“The answer I want,” said Bill slowly, “is how I am going to land and park this bus when we get there, if some more of your cut-throat pals are hanging round the house.”
“I never thought of that,” admitted Charlie.
“I didn’t think you would. Turn your mighty brain on it. If you guess the right answer I’ll ask Mr. Evans to give you a lollipop.”
Bill paid no attention to the forth-coming torrent of sarcasm from Charlie. His headphone set lay on the floor of the cockpit.
“Twin heads, Charlie!” said Bill, resuming his headphones sometime later. TheLoeningwas flying in from the Atlantic. Bill had thought it wiser than trailing up the coast for all eyes to see.
“Our house is over there to the left on the other side of those woods,” returned his companion from the rear cockpit. “Did you find the answer, old groucho?”
“No, I did not, fat boy. As the poet has it, we’ll be guided by circumstances as we find them.”
He banked to port and leveling off, sent the amphibian speeding over the treetops in the direction indicated. He was flying low now, barely a hundred and fifty feet above the ground. His intention was to make a quick landing if things looked propitious, rather than to advertise their presence to these mysterious enemies of Mr. Evans by spiraling down from a higher altitude.
“There’s the house!” called Charlie.
In a clearing Bill caught sight of a large red brick mansion, with jutting wings and high gables. All the windows were closely shuttered. The house stood back, quite close to the woods, amid unkempt lawns and shrubbery. A broad avenue lined with maples led across the clearing into the forest. He caught a glimpse as they shot over, of stables and a smaller building, also of red brick, two or three hundred yards to the left of the house.
“And there’s Dad—see him?” shouted Charlie.
A man walked from the front of the house across the drive and stood watching them.
“Yes, I see him,” retorted Bill, “but stop your shouting or I’ll be deaf for a week. When we come back, strip your headgear and stand up, so he can recognize you. Hold on tight, though—it will be rough going.”
Pulling back the stick, he climbed to five hundred feet. Then, leveling off, he made a quick flipper turn over the farther woods and headed back toward the house, nosing downward, throttle wide open. Just before reaching the garage, he zoomed, missing the roof by inches. As he banked again to circle back, Charlie’s excited voice spoke through his receivers.
“He saw me—he saw me! Look at him now! Has he gone crazy, or what? Did you ever see anything so silly—waving his arms around his head like a windmill!”
“Shut up! He’s wigwagging!”
Banked to an angle of 45 degrees, Bill kept the plane describing a tight circle directly above the garage, spelling out Mr. Evans’ signals the while. Presently he waved his understanding of the message, leveled his wings and neutralizing his ailerons, headed the plane out to sea.
“What’s the matter? What did he say?” piped Charlie.
“His exact words,” returned Bill patiently, “were ‘Park plane Clayton. Walk back after dark. Enter through garage.’”
“Then why on earth are we shooting off in the opposite direction?”
“Because, young Master Mind, it’s a lead-pipe cinch we’re being watched—from the woods, probably. Maybe they’ll think we’re out for a transatlantic record—I hope so. The last place we want them to think of at the present time in connection with this plane is Clayton!”
Bill kept the amphibian headed out to sea for the next half hour. Convinced at last that they were well beyond the ken of Mr. Evans’ enemies, he banked to starboard and headed his airbus on a course at right angles to the last leg. He continued to fly in this direction for some twenty miles, then turned back toward the coast again.
When at last they passed over the shore line once more, it was at a point thirty miles along the coast from Twin Heads and the Evans house. Bill steered his craft inland, turned right again and came in sight of their destination as the hands of his wristwatch marked ten o’clock.
“Clayton has a small airport,” said Charlie tentatively.
“Thanks for that! If you’d told me before, you’d have saved me some worry. The last thing we want to do is to advertise theLoeningin this neck of the woods. If we’d had to come down in a farmer’s meadow, it would have been all over town in half an hour.”
They were over the landing field now, and as Bill circled the plane, preparatory to their descent, he saw that it was little more than a meadow, a mile out of town, with hangar capable of housing three or four planes. The flat roof of this building was painted black. Large block letters in white paint proclaimed the legend
PARKER’S AIRDROMECLAYTON ME.
Near the highway that led into the town, and separated from the landing field by a white picket fence, stood a small farmhouse. As Bill swung his bus into the wind and nosed over, he saw a man open the gate in the fence and walk toward the hangar.
The wheels of theLoening’sretractable landing gear touched the ground. The plane rolled forward, and came to a stop on the concrete apron of the hangar, before its open doors.
“Very pretty, very pretty indeed!” remarked the individual who had come through the gate. He was a tall, rangy man of about thirty, wearing overalls much the worse for grease and hard usage.
Bill and Charlie climbed down and walked over to him. “Good morning, and thanks,” smiled Bill. “My name is Bolton. Mr. Parker, isn’t it?”
“It pays to advertise,” grinned the lanky individual, and he gripped Bill’s extended hand with a horny fist. “Parker’s the name. I guess, by the way you brought thatLoeningdown, it isn’t flight instruction you’re after!”
“No,” said Bill, “not this time. What I need is gas and oil and a place to park the bus for a few days. Can you fix me up?”
“Sure can, Mister. Business round here this summer is deader than a doornail. Specially in my line. Want the bus filled up, looked over and put shipshape, I take it?”
“That’s it. One of her plugs is carbonized a bit. I’d attend to it myself, only I’m too sleepy. We’ve been in the air most of the night. Anywhere we can turn in for a few hours? Our friends don’t expect us till this evening.”
“Well, I can rent you the spare room over to the house for as long as you want it. And how about something to eat before you turn in?”
“Lead me to it,” Charlie spoke up for the first time.
“Good enough!” Parker chuckled. “Come on, Mrs. P. will be glad to dish up something tasty for you fellows.”
The Parker homestead proved to be as neat and clean as a new pin. Mrs. Parker, a buxom young woman with dimples and a jolly smile, served the hungry lads with wheatcakes and coffee until they couldn’t eat another mouthful. Then she led them upstairs to the low-ceiled bedroom, where two white beds invited them to rest. She promised to call them at seven that evening and left them. Five minutes later, Bill and Charlie were sound asleep.
“Seven o’clock—time to get up!” called a cheery voice which Bill sleepily realized was Mrs. Parker’s.
“All right, thanks,” he called back. “Be down in a jiffy. And would it be too much trouble to fix us a couple of sandwiches before we start?”
“Ezra and I,” said Mrs. Parker from the other side of the closed door, “figured as how you’d be wanting something. We’re waitin’ supper for you. And there’s a showerbath at the end of the hall—plenty of hot water if you want it.”
“We certainly do,” called Bill, “thanks a lot, Mrs. Parker. We’ll make it snappy.”
He leaned over and picked up a rubber sneaker. A moment later it bounced off of Charlie’s red head, effectually bringing that young man back from dreamland.
Supper with the Parkers was a pleasant affair. When it was over Bill had some little trouble to make Mrs. Parker accept payment for their entertainment. He guessed, however, that their financial condition was none of the best, so when she asked him if a dollar would be too much, he pressed a five-spot on the astonished young matron and refused to take change. While he went out to assist Parker in an inspection of theLoening, Charlie, not to be outdone in gallantry, insisted on helping wash the dishes.
Out in the hangar, Bill came to a decision on a question he had been considering throughout the meal. Ezra Parker and his pretty wife were an honest, wholesome pair. He needed someone in Clayton whom he could trust and so he came at once to the point.
“Mr. Parker, I need a friend,” he said quietly. “I dare say you aren’t averse to making some extra money?”
Ezra smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I liked you the minute I set eyes on you this morning, Bill,” he declared. “I guess there need be no mention of money in our friendship.”
“Perhaps not. But this friendship has a job attached to it, and you told me when I landed, that business was none too good.”
“Well, that’s a fact, boy. Mrs. P. and I have had a hard time to make both ends meet this summer. Anything short of robbery or murder with a dollar or two tacked onto it will be a godsend. Our savings are tied up in this little property and we hate to give up. But there’s been mighty little joy-flying or anything else in this line of business since the depression. It’s beginning to look as if we’d have to let the place go unless something turns up soon. So I can’t say I’m not anxious to make some ready money.”
“This job,” said Bill, “is worth five hundred a month, but you’d be expected to keep a closed head about anything that might come up.”
Ezra stared at him in amazement. “You a millionaire in disguise?”
“No—only a midshipman on summer vacation. But Mr. Evans has plenty, and he is going to pay your salary.”
“Gosh! you’re the guy that put the lid on von Hiemskirk and his pirates over to Twin Heads harbor?”
“I helped some,” Bill admitted.
“I’ll say you did! What’s this job—more pirates?”
“No, I don’t think so. To be truthful, the whole thing is much of a mystery to me so far.”
“Well,” Ezra affirmed, “I never earned five hundred a month in my life. One month’s work will put Mrs. P. and me on velvet.”
“Then listen!” Bill gave him a sketch of affairs to date.
“I know the place Mr. Evans bought,” said Ezra when he’d finished. “Used to belong to old Job Turner who died last year. They say there’s secret rooms, underground passages and all manner of queer things about that house. I expect it’s all lies—but no telling. Mr. Evans can’t be up against that Hiemskirk gang. The government cleaned them up good and plenty.”
“Well, he’s up against somebody equally unpleasant. I’ve had a taste of them already. Are you really game for the job?”
“I sure am. What do you want me to do first?”
“Take this.”
Ezra took the money, albeit reluctantly. “What’s all this for?” he asked, counting the bills.
“Oil, gas, your time on the bus and two weeks’ salary.”
“Don’t you think it’s dangerous, carrying a roll that would choke a horse?”
“I’m not in the habit of it,” laughed Bill. “It was a birthday present from my father. Don’t worry, Mr. Evans will reimburse me.”
“But maybe,” suggested Ezra doubtfully, “he may not be strong on the deal.”
“He asked for my help,” returned Bill, “and this is part of it. You’ve got a car of some sort about the place, I suppose?”
“‘Of some sort’ describes it. Want me to run you over to Turner’s?”
“Yes—but only to where the Turner road branches out of the one to Twin Heads Harbor.”
“Right, Bill. Before we start, hadn’t you better tell me what you want me to do?”
“We can talk about that on the way over,” said his young employer. “While you’re dragging out the fliv. or the Chev. or whatever it is, I’ll get hold of Charlie and say goodbye to Mrs. Parker.”
Ezra chuckled. “She’ll be some happy girl when I tell her what you’ve done. The three of us will get kissed good and proper!”
“I don’t mind, if you don’t!” laughed Bill, and went toward the house.
The flivver pulled up at the side of the dirt road and stopped. Ezra Parker, behind the wheel, switched off the motor and likewise the lights. Patches of moonlight filtered through interlocking branches that arched the grassgrown highway. These silvery patches seemed but to deepen the velvety black of the woods. After the noisy chugging of four ancient cylinders the silence of the forest was oppressive.
“Yonder’s the road to Turner’s,” Ezra volunteered, pointing toward a narrow track, choked with weeds, which led off to the right. “The house is two or three miles farther on.”
“I know! I’ve been over it twice in a car—and gee whiz!—it sure is a tough one to drive,” piped Charlie from the back seat.
“We’ve got to hop it now,” said Bill. “Hand me the extra rifle, and come on.”
Followed by young Evans, he stepped down to the roadway.
“So long, fellows,” Ezra bade them, “better watch your step when you get near Turner’s.”
“We will,” returned Bill. “Got the times fixed in your mind, Ezra, and all the rest of the instructions?”
“You bet. I’ll write them down soon as I get home. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fellows down.”
He backed the car across the road, swung round his front wheels and chugged off in the direction of Clayton.
“And that’s that,” said Bill.
“I hope Dad will approve,” said Charlie.
Bill’s face took, on a look of grim determination in the darkness. “It’s just too bad if he doesn’t. Don’t shoulder that rifle, Charlie. It’s likely to hit a branch and go off. Hold it in the hollow of your arm, like I’m carrying mine. Keep three or four paces behind me—and remember, no more talking until we are inside the garage. If you see me drop down—flop!”
“O.K.” grunted the youngster. “On your way. If anybody spots us it won’t be my fault.”
They strode down the road toward Turner’s for a mile or more. Neither the tall lad nor the short one uttered a word. Bill drank in the crisp, cool night air, pleasant after the dusty highway. On either hand dense woods shut out the moonlight. Directly overhead, however, light filtered between the treetops, flecking the overgrown trail with splotches of silver.
When they came to an open woodlot, Bill paused.
“Yes, I think from what Ezra said, we go to the left here. We’ll see where it lands us.”
Shortly after passing round the field, a dense wood of pines showed up against the moonlight on their right hand. Between them and the pines was a broad stone fence.
“We’ll hang out here for a few minutes,” Bill remarked. “There’s nothing like making quite certain. If you hear anyone following, Charlie, it means we were noticed in the car, and we’re probably in for a rousing time.”
After an interval he got up and stretched himself, gave a curt order and plunged abruptly into the heart of the woods. Bill had no idea how far they penetrated, but they appeared to go forward for a good fifteen minutes before they struck upon a grassgrown avenue or drive among the trees, and at the end of it they saw a clearing. Both lads stopped.
A gentle wind stirred in the tree-tops, and above its rustle, they suddenly heard the soft wash of the sea. Bill turned and Charlie followed his gaze. Set back, quite close to the woods, amid overgrown lawns and shrubbery, there glimmered in the pallid moonlight, the outlines of a house.
“Turner’s!” whispered Bill as Charlie came close. “It looked different from the air, but I guess it’s the place, all right.”
“Sure—and there’s the garage, see it?”
“Come along.”
Emerging stealthily from the trees, he quickly glanced about, crossed the path, cut in behind a screen of shrubbery and made his way round the side of the house to the garage. Without hesitation he went forward, pulled the right hand door slightly ajar and slipped in, with Charlie at his heels. The darkness closed in upon them.
“Just a moment, and I’ll be with you,” a cautious voice spoke nearby, and Bill recognized it as Mr. Evans’. The door behind them shut with a slight click, and Bill felt one of his hands caught in a firm grasp.
“Charlie, take Bill’s other hand. We won’t show a light just yet. Come this way.”
They passed on until they came to what Bill decided was a closet in one corner of the garage. He heard Mr. Evans open a door, and at the same time he spoke again.
“Shut the door after you, Charlie, and see that the lock snaps. There are twelve steps down, Bill. Come along—the youngster knows his way from here.”
Bill, still grasping Mr. Evans’ hand, felt for the first step, found it and descended after his guide. On level ground once more, he counted eighty-four paces and two turns in the dark tunnel before he was led up a flight of twenty-two steps at the farther end.
There came a pause, followed by a click. Then he was pulled gently forward and his hand released. He waited; then a leaping shaft of light from a single unshaded lamp disclosed a large and soundly furnished room, with books lining the walls and deep armchairs grouped about. On a table in the center were a large plate of sandwiches, some glasses and several bottles of ginger ale.
“Me for that!” cried Charlie, his face shining in anticipation.
“That boy’s head is in his stomach,” declared Mr. Evans. “But I suppose at his age I was always hungry too. Well, I’m glad to see both of you. I need your help, Bill, because I can’t drag in the police on this matter—at least, not yet. They would spoil everything. Help yourself from the table, lad, before Charlie gobbles all the sandwiches. Then tell me about your trip. Something happen to the car? Or did you think your plane would prove the more useful?”
“Both,” said Bill from the table, where he was pouring himself a glass of ginger ale. Taking a couple of sandwiches, he went over to an armchair and sank back in its comfortable depths. “Your friends, or enemies, or whoever they are,” he went on, munching as he talked, “are quite active around New Canaan. They made things hum for a while, and wrecked your car into the bargain. If their shooting hadn’t been putrid, you’d be minus a son now, Mr. Evans. It’s not my place to criticize, but don’t you think it was pretty risky, sending a boy his age on such a dangerous undertaking?”
Mr. Evans started up from his chair in consternation. “You don’t mean they tried to shoot the boy!”
“I certainly do mean just that.”
The father put an arm about his son’s shoulders and held him close. “The devils!” he muttered. “I’d no idea they would dare resort to such methods! If I had, he never would have been sent. And I don’t blame you, Bill, for thinking me a heartless parent. If anything had happened to this boy——But there’s no sense in making excuses now. Tell me just what happened.”
He carted Charlie, sandwiches and ginger ale over to his chair and deposited them there, seating himself on the broad arm at his son’s side.
“Well, the first I knew of it,” began Bill, and continued with a recitation of their adventures since the thunderstorm had awakened him the night before. When he had finished, he got up to replenish his glass.
“Splendid! I’m extremely proud of you both. Now tell me of the arrangements you’ve made with Parker.”
“Starting tomorrow night, he is to fly theLoeningover this property. If he sees a light in the garage he will know that we want him. He will then continue on his way out to sea for a few miles, come back over Twin Heads and land in the harbor near the channel that leads out to the Atlantic. We will get in touch with him there. In any case, unless he is molested, he is to wait on the water until daylight.”
“And if we do not need him, what then?”
“Why, the garage will be dark, and he’ll go out to sea, swing round and go back to Clayton.”
“Did you arrange any set time for his flights?”
“Yes. Tomorrow he will be over this house at midnight. The next night at one o’clock. The night after, at two, and the following one at three. Then he starts all over again. I arranged his trips in that order, so that anyone spying would not be able to count on a set time.”
Mr. Evans nodded his approval. “That is very satisfactory, Bill. You think Parker is to be trusted, of course?”
“I’m sure of it, sir. Hope you don’t think I set his salary at too high a figure?”
“I’ll double it if he proves useful,” Mr. Evans declared. “Now get off my knee, Charlie, while I pay Bill back for what he has spent on my account.”
He dug into a trousers’ pocket, fished out a roll of bills and handed it to Bill. “That’s what I owe you—and keep the balance for expenses. You may need it before long.”
“Thanks, sir.” Bill pocketed the money. “Can you tell us something of what we’re up against, sir?”
Mr. Evans glanced at his watch. “Goodness! It’s time you fellows were in bed. I’ll go into details, Bill, after breakfast.”
“But, Dad, we slept all day!” Charlie expostulated.
“Never mind, son. You won’t be the worse for a few hours more. We’ll all need clear wits in the morning.”
Beckoning the lads to follow, he went to the door. Their feet echoed on the polished tiles of the hall, a vast place which looked like a black cavern above them, the dim shape of a wide staircase beyond. Following Mr. Evans’ lead, they mounted the stairs, his flashlight flickering on the thick carpet and heavy oak banisters. In the corridor above, he stopped and flung open a door.
They entered a large, square bedroom. Twin beds stood against opposite walls, and heavy dark hangings concealed the windows. These curtains, Mr. Evans drew back, and through the shutters there gleamed the faint gray light of a waning moon. A solitary night-owl made eerie music in the woods.
“Sleep well,” said Charlie’s father. “I’ll call you two at seven. We’ll have breakfast and I’ll explain my problem to you. Good night.”
“Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, sir.”
Mr. Evans departed with a wave of his hand. “I forgot to say,” he added, putting his head inside the door again, “if you wake earlier than seven, don’t raise a row. No bursting into happy song, Charlie....” He grinned at his son, nodded, and was gone.
Bill sat down on his bed and took off his shoes. “I wonder why he warned us about noise,” he remarked as he struggled with a knot.
“Ask me something easy,” yawned Charlie. “You’ll soon find out that there’s more hush stuff about this house than there is at a funeral.”
“Cheerful simile!” grunted Bill. He dropped a shoe, stripped off his outer garments, and got into bed wearing his underclothes.
He was dreaming of masked foes, who kept climbing up from airy depths, to creep on him unawares, when one of these fiends clutched him by the shoulder. Suddenly he found himself sitting up in bed, shaking with the terror of nightmare.
“Are you dead—or what?” Charlie stood beside him, and leaned over to shake him again. Through partly opened shutters daylight streamed into the room.
“I’m awake,” said Bill with an effort. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Nearly nine o’clock—that’s why I’m worried. I just woke up myself—Dad hasn’t called us or come near us yet. Do you s’pose something has happened to him, Bill?”
Bill jumped out of bed. “Wait till I get some clothes on—then we’ll find out.”
“Where’s your father’s room?” Bill stepped into the corridor, Charlie at his heels.
“There—that one opposite—the door’s open. He isn’t there—I looked before I woke you.”
“The bed hasn’t been slept in either—come along downstairs. He may be there.”
Bill had had an impression the night before of the solid comfort of the house. But it was not until they descended the great oak staircase in the morning that he realized, in spite of dust sheets, how exquisitely the place was appointed. In true manorial style, armor hung in the hall, marble busts gleamed against the dark, beautifully carved panelling, and half a dozen riding crops dangled from a pair of antlers over the low fireplace.
Here Charlie took the lead. They went first to the library, with its secret door in the panelling, through which they had entered the house from the garage. A flashlight lay on the table, amongst the remains of the sandwiches. Bill appropriated it, and after Charlie had opened the sliding door by twisting a knob on the fireplace, they investigated the tunnel and its outlet. But the garage and the underground passage were empty of any human being.
They returned to the library, and made a round of the rooms on that floor; a small den, two large living rooms, and a dining room. All the furniture was shrouded in dust covers. The rooms looked gloomy and un-lived-in. Scarcely any light came through the closed shutters. Bill’s feeble flashlight seemed to accentuate the cavernous depths of the huge apartments.
A back passage led them to the pantry and immense, stone-floored kitchen. On a table near the sink, an unwashed plate and cup told the story of eggs and coffee.
Bill turned to the boy. “There! On a bet, he ate and went out.”
“Hadn’t we better go over the rest of the house, though?” There was a slight tremor in Charlie’s voice. “This place is creepy. It was like that when I was here before. I never open a door but what I expect a dead man to walk out on me.”
“That,” laughed Bill, “would take some doing! You’ll be telling me the house is haunted, next!”
“It is.”
“Oh, go on—there ain’t no such animals as ghosts. You’re losing your nerve, kid. You probably heard a rat in the walls.”
“Rat, nothing! If it wasn’t a ghost, who was in our room just before daylight? It wasn’t Dad. I called and the figure just disappeared.”
“Um—that’s funny. Perhaps some friend of your father’s—and they went off together later.”
Charlie shook his head solemnly. “Dad hasn’t any friends up here, Bill, or he wouldn’t have had to call on you. But suppose it was a friend he went away with, why didn’t he let us know? I’ll just bet Dad’s in this house right now. Down cellar or upstairs, with his throat cut, like as not!” Charlie was in tears now.
“Here, here, now! Stop it! You certainly are a cheerful kid this morning—I don’t think!” Bill scoffed, and patted him on the back. “Detective thrillers and too much food are what ails you. Imagination plus indigestion will make anybody see or hear a lot of things. How do I get down to the cellar? If you’re afraid of meeting more spooks, you’d better stay here.”
“No, no, I’ll go with you,” replied Charlie so hurriedly that Bill burst out laughing.
“Come on, then, big boy.” Charlie’s mournful face made him feel ashamed of his mirth. “I don’t like this big lonely house any more than you do, but we’ll go down into the cellar just the same, although I haven’t the slightest doubt but that your father left this place hours ago.”
An inspection of the cellars and the two upper stories proved conclusively to Bill that except for themselves, there was nobody in the house. However, they found food and plenty of it in the storage rooms. A whole closet full of canned goods, eggs, bread and a couple of hams and four or five slabs of bacon.
“Well, old man, let’s have a shower,” suggested Bill, “and then I’ll rustle some breakfast.”
Charlie smiled and turned on a tap at the kitchen sink. A faint trickle came from the faucet. “You’ll get no shower, or bath while you’re in this house,” he announced. “The water comes from a well and there’s something wrong with the pump. Dad says the water supply is likely to give out any time.”
Bill made a grimace. “How do you take baths then?”
“When I was here before we went down to the cove—but never until after dark.”
“Gee whiz! A swim is just what I need. I tell you what, Charlie! We’ll have something to eat, take a more careful look for any message your father may have left and then we’ll romp down to that cove of yours.”
“Okay by me, Bill. Let’s get the grub. I could eat a horse!”
“When couldn’t you?” Bill snorted as they started after the food.
When they had eaten and washed up at the kitchen sink, Bill instituted a thorough search for the message in their bedroom and in the library.
“It’s no use,” he said at last, “there just isn’t any message, and that’s that. I vote we pop down to the cove and have our dip now. Is it much of a jaunt?”
“Oh, no.” Charlie turned from peering through the curtains at the sunshine. “We can get into the shrubbery at the back door and keep under cover pretty well all the time. We’ll be taking chances, though. Dad wouldn’t let us go until after dark.”
“Well, he isn’t here,” Bill said casually. “I’m going for a swim. You can stay here, though, if you want to.”
“Not me,” declared the boy. “I’d rather be shot than stay in this house alone.”
“Where do we go from the grounds?”
“Right through the trees until we come to a rough sort of lane. It leads from the main road down to a little bay that’s just the place for a swim.”
“Fine. Now, listen to me, kid. If we happen to run into anybody and can’t make a bunk without being seen, we’ll go right up and speak to them openly. There’s no sense in arousing suspicions—or showing that we have any! We’ll say we’re on a walking tour along the coast, and saw the lane leading down to the sea—savez?”
“You betcha! And, oh, Bill, I forgot to say that we can’t swim out far. Dad told me that the currents round the point are the dickens and all.”
Armed with towels and soap, they let themselves out by the back door and darted into the bushes. With Charlie in the lead, they pushed through the trees, keeping a sharp lookout. Presently they reached the lane, and, without sighting a single creature, they found themselves on the beach.
The sand shelved down into a little bay which was about a hundred yards across. Great rocks crowded down into the water on either side. The place was embowered in trees and bushes. It was an ideal spot for a quiet dip. Both lads slipped off their clothes and entered the water.
The sea was perfect. Charlie, who wasn’t much on aquatics, paddled about near shore, but Bill soon found himself at the mouth of the bay. Swimming strongly, with an easy crawl stroke, he revelled in the electric chill of the water and the cloudless sky and sunshine. A short distance ahead of him, a huge brown rock jutted up from the water like a buoy. He swam to it and clambered up on its groined shoulder, slippery with endless laving of the sea. Standing upright, he gazed about.
Up and down the beach, the tumbled rocks were belted with trees for some miles. Beyond the trees, so far as he could see, were the bare, sharp outlines of tall cliffs overhanging the water. Picturesque enough, thought Bill, but immeasurably lonesome. Out to sea an island lay off the coast, a mile, perhaps two miles away. He could not judge accurately, for it is difficult to decide distance from the level of the water. He remembered seeing it the day before, from the air. As he remembered it, it was a small, rocky, barren-looking place, with a single house on it, though he hadn’t been absolutely certain about the house. He stared in that direction for a minute or two. As he turned about, ready to dive in and return to shore, there was a sharp thud on the rock at his feet.
Bill looked down, but saw nothing—The next moment he heard, or imagined he heard, something go past his ear with a whistling sound. He gazed toward the beach, more than a little disturbed. Nothing could be seen but Charlie sitting naked on the sand. There was no stir of bush, not a movement of grass. And yet again above his head—and this time closer—there was a harshz-z-z-p! of a bullet.
Bill heard no sound of an explosion, but suddenly he saw Charlie spring to his feet, snatch up his clothes and dart into the underbrush. The only conclusion he could reach, as he stood on the sea-washed rock, hurriedly collecting his thoughts, was that someone concealed ashore was shooting at him with a powerful air-gun.
Without a second’s further hesitation, he flopped into the water. He had intended to swim back to the little bay, but now he hastily changed his mind. To return in that direction while the bullets were flying was like asking for a sudden and unpleasant end to his existence. So he struck out to sea, meaning to make a detour and go ashore at some secluded spot a little further down the coast.
He was swimming with his head submerged in the water, in order to conceal his whereabouts if possible from the beach. When he turned on his back to take his bearings, he remembered Charlie’s warning about the current. It seemed to him as he glanced back to the rock where he had stood, that he had covered a great distance in a very short time, even allowing for the extra speed due to his excitement and wrath over the unknown marksman’s attempt to drop him in the water with a bullet. He fixed his eyes on a point on the shore and struck out with all his might.
At first Bill could not believe that his tremendous efforts were achieving—nothing. But gradually, after a fierce fight of more than a quarter of an hour’s duration, the truth broke upon him. His distance from the beach was not lessening at all, but was swiftly increasing. He could battle as he liked against it, but the tide was stronger, stronger than he. There was no shadow of doubt in his mind that he was being carried out to sea.
It was difficult to meet the situation calmly, but Bill tried to quiet the surge of pain that was sucking the strength from his limbs. It looked as though only a miracle would save him now. He turned on his back, and for a moment a ray of hope sent a warm glow through his veins. He was being borne out on the tide, toward the island! It might be possible to force a landing there.
Now that seemed his only prospect of life. With all the vigor he could summon, Bill struck across the current. But when he paused in exhaustion to observe his progress, he saw that it was useless. He had already been swept past the island. It was out of his range.
Wearily, Bill shut his eyes, gasping for breath, and felt the power melting away from his numbed limbs. Then hazily he noticed that the island seemed nearer—or was that but a last illusion before the end? No! The rocks were towering above him. He realized that he had been swept around on the current to the seaward side, and that the mainland was out of sight. With his last atom of strength, he tried to strike out toward that shore, but the place seemed to be slipping away from him again. There was a throbbing in his ears, growing louder and louder. A vague, dreamlike impression of touching the gray side of some craft—then his senses left him.
The whitewashed wooden walls of a hut, and a sickly sting of brandy in his throat, were Bill’s first impressions of life on awakening. An old brown face with blue eyes and a tuft of white beard below the chin looked down at him.
“You’re better,” the man said grimly. “But I caught sight of you none too soon.”
“Where am I?” Bill managed to ask.
“Never mind. Drink this.” As the man lifted a tin of boiling coffee from a little stove, Bill saw that he was lean and lanky and dressed in a sailor’s blue jersey and top-boots. “It’s heat you need, not information.”
Bill sat up. A warm sweater and flannel trousers now covered him, and by the time he had finished the coffee, he felt more like taking a sane interest in his surroundings. He was about to try to express his thanks to the old man when there was a knock on the door. The old fellow opened the door and stepped outside.
A girl stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a white skirt and sweater. She had a smooth olive skin and her black hair was cut close to her head. Bill decided that she was pretty, and that she must be about sixteen. Her eyes were smiling at him as he got to his feet.
“Please sit down,” she cried, for Bill was gripping a beam at his side to steady himself. “Why, you must be feeling perfectly dreadful! Aren’t you hungry? Won’t you let me get you something to eat?”
Bill was sure he detected the faintest shadow of a foreign accent in her speech. He smiled. “In a little while, perhaps, thank you,” he said. “My head is a bit on the blink. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank that old man—”
“Oh, Jim won’t want any thanks. He’ll be offended if you try to thank him. He saw you from the motor-boat. He’s a gruff old tar, but he’s as good as gold.”
“It was lucky for me that there was somebody here—I suppose I’m on the island?”
“You are. There’s the beach where Jim brought you in.” She pointed through the open door.
“Are you yachting up this way?” ventured Bill.
“Good gracious, no!” cried the girl. “I live here.”
“Livehere?” Bill repeated in astonishment. “Why in the world—”
She laughed softly. “Well, I suppose I like it. I have a bungalow back in the hollow. This is really Jim’s bunk. He sleeps in there. But you haven’t told me about yourself. Where did you come from?”