MAN OVERBOARD
The man who entered so abruptly was a tall, heavy-set individual in the
early thirties. Blond as only the Scandinavians or North Germans are
blond, his very next words betrayed Teutonic origin.
“So!” he sneered as the three kept their hands level with their ears. “A
boy and two half-grown men. Master Evans, and a pair of aviators, eh?
The one, we miss the first time. The others descend on us like manna out
of heaven,—I don’t think! Three more mouths to feed and no money in it
for anyone. _Donnerwetter, noch ein Mahl!_”
“Nichts kom heraus, mahogany bedstead,” piped Charlie. The added danger
seemed to revive his waning spirits with a vengeance. “The same to you
and many of ’em, Dutchy. I know some more, too,” he went on proudly.
“Schweitzerkäse, frankfurters and getthe-Houtofhere! That last is the
longest word in the Heinie dictionary!”
“What’s the shortest?” inquired Bill, who was enjoying this byplay.
“Oh, I don’t know—but the one they say the quickest is ‘camerad.’”
“_Halts ’maul!_ Shut up, I mean!” thundered the blond stranger. The
whites around the pupils of his light blue eyes became bloodshot with
anger. “I am master here,” he roared. “_Silence!_ I will have it!”
Two sailors appeared in the doorway behind him. He wheeled about.
“Adolph, you will keep the prisoners covered. Hans, take their weapons
from them. And now,” he continued, when the three lowered their hands
after they had been searched, “you will tell me what names you go by.”
Charlie sprang to his feet and made a stiff, military bow. “The dark
gentleman over yonder,” he said solemnly, “is traveling incognito. So
that you will not be confused by false appearances, I will breathe his
secret. He is no less a personage than His Majesty, George the Fifth!
Beside me on this couch is Mary, the Four-Fifths, and I am Herbert
Hoover!—Oh, Doctor, why so angry? You may call me Herbie if you’re
good!” He finished in falsetto, with rolling eyes toward Bill and
Osceola.
“_Ruhig!_ Silence!” shouted the exasperated officer, while Bill and
Osceola were convulsed with laughter at his fury. “Hans—take this
devil-child on deck and keep him there until I come. If he offers more
insolence, give him a taste of your belt!”
“Gosh, you can’t please the Doctor,” protested Charlie with an air of
injured innocence as he was led forth. “He asked for the go-by, so I
gave it to him.”
The stranger waved him away. “Now, you two will tell me who you are,” he
commanded. “From American children one expects insolence—with you, it is
different. Your names at once, if you please.”
“My name is Bolton.” Bill saw no reason for hiding his identity.
“And I,” said his friend, “am Osceola, Chief of the Seminoles.”
“So,” mused their captor. “The two young fellows that were mixed up in
the Shell Island business. _So!_” He pronounced the last word as though
it were spelled with a Z. Then for a minute or so he appeared lost in
thought. Neither Bill nor Osceola uttered a word.
“So——It shall be done.” Apparently the blond man had arrived at an
important decision. “I am the Baron von Hiemskirk. And remember, both of
you—my word is the law. I am in command. You will earn your keep. _Ja_,
you will be put to work and it will be well to remember that my
discipline is that of the Imperial Navy. You will obey all orders—on the
jump!”
“And the alternative?” Bill rose to his feet.
The baron stuck a single eyeglass in his eye and stared at Bill with an
evil smile on his lips.
“We are now about sixty miles off the coast of North America,” he said
coldly. “It is a long swim, my young friend. Come now—we will go on
deck.”
He strode out of the room, and Bill and Osceola followed him, with a
look of mutual understanding. The sailor brought up the rear.
Charlie called to them from the rail. “Say, look what I’ve found! That’s
what took Mother and Dad and everybody off of here while I was in the
trunk room. Hans says they’re going to take us too. I don’t care what
happens now, I’ll be with Dad and Mother—but it’s pretty tough on you
fellows! Say, you wouldn’t think these Heinies had brains enough to run
one of those things, would you?”
He waved excitedly overside, and the two friends saw the long gray hull
and conning tower of a submarine moored beside the yacht.
The baron, who had stopped to speak to a young officer, walked over to
the boy and caught him roughly by the shoulder.
“Devil-child!” he roared in his deep bass. “I spoke to you regarding
insolence for the last time a short while ago!” He turned to the
officer. “Herr Lieutenant!” he commanded. “Take this boy forward and see
that he is well punished.”
“The whip, Herr Baron?”
“Ten lashes—yes—and at once.”
“_Zum befehl_, Herr Baron!” He grabbed Charlie’s arm and yanked the
struggling youngster along the deck.
Like a flash Bill darted after them. He caught up with the pair at the
gangway, and gripping the young officer by the collar, he jerked him
backward on to the deck. Then, as Charlie made a dash for Osceola, he
bent down and deliberately slapped the lieutenant’s face with the palm
of his open hand.
“Before you try to maltreat that boy, perhaps it would be as well to
settle with me,” he said calmly, while along the deck came the click of
the sailors’ rifles. “That is,” he added, “if you’ve got the guts to do
it.”
“_Schweinhund!_” cried the enraged officer, as he sprang to his feet.
Without an instant’s hesitation, he swung for Bill’s head.
The useful art of self-defense is well taught at the Naval Academy, and
Bill had ever been a proficient pupil. He jerked back his head, dodging
the man’s fist by a hair’s breadth. Then as the other overbalanced, he
stepped in with a short-arm jab to his opponent’s kidneys. This he
followed up immediately with a powerful left hook to the point of the
jaw, and the Herr Lieutenant went crashing overside, through the ropes
of the gangway. There came the dull thud of his head as it struck the
metal side of the submarine, and he disappeared down the narrow strip of
water between the vessels. Immediately Bill dived after him.
His lithe body cut the surface with hardly a splash, and he shot into
the cool green depths from his twenty foot dive with eyes wide open. To
right and to left dark blurs of the vessels’ hulls shadowed the
translucent green. No other objects met his searching gaze, so using a
powerful breast stroke, he forged further downward. All at once he saw
something grayish white below. His lungs were bursting with lack of air
and the heavy water pressure at this depth. It grew icy cold, but he
continued to strain onward, backing his muscles with an indomitable
force of will.
The white spot beneath him was taking shape now—surely the linen uniform
of the unlucky lieutenant. Yes, there he was, sinking face down, arms
and legs spread-eagled and useless, the wind knocked out of him by the
double blow of Bill’s fists and the crash against the submarine side.
Bill caught the sprawling, inert figure, with a cupped hand beneath the
chin. Instantly his legs and free arm got into action again, but heading
this time in the opposite direction. Up shot the drowning man and his
rescuer. Bill’s head was whirling, his faculties were leaving him. The
man would sink again if he lost his hold. Slipping the crook of his
elbow beneath the unconscious lieutenant’s chin, he held his head close
to his side. Would they never reach the surface—and air? What if his own
unprotected skull should strike the bulging curve of a vessel’s hull?
Sharp pain stabbed him between the eyes—he knew no more.
Far away—fathoms above him—Bill heard a voice calling his name. He
seemed to be floating upward in a sea-green haze, but there was air at
last—heaven-sent air.
“He’s coming round now,” said the voice, which sounded like Osceola’s,
and much nearer than before. “No wonder he went out—under water nearly
two minutes and a half! How’s the other fellow, Baron?”
“Poor Fritz!” Surely this was the blond commander speaking and his voice
seemed much louder and closer at hand than that of the young chief. And
as the words grew more distinct, their meaning impressed itself on
Bill’s dawning consciousness. “Poor Fritz!” repeated the baron. “We’ve
got the water out of him now and he will live—but it will be a touch and
go for some time. The poor lad has a bad case of concussion. I can’t
tell whether his skull is fractured, but I don’t think so.”
“He got an awful crack on the back of his head, but you can’t hold that
up against Bill Bolton,” returned Osceola.
“Oh, no, my dear chap. I assure you I hold no grudge at all.”
Something has happened, thought Bill, to alter Osceola’s status with the
Baron.
“I wish you to know, my dear Chief, that both Fritz and I are sportsmen.
Blows were struck in fair fight. When Fritz hit the submarine, I could
have killed young Bolton without hesitation. But when he dived after my
cousin—I loved the lad. It was splendid—_colossal_!”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Osceola remarked. “Things were getting a
bit strained, I thought.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. But I have had a terrible day, my friend. That
devil-child put my temper on edge. And a dozen wildcats are as nothing
to the boy’s mother when she found we’d left him behind. God be thanked,
that is over. I cannot let you and Bolton continue your journey at
present, but at least you will live well, and have an interesting time.
In saving the life of Fritz, you two have rendered me a service. Karl
von Hiemskirk does not forget such favors.”
“Thanks for dragging me in,” laughed Osceola. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Hah! You dived in after them while my men looked on like half-wits!”
bridled the Baron. “You brought these two unconscious fellows to the
surface! I call that a very great deal.”
Bill heard him sigh, but although he was now fully awake, he kept his
eyes closed and listened attentively to the Baron’s next words.
“The thing of great importance that is worrying me is that Fritz was
first pilot of my command. I, myself, am an aviator, a combat flyer, who
had the great honor to be a member of what you call the circus of the
unsurpassed Graf von Richthofen, of glorious memory.”
Bill opened his eyes to find himself on the _Merrymaid’s_ deck. He sat
up and began to speak rapidly. “Richthofen was undoubtedly the greatest
air strategean who ever flew,” he declared, “they tell me that his
combat formations and the battle manoeuvers of his famous circus have
never been improved upon. Sorry I wasn’t old enough then to take a crack
at you myself—you must be a humdinger, Baron, when it comes to this
flying game! If you want to use my bus and friend Fritz is temporarily
out of the picture—why not fly her yourself?”
Osceola put his arm about Bill’s shoulders, and the Baron bowed from the
waist.
“Thank you, indeed, my dear young friend,” he said formally, “both for
your eulogy of my long-time-dead friend von Richthofen, and because,
after stunning my cousin, you had the courage and graciousness to save
his life at risk of your own.”
“Oh, please don’t.” Bill colored a dusky red. “Or I shall have to pass
out a second time.” With the chief’s help he rose and held out his hand.
The Baron shook it heartily.
“We will let our has-beens be never-wases.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to Osceola when I was
regaining consciousness,” went on Bill. “So as long as you can’t see
your way clear to letting us go, I’ll do my best to be peaceable in the
future.”
“Say nothing more about it, my boy.” The Baron fairly oozed urbanity.
“_Es tut mer sehr leid_, I mean, it makes me very sorry to have to
detail you chaps, but it is the fate of war.”
Bill and Osceola looked their surprise. “War?”
“I have to inform you that my command is at war with society. I can not
allow my liking for individuals to deter me from my aim.”
“And what is that?” inquired Osceola.
“We will talk of that later. Now, there is work to be done. Too much
time has been wasted already. I need an airplane pilot, Bolton, because
with my multitudinous duties, it is impossible for me always to handle
the controls. I will make you two what you Americans call a proposition.
You will fly where and when I tell you, Bolton. You will give me your
word of honor to do that and no more. The chief here will also be given
congenial duties. Obey my commands and you need not give your
parole—there is no escape except by air and that will be circumnavigated
by your word!”
“And you can sure use big words, Baron,” observed a much subdued
Charlie, who had been silently taking in the conversation.
“Perhaps,” the Baron smiled, “but if you will take my advice, such
things are better left unsaid. Your tongue has already got you and a
number of others into trouble today.” He turned again to Bill. “I am
awaiting your decision,” he said.
“And—the alternative in this case?”
“You and the chief will be kept prisoners until such time as I can
negotiate your ransoms.”
Bill looked at Osceola, who nodded slightly. “All right, then, Baron, I
promise to fly your planes as you dictate, but I suspect that your war
is nothing more than hijacking on a big scale. And I’m hanged if I have
anything to do with that!”
The Baron bowed. “It is a bargain. I will now conclude my work on this
vessel. Fritz has already been taken aboard the other craft, and when I
am through here, Chief Osceola will go in her with me and my men. You,
Bolton, will follow us with Charlie, in your amphibian.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned Bill with Naval Academy crispness, now that he
had recognized the baron as his superior officer. “You will keep above
surface, I suppose, otherwise, I am likely to loose your ship.”
“Oh, no, we won’t,” broke in Charlie the irrepressible. “He’s going in
the air!”
“The air? Don’t be silly, kid—”
“I’m not the silly one—” retorted the youngster. “I’m right, ain’t I,
Baron?”
“That submarine is an invention of my own,” declared the commander. “The
boy speaks correctly. I shall _fly_ her.”