 177
XV ONE USE FOR AN AEROPLANE 189
XVI IN CAMP ON ANCLOTE KEY 201
XVII TOM LANDS A TARPON AND BOB A TARTAR 213
XVIII MARIE DUCROIX’ SEA CHEST 231
XIX THE SECRET CITY OF THE SEMINOLES 245
XX TOM’S STORY AND THE END 259
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Pulling himself up to safety _Frontispiece_
Bob had enough strength to free one arm and grasp the line 43
Jerry already had the light high above his head 103
The colored boy was soon knee deep in a hole 227
The Boy Aeronauts’ Club
OR,
Flying for Fun
CHAPTER I
THE CREOLE COFFEE HOUSE
The lower end of Palafox Street in Pensacola, Florida, ends in a busy
shipping and fish wharf. On each side of this are to be found, always,
scores of sailing vessels and a jam of oyster and fish boats.
In other days, about the head of this old wharf was to be found a
maze of cheap boarding houses, restaurants and saloons devoted to the
entertainment of sailors. There were to be found, too, other resorts
known as “coffee houses”――institutions adapted from West Indian life,
which have now almost wholly disappeared. In these, might be seen by
night motley collections of brown old tars sipping curacao and _café
noir_ to the strident chatter of captive parrots and cockatoos.
At the present time, one only of these old coffee houses remains. In
this, some of the maritime flavor of former days is retained in the
person of an old Creole who conducts the resort. But, nowadays, the
creole’s most profitable trade is from busy merchants who seek his
_cabaret_ at noon for a cup of old fashioned coffee. The sailors who
once congregated in his shop have almost wholly passed away.
Some of the picturesqueness of the creole coffee house remains,
however, and it was this that drew Bob Balfour to the place just after
dark on a fine evening in mid-February. Robert, or Bob Balfour, was the
only child of a well-to-do manufacturer in Chicago. Between sixteen and
seventeen years of age, it had been discovered suddenly that the boy’s
health was failing. On the order of a physician Bob had gone south with
his mother to await the return of pleasant weather in the north.
“You’ll be all right in a short time,” the family doctor explained
reassuringly, “if you live in the open air and sunshine and get plenty
of sea breeze.” Here he paused and shook his head ominously. “But you
must stay out of doors and give up books,” he added sweeping his hand
towards Bob’s crammed bookcase.
“That’s it,” exclaimed Bob’s father; “this reading is all right, but
the boy has had too much of it. He reads everything. He’s got books
that I’d never think of buying――regular histories and scientific
things.”
“All right,” laughed romantic-minded Bob, “I’ll promise. No more books
for me until further orders. But,” he added, to himself, “I guess I
won’t need any books when I get down there where Spanish buccaneers
used to prowl around and where the last American pirates did business.”
On the second day after Mrs. Balfour and Bob reached the ancient
Spanish-founded city, they secured lodging just beyond the business
center of the town. Having comfortably established themselves, the
evening meal was scarcely over before Bob cajoled his mother into
permitting him to take a stroll.
Bob and his mother had planned to begin their sight-seeing the
following day. Their first expedition was to be by launch from Long
Wharf down the bay to the navy yard and Fort Barancas. For that
reason, he hastened at once toward the wharf, determined to secure all
the information he could concerning the launch and the hour of its
departure.
The orders of the Balfour family physician prohibiting the use of books
had not been so imperative as to preclude Bob reading a “Florida Guide
Book”. Therefore, as he approached the shipping end of the city’s main
street, his ears were open and his eyes were alert for traces of the
picturesque past.
Although he had just left the Plaza Ferdinand VII, with its illuminated
fountain casting its scintillating rays on beds of narcissus, hydrangea
and roses, it would not have struck Bob wholly out of place to have
stepped at once into an old sailor rendezvous redolent of pitch and
bilge water. On the contrary, he found, in the main, nothing but modern
lunch counters, commonplace pool rooms and beer saloons.
Long Wharf itself was dark and the excursion boat piers were deserted.
Deciding that the vicinity was no place for a boy of his age,
particularly a stranger, Bob turned and retraced his footsteps on the
opposite side of the street. Within two blocks, he noticed the creole
coffee house.
There were neither door nor window screens, and, in spite of a modern
lunch counter on one side of the room, Bob saw, on the opposite wall,
several old fashioned prints of sailing vessels. Beneath these were
several tables. At one of them, with a steaming cup before him, sat
a man gazing toward the door. What instantly fixed Bob’s eye was
that, for the first time in his life, he was looking at a genuine old
salt-water sailor.
At the lunch counter, were two boys, but before the curious Bob could
give them a second glance, he was surprised to see the man straighten
in his chair and, with the slow motion of a weather beaten forefinger,
beckon to him.
“I mean _ye_, lad. Come in,” said the sailor, throwing his head back
by way of invitation. It wasn’t a bad face the sailor had. An old
yachting cap lay on the table before him. But what had been immediate
notification to Bob that the man was a sailor was the fact that he wore
small gold earrings, and that, beneath his loosened shirt, were the
tattooed outlines of a ship.
The room was well lighted, and, although Bob was conscious that the
two boys were near by, the picturesque “old sea dog” (for such,
the romantic Bob at once dubbed the stranger in his always active
imagination) was irresistible. The boy stepped into the coffee house
and approached the sailor’s table.
“How do you do?” began Bob.
“Fair an’ clear,” was the response, in a foreign accent. “Tourist, eh?”
“I’m here for the winter,” answered Bob, “if that’s what you mean. I
suppose you’re a sailor.”
“Si, senor.” Then the man shrugged his shoulders. “I have been sailor.
Now I am fisher――Joe Romano. My schooner she is de bes’ on de bay. Yo’
fadder is wis you?”
There seemed no reason why Bob should refuse to answer the fisherman’s
question, so he explained how he had come to be in Pensacola. The man
seemed disappointed, but he took from his pocket a soiled card and
handed it to the lad. It read:
CAPTAIN JOSEPH ROMANO
Schooner _Three Sisters_
Conducts Parties for Sea
Trout, Red Fish, Spanish Mackerel and Pompano
Tarpon Guaranteed in Season
Rates Reasonable
“If yo’ fadder shall come,” said the sailor, “an’ he go for de fine
fish, yo’ shall bring him to Captain Joe. I take him to de bes’ fish in
Santa Rosa Soun’.”
Bob’s father cared no more about fishing than he did about history, but
the boy had an idea. Why couldn’t he and his mother try their luck in
a day’s outing with the tattooed, gold-earringed sailor?
“My father won’t be here,” answered Bob, “and I’m not much of a
fisherman; but my mother and I may go with you some day. What are your
rates?”
“You go wis yo’ mama, alone?” exclaimed Captain Joe, with sudden
animation. “I take you in ze fine _Three Sisters_, cook yo’ fish
dinner, stay all yo’ like, ten dollars.”
“Where can I see you in the morning?” asked Bob with enthusiasm.
“At ze wharf,” responded Captain Joe. “Any one tell yo’ where to find
ze _Three Sisters_.”
“I’m much obliged,” responded Bob. “I may bring my mother to see you in
the morning.”
His face aglow, Bob bid Captain Joe good night, and hurried from the
place. Already framing in his mind the allurements of the cruise, he
turned into the street, head down.
“Hello there, Kid,” sounded suddenly, as he passed out of the Coffee
House. Surprised, Bob paused. Standing on the edge of the sidewalk were
two boys――about his own age. Undoubtedly they were the ones he had just
seen in the Coffee House. Each carried under his arm a loaf of bread
wrapped in paper.
“Hello yourself,” responded Bob. Then, one quick glance establishing
the free masonry that exists between all boys of that age, he added:
“What’s on your minds?”
Both boys were plainly dressed. One, wearing a soft hat with a colored
ribbon band, low tan shoes (needing polishing) and a “snappy” coat,
suggested northern styles. The other, not so athletic, wore a cap, a
coat that was anything but “snappy,” newly polished dark shoes, and a
small, old fashioned “made-up” blue necktie.
“You ah on ouah mind,” answered the latter boy, with a pronounced
southern accent.
“And we’re waitin’ to hand you a piece o’ dope,” added his companion.
“We all’s been a watchin’ yo’ an’ Cap’en Joe,” continued the boy of the
cap. “An’ we ah a reckonin’ you all’s a strangah.”
“I sure am,” answered Bob. “But what’s the matter with Captain Joe?”
“Not a thing in the world,” said the soft hat boy. “He’s out o’ sight.
But, bein’ a tender foot, you ain’t in right. We’re waitin’ to put you
wise.”
Bob laughed. The two boys were smiling and evidently amused.
“I reckon,” continued the boy with the southern tone, “that we all
ain’t no bus’ness a overhearin’ what yo’ told Captain Joe, but we was
waitin’ fo’ ouah crab loaves, an’ we kain’t hep it.”
As his smile broadened, he lifted the loaf under his arm to Bob’s nose.
From its interior came a most appetizing odor of something newly fried.
“What’s that?” asked Bob, his mouth watering.
“That?” repeated the other boy, also holding up his package. “Them’s
soft shell crabs――fried. They jist melt in yer mouth. Want some?”
Bob’s smile was answer enough. The other boys looked at each other as
if to say, “It’s all right, he’ll do.” Then the boy in the cap said:
“We all heard yo’ tell Cap’en Joe about yo’sef. My name’s Tom Allen.
I live hyah in Pensacola. This is Harry Burton. Yo’ can call him
Hal right away, so he’ll know whom youah addressin’. He lives in
Cincinnati, but he comes hyah each wintah. We jes’ been to the Coffee
House a securin’ some refreshments. An’ we ah now on ouah way to
dispose of them.”
“You got to mix it sometime,” interrupted Hal. “You got to know us
kids.”
“Well,” said Bob, a little embarrassed, but shaking the hand of each
boy, “my name’s Balfour. I’m here for my health――”
“So’m I,” laughed Hal. “But I go to school just the same. Pretty tough.
You goin’ to school?”
“No,” answered Bob. “I’ve got to stay outdoors and rough it. I’m goin’
fishin’ with Captain Joe to-morrow.”
“Rot!” snorted Hal. “Ten dollars to a dago for a day’s fishin’? Not on
your tintype. Stick to us, and we’ll give you all the fishin’ and the
roughin’ it you want. And it won’t cost you nothin’――much.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bob, eagerly. “Say, you fellows are all
right, and I’m mighty glad to know you; but ain’t it pretty quick work
pickin’ a kid up on the street and offerin’ to chum with him right off
the reel?”
Tom Allen reached out his arm and dropped it on Bob’s shoulders.
“Yo’ all’s comin’ aroun’ to my house now, an’ meet Mac. We’ll have
ouah spread――Mac’s gone fo’ the pralines――”
“Here’s the idea,” broke in talkative Hal. “The minute we laid eyes on
you, we cottoned to you. If Mac takes to you like we do and you don’t
kick over the traces, we’re goin’ to ask you to join our club.”
“If Mac is your chum,” answered Bob, laughing, “I won’t kick. But I
don’t understand――”
“You like boatin’ an’ fishin’, or you wouldn’t be willin’ to cough up
ten a day to old Joe. All right. We’re all dead stuck on boatin’ an’
fishin’ an’ shootin’. An’ we’re fixed to do ’em all,” continued Hal.
Drawn along, not unwillingly, by his two companions, Bob was led down
the first street to the right and, in the second block, the trio paused
before a white picket fence in which was a tall gate. As this swung
open, and Bob found himself on a shell path between walls of scented
flowers, he saw ahead, a low, one-story house. On its little gallery
opened four latticed windows.
“Is this your home?” whispered Bob, thrilled with the charm of the
place, and turning to Tom.
“Paht o’ the time,” responded the southern boy. “Come in.”