Bill Bolton and the Flying Fish

“There’s something wrong over yonder, Osceola.”

“Where, Bill? What are you talking about?”

The young Seminole chief spoke from the rear cockpit of Bill Bolton’s two-seater amphibian, into the transmitter of his headphone set. Bright August sunshine painted a calm Atlantic brilliant blue two thousand feet below the speeding airplane. Cirrus clouds like fleecy wisps of carded wool flecked a light blue sky which melted into the sea on the unbroken circle of their wide horizon. Since passing Cape Hatteras Light Ship flying north a quarter of an hour before, neither lad had seen a single thing to relieve the monotony of an empty ocean.

“I thought my eyesight was better than average,” Osceola continued, scanning the horizon, “but I don’t see a blessed thing.”

“It’s more habit than good vision—spotting something at sea,” returned Bill from his place at the controls. He clapped a pair of field glasses to his eyes. “There’s a single stacker off our starboard quarter. She’s almost hull down to the horizon. I’ve been watching her off and on for the past five minutes, and I’ll swear she hasn’t moved an inch. What’s more—the glasses don’t show the slightest sign of smoke.”

“I can make her out now. Think she’s worth while investigating?”

“Yes, I do. There’s something queer about that ship.”

“Why not investigate then?”

“That’s my idea. The people on board may be in a bad way. It’s our duty to be of help if we can.”

“I’m with you, but—how about the time, Bill? You father expects us in New York this afternoon.”

Young Bolton banked to starboard, then neutralized his ailerons when the plane’s nose was headed toward the dot on the horizon.

“The airline distance between Miami and New York City is one thousand and ninety-five miles,” said Bill, applying a normal amount of right rudder to offset the torque. “We’re a good deal better than half way now, and we’ve made swell time with this light wind on our tail all the way. Don’t worry, you’ll see the Statue of Liberty before they turn the floodlights on her tonight.”

“Okay. Your father is such a grand guy—he’s been so wonderful to me and my people ever since we cleaned up that Martinengo gang—I’d hate to disappoint him. And especially so now when he is giving me this trip north.”

“I savvy,” Bill replied. “I’m pretty fond of Dad myself—but he’d be the last person in the world to suggest we pass up anything like this, you know.”

He brought the glasses to his eyes again and stared through them for a full minute without speaking.

“The nearer we get, the queerer she looks,” he muttered finally.

“Some kind of a yacht, isn’t it?”

“It is. And a whopping big one. But that’s not the point, Osceola. She’s not moving, yet she hasn’t broken out her breakdown flag at the fore. She isn’t even flying her colors.”

“I can’t see anyone on board.”

“Neither can I—and still, if she was abandoned after sunset yesterday when her colors had been hauled down, why doesn’t she show her three red lights in vertical line—that’s the sign of a ship not under control?”

“Some mystery!”

“I should say you’re right, Osceola. And what’s more, I don’t like it—not one little bit.”

Bill banked until the amphibian was headed into the teeth of the light breeze. With the wings level once more, he closed the throttle and pushing his stick forward, sent the plane into a normal glide. At an altitude of about twenty-five feet, he began to break the glide with a slow backward movement of the stick. With expert precision he gradually decreased their gliding angle until they were in level flight with the bottom of the hull perhaps a foot above the water. Although the plane was steadily losing speed he did not yet permit his craft to make contact; but continued to pull back the stick gradually raising the nose and depressing the tail.

Like every other trained aviator he knew that as a plane approaches the stalling point, its nose-heaviness increases sharply and the stick must be pulled farther back to compensate for this. When his point of stall was reached, Bill pulled the stick fully back, completing the stall. The step of the hull made contact. There was no rebound. For an instant, the plane skimmed the surface, then floated forward. A few yards to windward lay the yacht, broadside to the gentle ground swell.

Bill ripped off his headgear.

“Slap your feet on the pedals, Osceola,” he called. “Keep her headed for that gangway amidships. She’ll fetch it all right!”

Without waiting for a reply, he caught up a looped mooring line and climbed out of the cockpit. An instant later he stood on the heaving grating, with the taut line wound about his arm.

“Come aboard!” he shouted. “Make it snappy, will you? This ship’s rolling like a drunken sailor!”

The agile Seminole landed beside him and the two lads ran swiftly up to the deck.

“Looks deserted, all right,” Bill eyed Osceola, while he played off the line to the plane, then made it fast. “Packed your gat, I hope?”

The young Chief grinned, and nodded emphatically. “You bet.” He produced an automatic from its holster below his left armpit. “I do everything except sleep with this since the Shell Island mixup.”

Bill nodded. “Me too, old man. From the lay of the land, we’re alone on this craft. Still, you never can tell. There’s something uncanny about a sea mystery——”

“She’s a swell ship.” Osceola motioned toward the polished brass and mahogany. “Some rich man’s plaything, I guess. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

“And she must have carried a large crew. I wonder where everybody disappeared to! I don’t know how you feel, but this ship gives me the creeps.”

“I’m glad I’ve got my gun.” Osceola released the safety catch.

“Well, we can’t stand here all day,” declared Bill. “Let’s take in the engine room first. There can’t be a leak. She’s too high in the water.”

“How do we get down there?”

“The thwartships passage forward of the main companionway is probably what we’re looking for. Let’s go see.”

Bill entered the passage with Osceola at his heels.

“Captain’s and chief engineer’s quarters,” said Bill, glancing through the open doorways on either hand.