ONE USE FOR AN AEROPLANE
Hal accepted Mrs. Balfour’s invitation to luncheon, and Jerry hastened
away to eat at a restaurant. But, his weakness getting the better of
him, the colored boy reached the schooner at three o’clock, foodless
and moneyless, glad enough to stay himself with a hunk of Captain Joe’s
bread and a piece of cold fish. While he ate this, the _Three Sisters_,
with a supply of gasoline, a big box of fresh fruit presented by Mrs.
Balfour, and the baggage of the aviators, was throwing the spray on her
return trip out of the bay.
Bob and Tom, after the _Anclote_ left the river and settled into an
even glide, did not relax. It was impossible for either boy to enjoy
his first real dash in an airship, and each, hardly breathing, sat
tense and with hands gripped. At each small rise, drop or slightest
dart, the hearts of the two boys seemed to stop. Then, with each
steadier glide, there would come the sighs of breathing anew. For
perhaps five minutes neither boy spoke.
The aeroplane was perhaps two hundred feet in the air, and almost over
the white shell road leading from Tampa to Tarpon Springs. As the
highway, like a dirty white ribbon, flew to the rear, both boys sat
with eyes fixed straight ahead. A little settlement popped into the
air, rushed toward the speeding machine with a buzz of calls and yells,
and disappeared behind. It seemed to give Bob new courage.
“How fast?” he asked, in a nervous voice and between his set teeth.
“Twenty-five miles,” gasped Tom, with a quick glance at the anemometer.
“Hadn’t you better――?” But the sentence was not finished. Reaching
ahead, to throw the forward rudder up for a still higher flight,
preliminary to putting on more speed, Bob’s straining ear had caught
the lessened beat that denoted a dead cylinder. He acted on impulse,
and swiftly. As the forward rudder came to a level and the guiding
planes in the rear shifted to stay the upward flight and bring the
machine over the roadway to the left, Bob’s left hand shut off the
engine.
Tom asked no questions, but he knew something had happened. The
aeroplane, hurtling along under its own momentum, settled swiftly
toward the earth. Up went the forward rudders again, and the quick
descent was checked.
Then, released once more, the semi-buoyant machine fell on another
slant, and, the cold perspiration of intense excitement on both boys’
faces, the landing wheels struck squarely on the smooth road――ran
forward swiftly in lessening bounds until, with a clamp of his foot on
the spoon brake, Bob brought the car to a full stop.
Tom’s hands were so tensely gripped about the section uprights that he
could scarcely release them. Bob’s knees were shaking.
“Wha――what’s the matter?” mumbled Tom.
“A cylinder stopped,” answered Bob in the tone he might have used to
say one of his parents had died.
“Can you――you fix it?”
Bob was already partly recovered. But there was no color in his face.
“I reckon so,” he answered, none too confidently. “I’ve fixed them on
automobiles.”
“Were you scared?” asked Tom, as he unbent his limbs.
“Do you want me to tell the truth?” answered his companion, trying to
laugh. “Well, when I first got on that seat, I didn’t have _cold_ feet.
They were _frozen_.”
Tom laughed feebly, and shook his head.
“I didn’t weaken till we hit the water.”
“I was over the worst of it as soon as we got goin’,” went on Bob. “But
talk about jumpin’ into a cold bath! For awhile, I wished we’d never
thought of the thing.”
“How about it now?” went on Tom.
“Now? Oh, it’s all over now. I’ve been baptized. You feel all right,
don’t you?”
“I’ve felt better――in a sail boat,” laughed Tom, “but I’m game. Fix her
up. We’re losin’ time.”
The trouble was only a loose wire and a deficient spark. It was
adjusted in a moment. Bob looked at his watch.
“Five minutes after two,” he said, “and I suppose we’re about twenty
miles from the island. All aboard for Anclote――due there at two
thirty-four.”
The hard roadway gave the _Anclote_ an easier start than the softer
ground in the factory yard. With hardly a wobble, the aeroplane took
to the air again. Fragrant fruit orchards and picturesque stretches of
hummock land rolled along beneath the flying car. Before half past two,
thickening dwellings indicated a new town, and, with the white-topped
breakers of the distant ocean in sight to the west, the swiftly flying
machine passed over the city of Tarpon Springs. Instantly, Bob brought
the airship on a new course to the west and pointed for the red flash
light on Greater Anclote.
When the lighthouse fell beneath the young aviators, there was another
turn to the north. The blue waters of the gulf on the left and the
gray-brown shimmer of the shoals between the keys and the distant beach
on the right were ample guarantees of happy vacation days at hand.
“There she is,” exclaimed Tom, at last, as Mac’s flag came suddenly
into sight. At the extreme northern end of the group, Captain Joe’s
selection had been reached. With a long, curving sweep to the right,
Bob dropped lower and lower over the water, and, at two forty-five
P. M., the aeroplane entered into a little bay, shaped its course
parallel with the flat, hard beach and sank on its landing wheels as if
alighting on a mattress.
When Bob drew his benumbed limbs from the landed car, he threw himself
flat on the warm beach and closed his eyes with a tired but happy
smile.
“Well, we did it, Tom,” he said slowly. “Are you satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” repeated Tom. “Wait till I get my chance――I’ll show you.”
“You can try any time you like,” laughed Bob. “The machine belongs to
all of us. I’ve had my fling. You can take Hal up and show him the way
to do it, and then he can take Mac.”
“How about Jerry Blossom?” said Tom grinning.
“I’ll attend to Jerry. Leave him to me,” answered Bob. “But when every
one has had his turn, you and I will make the real flight. We’ll try to
see just what the deepest recesses of the big swamp are like.”
“You mean the hidden home of the last of the Seminoles?” suggested Tom
eagerly.
“Sure,” exclaimed Bob. “If white men can’t get there by swimmin’ or by
boat or on foot, it’s our duty to go. You know, Tom, I think you’re cut
out for a writer――a sort of literary fellow――if you tried. Your mother
showed me the stories you’ve written. And if we really find those old
Indians who have an altar decorated with Spanish armor, and that’s
what they say, you know――and who say their prayers to a big, sacred
alligator, why you can write a piece about them, and, maybe, get it
printed.”
“Do you think so?” asked Tom eagerly.
“I know it. And I’ll take photographs of the whole shootin’-match.”
“If I could do that,” exclaimed Tom, in an earnest voice, “I’d be
happy. I’ll try.”
How Tom succeeded, any one can learn who will turn to the files of
the Pensacola _Sunday Journal_ for the following September where were
published the articles on the “Secret City of the Seminoles” that
eventually started the southern lad on his reportorial career.
North Key of the Anclote group of islands was not much over a thousand
feet in width, but its sinuous length formed a crescent curve of nearly
a mile. In formation, it was soft coral stone covered with wind blown
sand, and a backbone of thin soil in which grew a ridge of scanty
vegetation, a barrier of fan palmetto and sea grass, which protected
the inner slope of the crescent. Captain Joe’s camp site was at the
head of a little bay cutting into the island almost as far as the green
topped ridge.
Here, the smooth shores of the beach changed to an abrupt bank some
five or six feet high on the side of which, overhung by a group of
three tall cabbage palmettoes, stood the new khaki tent. This the two
boys easily made out, the little flag fluttering stiffly in the sea
breeze, but there was no sign of the camp sentinel. Wondering where Mac
might be, Bob and Tom ran forward.
Before they could scale the little slope, there was a cry from the
other side of the converging beach, and Mac was made out, a tin bucket
in one hand and a long bamboo rod in the other――barefooted and his
trousers rolled to his knees――racing at top speed to meet them.
The three boys met at the camp.
“Lemme see her,” panted Mac, dropping his bucket. “I seen her comin’.
Gimme a ride. Gee, but it’s lonesome here. Say,” he added before the
amused boys could either make answer or get a look at the camp, “have
you fellows got any matches?”
“Matches?” exclaimed both Bob and Tom, running their hands into their
pockets.
“Yes, matches. I ain’t had a fire since Captain Joe left. This is a
fine camp,” sneered Mac indignantly. “When them fellows sailed away,
they didn’t leave me a single match. As I ain’t no Indian I ain’t had
no fire, and nothin’ to eat that had to be cooked.”
Bob and Tom looked at each other blankly.
“You don’t mean to tell me you fellows hain’t got no matches?”
exclaimed Mac, with increased contempt. “Look at them,” he said,
bitterly pointing to his bucket, “as fine a mess o’ pan red fish as
ever made a skillet smoke. Well, by golly,” and he threw his pole on
the sand, “if that ain’t the limit. When’s that schooner goin’ to git
back?”
“To-morrow morning,” answered Bob, with a smile.
“Laugh,” roared Mac, “it’s awful funny――specially if you had a good hot
breakfast in some swell café. Mebbe by to-morrow, you won’t feel so
funny.”
“We haven’t eaten since mahnin’,” interposed Tom. “We sort a reckoned
you’d have a hot dinnah a waitin’ fo’ us.”
“Dinner?” retorted Mac. “I’ll get your dinner――just what I had for
three days.”
He dashed into the little square supply tent and a moment later
returned with a big slice of cheese and a handful of crackers.
“If you want it hot,” he snapped, “put it out in the sun.”
Still laughing, Bob had a hasty look at the camp. Mac’s indignation
certainly had not interfered with his camp housekeeping. And what Bob
saw was ample compensation for the absence of such trifles as a few
matches. The camp site was on a level bit of sand ending in the always
picturesque saw palmettoes. Protected in the rear by this hedge of
green, the site faced the wide bay and white-capped sound, beyond which
could be made out the white sand of the mainland beach.
The sleeping tent was as fresh, clean and airy as the quarters of a
West Point cadet. Next to it was the supply tent and quarters for
Jerry. Here were the unopened supplies――canvas encased smoked meats,
tins of preserved meats, vegetables and fruits, rods and fish-boxes,
the shot gun and shells, candles, rain coats, cooking utensils and
table dishes――in short, to the eye at least, enough provender to supply
a half dozen men a month or more.
On a box in the center of the tent, a new towel covered something. Bob
raised it. Beneath, was a half a link of bologna sausage, a piece of
yellow cheese and the fragments of some crackers. The boy broke out
into a peal of laughter.
“Why didn’t you try some baked beans or potted tongue or some preserved
peaches?” he asked as the disgruntled Mac followed him into the tent.
“Preserves and cold beans?” sneered Mac. “With them buster crabs and
sweet red fish a curlin’ up in the sun just for the lack o’ a match? I
want meat. An’ I didn’t come all the way over here to eat peaches outen
a can.”
Bob stepped to Tom’s side and spoke in a low voice. Tom’s eyes bulged.
Then he too smiled.
“Go on,” added Bob aloud. “It isn’t over five miles. You can be back in
twenty minutes or so.”
Tom seemed to hesitate.
“Do you think I could?” he suddenly asked with a strange enthusiasm.
“Could what?” broke in Mac.
“Only a little errand,” explained Bob pretending to yawn. “We are out
of matches and we want those fish for dinner. We can’t have a fire
without matches. Since we haven’t any, we’ve got to go and get some.”
“That’s it,” said Mac, shaking his head as he bit out the words. “Go
and get some! This is a fine campin’ expedition. Why we ain’t even got
a boat. Mebbe, you’re goin’ to swim.”
“Come with us,” said Bob, still laughing. Puzzled and growling, Mac
followed Tom and Bob around the little cove to the bay beach where the
aeroplane rested on the sand. As they approached the beautiful airship,
Mac forgot his grouch and darted ahead.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” called out Tom. “You’ll have plenty of time
to see it. You’re goin’ with me.”
“With you?” exclaimed Mac.
“Yes. You and I are goin’ to fly over to Tarpon Springs for a box of
matches.”