Flying
THE COAST SKYWAYS
or Jack Ralston's
Swift Patrol
BY AMBROSE NEWCOMB
Author of
TRACKERS OF THE FOG PACK
WINGS OVER THE ROCKIES
SKY PILOTS GREAT CHASE
THE SKY DETECTIVES
EAGLES OF THE SKY
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.
CHICAGO
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Copyright, 1931
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.
Made in U. S. A.
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CONTENTS
I BY AIR-LINE TO ATLANTA
II THE CIPHER LETTER
III THE LEECH HANGS ON
IV PERK HAS AN ADVENTURE
V THEIR RUNNING SCHEDULE
VI BY THE SKIN OF THEIR TEETH
VII ON THE AIR-LINE TO CHARLESTON
VIII SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT
IX WHEN THE DAWN CAME
X READY TO STRIKE
XI WHERE WAR ONCE BROKE OUT
XII WHEN COUSINS GET IN TOUCH
XIII PICKING UP FACTS
XIV PERK GETS AN EARFUL
XV THE TRIAL SPIN
XVI ALL IN A DAY'S WORK
XVII SPINNING THE NET
XVIII BLACK WATER BAYOU
XIX THE LONELY CAMP
XX THE MOTHER SHIP
XXI THE MOTOR-TRUCK CARAVAN
XXII DOWN TO BUSINESS AT LAST
XXIII AT THE RENDEZVOUS
XXIV PERK RIDES IN THE GHOST BOAT
XXV A WELL OILED MACHINE
XXVI STRIKING OUT
XXVII THE LUCKLESS SPEEDBOAT
XXVIII READY FOR ANOTHER BLOW
XXIX JETHRO TAKES A HAND
XXX THE WIND-UP--CONCLUSION
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FLYING THE COAST SKYWAYS
CHAPTER 1
BY AIRLINE TO ATLANTA
"Big smoke dead ahead, partner!"
"I've been expecting to hear you announce that fact, Per--I mean Wally!"
"Kinder guess naow it mout be Birmingham, eh, what, Boss?"
"No other--you hit the nail on the head that time, Mr. Observer."
"Huh! my _native_ town, which I'm naow agwine to see fur the fust time."
"Better get out of the habit of making such crazy cracks, brother--what
if any one overheard you, and took a notion in his head you might be
somebody other than just a Down-in-Dixie product from Alabama,--raised
in the North, where you acquired a whiff of the dialect of a Canuck--and
by name Wallace J. Corkendell, though generally answering to plain
_Wally_."
"Hot-diggetty-dig! that ere smoke cloud sure looks jest like an ole
peasoup fog-pack we done got lost in not so far back. By gravy! I doant
b'lieve we'll even git one squint at the pesky city as we fly over the
same!"
"I can easily see where I'm bound to have a lot of fun listening to you
trying to talk in three different lingoes, all mixed up in one great
mess--Yankee, your native brogue; Canadian patios, contracted while with
the Northwest Mounted Police; and now a pidgin English, such as a
Southern colored boy might use. I only hope such a mixture doesn't queer
the big game we've got laid out ahead for us, whatever its nature proves
to be."
"I er-_reckons_--_yeou_ says I gotter use that word right along naow,
'cause no Alabama white or black boy never does _guess_ anything--I
reckons, suh, I'll git a strangle-holt on the way a gen-u-ine cracker
keeps up his end o' a talkie--given a little time fo' practice."
"That begins to sound like the real stuff, comrade," observed Jack; and
despite the clamor of engine exhaust, and whirling propellers both of
them were able to hear every word uttered, simply because they were
wearing their usual earphone attachments, without which they never made
a flight. "I'm beginning to feel encouraged to believe you'll come
through with flying colors. There, we're directly over Birmingham, and
going strong to eastward."
"Huh! I'm right glad yeou done tole me so, suh," Perk hastened to reply,
doubtless with one of his usual chuckles; "'case all I kin make aout's a
black smudge o' smoke ahuggin' the ground, with a few church steeples
apokin' a finger through the same. So, there she lies, my own, my native
city! Ain't it affectin', though, ole pal, acomin' back like this, after
many years, an' discoverin' that same thick smoke fog asettled daown on
the dear old place? Gee whiz! I'm jest awonderin' whether us Southern
kids ever _did_ have a gen-u-ine ole swimmin'-hole in them _won_-derful
days, eh, what?"
When they were positively alone, and no danger of crafty eavesdroppers
picking up their words, the two cronies were pleased to extract a
certain amount of fun out of their assumed characters--for Jack Ralston
of course was also sailing under a _nom-de-guerre_, as well as his best
pal--with him the new name was "Rodman Warrington," and he was supposed
to be a rich and eccentric New York City sportsman, weary of the routine
of the Carrituck Sound shooting club to which he belonged, and ardently
desirous of exploring the various bays, sounds and twisting rivers along
the wild coast of North and South Carolina, as well as Georgia.
"To be sure they did, brother," Jack was saying, reassuringly, in reply
to the skeptical question propounded by his running mate; "if you stop
and think you'll remember how every American boy who grew up and
amounted to shucks was always getting a great thrill out of memories of
such a meeting-place, where all the boys took occasion to show off in
doing stunts with a diving board."
"Say, naow 'at we've left dear ole Birmingham in the rear, haow long
'fore we drop daown on Candler Field outside Atlanta?"
"Depends on what time we keep making," Jack informed him; "we're
speeding along at a hundred-and-twenty clip just now, with only two
motors working; and if there was any necessity for fetching it up to an
even hundred-and-fifty we could easily enough do the same--and then
some. I reckon we'll come in sight of Candler Field in about an
hour-and-a-half--the chart tells me it's something like one-fifty miles,
as the bee flies, between this Southern Pittsburgh and the Capital of
Georgia."
"Meanin' to stop over in Atlanta long, partner?" demanded Perk; who
apparently was not wholly advised of his leader's plans, as far as they
were matured, and as usual "wanted to know."
"Around twenty-four hours, possibly less, buddy," Jack explained. "We've
an appointment, made for us from Headquarters in Washington, to meet up
with a certain official connected with the Secret Service, who holds
forth in Atlanta--from him we'll receive a certain amount of
information, and be referred to another party, high in the secrets of
the Service in Charleston. When we jump off from that South Carolina
city we'll know all we're expected to carry out--what we've been called
east to accomplish. There, that's everything in a nutshell; I'm as much
in the dark as you, even though I reckon I've figured things out, if a
bit hazily, to tell the truth."
"We're goin' after some sort o' big game, I er-reckon, partner?" Perk
speculated, his manner making the remark seem like a question.
"No doubt about that, boy--they wouldn't have called for us to fly all
the way from San Diego, (with two necessary stops to prevent spies from
learning as to who we are, and why we're heading east) if it hadn't been
that some others in the Secret Service had played their innings--and
fallen asleep at the switch."
"Hot-diggetty-dig! I'd say that'd be a neat compliment they're givin'
us, ole hoss," Perk exulted; as enthusiastic as a boy over a Christmas
present of a brand new shiny pair of club skates. "Another thing I'd
like to hear tell 'baout, Ja--er, Mr. Warrin'ton, suh."
"As what, partner--you'll notice that I'm trying to call you all sorts
of chummy names--that's for the purpose of trying to forget I ever knew
you as Perk, or Gabe Perkiser. If you do the same there'll be less
chance of giving our game away; for if any kind of quick-witted spies
should hear us exchanging words they'd remember the real names of the
two sky detectives who were playing particular hob with gents who gave
Uncle Sammy the laugh. Now, I reckon you're referring to that letter I
had just before we lifted out ship at San Diego last night."
"Yeou said it, er-ole pal," replied Perk, catching his treacherous
tongue just in the nick of time. "I kinder--reckoned it mout acome from
the gent over in San Diego, who's been aour boss since we started
operations 'long the Coast."
"A fair enough guess, brother," Jack told him; "because that's the
official who gave us the order to break away, and what to do on the
skyway east. There was also some interesting information concerning the
job we finished up some weeks back; and I meant to hand that over to
you; but somehow failed to connect."
"I'm right tickled to hear that, suh--fack is I'd begun to feel they
wasn't zactly treatin' us white, not sayin' as haow we'd done the
Service proud, the way we fetched Slim Garrabrant back after he'd broke
loose from the pen, an' started his ole tricks again."[1]
"Oh! they were quite enthusiastic about the success of our work, after
others had fallen down on the job--that is, as warm as those cold people
at Headquarters ever do get, it being against their principles to over
praise those working under them, for fear of giving the poor guys the
big-head. You can read the letter before I destroy it, brother. The Big
Boss in L. A. also wrote that Slippery Slim had been safely returned to
his former cell in Leavenworth, and with an added sentence; so, as
they'll watch him closer from now on, there's small chance of our ever
running up against him after this."
"Well, he was a good guy when it came to tacklin' big games, I'll tell
the whole world," observed the satisfied Perk; who again busied himself
with his reliable binoculars, eagerly surveying the checkered landscape
a mile or more under the bottom of their fuselage; and which continued
to prove of considerable interest to Perk, this being actually the first
time he had ever passed over that section of the Southland, despite his
absurd claim to having spent his boyhood days in Birmingham, Ala.
The time drifted along, with their speed undiminished. Pine woods,
tracts of corn, cotton, tobacco; acres of fruit trees, pecan groves,
even sugarcane patches--all these signs of the Southland he kept seeing
as the miles flew past.
"I kinder--er-reckons as haow we've done shot past the dividin' line
'tween Alabam 'nd Georgia, boss," he presently announced, with a grand
air of superior knowledge; "case I jest seen a town squatted on a river,
an' painted on the roof o' a house was a name, fo' the benefit o' fliers
like weuns--Tallapoosa she read, which tells me that must a been the
river Tallapoosa--all bein' 'cross the line in Harlson County, Georgia,
('cordin' to my map here.) If that's correct we right naow ain't more'n
fifty miles from aour goal--less'n half an hour yet to fly."
"You are hot on the trail, comrade," Jack assured him. "Keep your eyes
skinned to pick up another smoke cloud dead ahead, which will be the
first sign of our nearing Atlanta, the New York City of the South."
Perk continued to watch and wait, until finally he gave a half
suppressed whoop, to add exultantly:
"It's a _big_ smoke smudge, all right, buddy; so we're rushing daown on
aour goal like a river afire; which pleases a feller called Wally okay,
yeou bet!"
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Footnote 1:
See "Trackers of the Fog Pack."