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Chapter III
WHERE’S TERRY?
Behind her, Dorothy heard a shout, and that shout lent wings to her feet. Scared as she was, she grinned. For she was probably doing the only thing her would-be assailants had not counted on. She was running away from the red lights and home, sprinting down the road the way she had come. Overhead, tall elms met in an archway, and from the darkness at her back came the quick patter of footsteps. Suddenly they stopped.
Dorothy gave a sigh of joyous relief, for around the bend in the road she saw the double gleam of headlights, shining through the wet. Stopping short in the middle of the road, she switched on her flashlight again and waved it frantically from side to side.
“Daddy!” she cried as the big car drew up. “I was sure you weren’t far away. Gee! but I was glad to see your lights.”
Mr. Dixon snapped open the door and Dorothy slipped in beside him.
“Why, what are you doing out here? Have a breakdown?”
“H-holdup,” she panted. “My car’s down the road. Step on it, Dad – maybe we can catch them.”
“An ounce of discretion is sometimes worth forty pounds of valor,” he began, throwing in the clutch.
Dorothy cut him short. “Look!” she cried excitedly, and for all Mr. Dixon’s cautious announcement, the car jumped forward with a jerk. “See, Daddy! There’s my tail light! They’ve turned it on again. And the red lights have disappeared.”
“What red lights?”
“Tell you in a minute. Better slow down. My car’s out of gas. I’ve got a piece of hose in the rumble. We can siphon enough from your tank into mine to get me home.”
Mr. Dixon brought his car to a stop directly behind Dorothy’s coupe.
“Before we do anything, I want to hear exactly what happened, dear. You scared your fond parent out of a year’s growth when I caught sight of you waving that light in the middle of the road!”
“Poor old Daddy.” She threw an arm about his neck. “You weren’t half as frightened as I was. Those men were pelting down the road behind me and – ”
Her father broke in. “Well, they seem to have disappeared now. Let me hear the beginning.”
In a few short sentences, Dorothy told him.
“So you see,” she ended. “There’s nothing more for us to do about it, I guess, except to put some gas in my tank, and go home.”
“Wait a minute. Hand over that flash, please.” He opened the door and with an agility surprising in so large a man, sprang into the wet road and ran toward the gap in the wall.
As he ran, Dorothy saw a light flash in his hand. Then he went out of sight behind the wall but she could still see the gleam through the bushes. Presently he came back to where she was standing beside the car.
“Vamoosed!” He tossed the flash onto the seat. “As there’s no car on the road ahead they must have beat it over the field. I wonder why they didn’t hold you up when you’d stopped for those red lanterns? Strange. Also, why do you suppose they switched on your lights?”
“It’s beyond me. Well, Daddy, if you’ll pull alongside we’ll siphon the gas. This place and the rain and everything gives me the shivers. Let’s talk it over when we get home.”
Soon they were under way, and they continued on to the Dixon place without further incident.
“Your shoes are soaking wet, Dorothy. Go up to your room and change them, my dear,” decreed her father. “While you’re doing that, I’ll phone Walters.”
When Dorothy came downstairs her father was in the living room.
“Come over here and sit down,” he said, making room for her on the lounge beside him. “Terry has not come home yet. The family pretend not to be worried – and that’s that. I said nothing about what happened to you on your way back from Silvermine.”
His daughter groaned. “Oh dear – if we could only figure out – but those three red lights seem to cinch things, Daddy.”
“Hardly that. But they do make it look as though this disappearing business is pretty serious – ”
Dorothy interrupted him eagerly: “Then there isn’t any doubt in your mind but that our experience at the club this afternoon is accountable for Terry’s disappearance, and my holdup?”
Mr. Dixon, who was filling his pipe, struck a match and puffed contemplatively.
“We can’t jump at conclusions, my dear. My first idea about that plane may be the right one. On the other hand, this business tonight certainly forces one’s suspicions. If Terry doesn’t show up by morning, we’ll turn the matter over to the police and start a thorough search. But I do think it wise to keep the story of the amphibian and its pilot to ourselves.”
Dorothy nodded. “You mean that if we spread our suspicions to the police, they’d let the cat out of the bag and the man would be on his guard?”
“That’s just it. And then you must remember that we really have no facts to go on as yet.”
“Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” yawned Dorothy. “Do you mind if I try to trail that plane with my own?”
“Not if you’ll promise to be careful, dear. In fact, I think it’s a good idea. But one thing I must insist upon and that is – you’re to keep me posted. No more of this taking things into your own hands, as you did with the Martinellis. It’s too dangerous. Confide in your old Dad, girl, and we’ll do a lot better.”
Dorothy was half way across the room, but here she turned and ran back to her father and kissed him. “Of course I’ll tell you everything. Isn’t it too bad, though, that Bill Bolton is away? He’d have been a wonderful help. Have you any idea what he is doing?”
“All I know is what his father told me – that he’s off on some government job. It may be Secret Service work, again. Anyway, he’s to be away indefinitely, I understand. Now, just one thing more.”
“Oh, Daddy! More instructions to take care of myself?”
Mr. Dixon laughed at her outraged expression, and relit his pipe.
“Not exactly – you seem to have the luck to generally land on your feet. But, I want you to consider this: if the bearded aviator or his associates are behind Terry’s disappearance, they kidnapped him because they thought he would recognize the man. And they tried to do the same thing to you tonight.”
“Why on earth should they fear being recognized?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea. It depends on what they’re up to. There must be a strong motive behind it. You don’t strike a match unless you want a light. But unless we’re chasing moonbeams, something illegal is going on and if there is a hunt for Terry tomorrow, I don’t want you to take part in it.”
“You think they’ll try to get me again?”
“It is highly possible.” Her father got to his feet and put his hands on her shoulders. “So promise me you won’t go running about country byroads in your car, even during daylight hours. If you must go out at night, either I or Arthur must be in the car with you.” (Arthur was the Dixons’ chauffeur-gardener.) “There’s no use trying to pretend I’m not worried about this mysterious business. Be a good girl and don’t make it harder for me, please.”
“I’ll be good, Daddy. If I find out anything tomorrow, I’ll report at dinner.”
“That’s my girl,” he beamed, and kissed her good night. “I shall nose about, myself, a bit. I’m sure that you and Terry know that bearded aviator or some of his friends. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so perturbed about recognition. Unless we’re all wet, Dorothy, this affair is made up of local people. Mind your step – and we’ll see. Go to bed now and get a good rest – I’m coming upstairs as soon as I’ve locked up.”
Chapter IV
THE THUNDERHEAD
Dorothy telephoned the Walters next morning, to learn from a maid that Terry was still missing, and that Mr. Walters was down in the village, putting the matter in the hands of the police.
“May I speak to Mrs. Walters?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not, miss. Mrs. Walters has been up all night. Doctor Brown has given her a sleeping powder and issued orders that she is not to be disturbed.”
“If there is anything that I can do,” said Dorothy, “telephone me.”
“Thank you, miss. I’ll tell Mr. Walters when he comes home.”
Dorothy rang off and went about her household duties with a heavy heart.
Later on she motored to the village to do her marketing, and upon her return found that her father had telephoned. She immediately called up the New Canaan Bank, of which he was president.
“Any news, Daddy?” she inquired anxiously, as soon as she was put through to him.
“That you, Dorothy?” she heard him say. “Yes – Terry’s car has been found.”
“Where, Daddy?”
“On a wood road in the hills back of the Norwalk reservoir. The car was empty. A farmer driving through there found it early this morning and phoned the license number to the police.”
“But what in the world could Terry have been doing way over there? I know that road. It’s no more than a bridle path – the reservoir is three or four miles beyond Silvermine.”
“My opinion is that Terry was never anywhere near the place,” explained her father. “He was undoubtedly held up, removed to another car and his own run over to the spot where it was found.”
“No sign of him, I suppose?”
“No. I’ve talked with Walters. The poor man is nearly off his head with worry. We’re getting up searching parties to cooperate with the police. I’ll see you at dinner tonight. It will be impossible for me to get home at noon.”
“I’ll hope to have some news for you, then,” said Dorothy.
“Going up in spite of the rain?”
“I’ve got to. We can’t afford to waste time – the weather’s not so bad.”
“There are storm warnings out all along the coast.”
“I’ll be careful, Daddy.”
“All right. Bye-bye till dinner time.”
“Bye.”
She hung up the receiver and for the rest of the morning, busied herself about the house, determined not to let her mind dwell upon the darker side of this latest development. After lunch she changed into flying clothes and went out to the hangar.
Unlocking the doors, she set to work filling the amphibian’s gasoline tanks. Then she went over the engine carefully and gave it a short ground test. After that, the instruments came under her inspection. Altogether, she gave her plane a thorough overhauling, which was not entirely necessary, but kept her from thinking and helped to kill time.
About twenty minutes to five she ran the amphibian out of the hangar and took off into the teeth of a fine rain. It was no part of her plan to fly in the neighborhood of the Beach Club until the plane she was seeking should put in an appearance. Her self-imposed duty was to spot the mysterious amphibian and to follow it to its destination without allowing the pilot or an understudy to spot her.
So instead of banking and heading for Tokeneke, when her bus had sufficiently topped the trees, she continued to keep the stick back so as to maintain a proper climbing angle. Back in her first thirty hours of early flight training, it would have been difficult for her to keep Will-o’-the-Wisp (more often termed Willie or Wispy) at the correct angle safely below the stalling point, unless she could first recognize that angle by the position of the plane’s nose relative to the horizon. On a wet day like this with an obscured horizon it would have been well-nigh impossible: at best, a series of bad stalls would have been the result. But now her snapping gray eyes sparkled with exhilaration; she no longer needed the horizon as a guide. Between leveling off every thousand feet or so, to keep the engine from overheating, she shot Will-o’-the-Wisp up to six thousand, maintaining the proper angle of climb by the “feel” of the plane alone.
With her altimeter indicating the height she wanted, she leveled off again; then, executing a sharp reverse control or “flipper” turn to the left she resumed straight flight again by the application of up aileron and opposite rudder. The plane was now headed south, several points to the west of the Beach Club.
The visibility was even poorer than at a lower level, but the young pilot knew this part of the country as she knew her own front lawn. Either dropping or swerving her plane’s nose at frequent intervals so as to get an unimpeded view ahead, she passed over the wooded ridges toward the shore, over the city of Stamford and out over the slate grey waters of Long Island Sound.
That body of water is some six or eight miles wide at this point, and upon reaching the opposite shore, Dorothy commenced a patrol of the Long Island shore line from Lloyds’ Neck, which lies just west of Oyster Bay, to the farther side of Smithtown Bay, a distance of fifteen or sixteen miles. And as she flew, she kept a sharp lookout for planes appearing out of the murk toward the Connecticut shore.
Since she knew it was the bearded aviator’s practice to fly at a comparatively low altitude, Dorothy chose to keep Will-o’-the-Wisp at this greater height for two reasons. An airplane flying far above another plane is much more unlikely to be noticed by the pilot of the lower plane than one flying at his own level or below him. Then again, by keeping to the higher air, Dorothy, under normal weather conditions, was bound to increase her range of vision proportionately. Her plan was a good one. But weather is not a respecter of plans. The visibility, poor enough when she started, gradually grew worse and worse. Although what wind there was seemed to have died, long curling tongues of mist crept out of the east, while above her head she saw black thunder clouds, sinking lower and lower.
Now one of the first things any aviator learns is that fog must be avoided at all costs. Any attempt to land in it is attended by considerable danger. Dorothy knew only too well that in case of a fog bank cutting the plane off from its destination, the flight must be discontinued by a landing, or by return to the point of departure.
She glanced overside again. Long Island Sound was no longer visible.
“He’s late now, unless I’ve missed him,” she said to herself. “I’ll finish this leg of the patrol and if he doesn’t show up by the time I’m over Oyster Bay, Willie and I will head for home.”
Pushing her stick slightly forward to decrease her altitude, she continued along her course.
Three minutes later, she realized her mistake. The wisps of fog seemed to gather together, and Will-o’-the-Wisp sank into an opaque bank that blinded her.
“Gee, but I’m stupid!” she mumbled. “What was it that text-book I read only yesterday said? ‘In the event of general formation of fog below, an immediate landing must be made before it becomes thick enough to interfere seriously with the approach.’ Heavens, what a fool I am! Now that we’re in it, though, I might as well see if it thins out nearer the water.”
Her compass told her she was flying almost due west. Throttling down the engine, she pushed her stick still farther forward, at the same time applying right aileron and hard right rudder. As the proper gliding angle was reached, she neutralized her elevators and held the nose up as necessary. Next, she checked her wing with the ailerons and eased her rudder pressure. Then having made a quarter-spiral with a change in course of 90 degrees, she applied left aileron and hard left rudder until the wings were level laterally, and with her stick still held forward, continued to descend in a straight glide until she was within fifteen hundred feet of the water. The plane was heading directly back across Long Island Sound toward the Connecticut shore.
But each moment the fog seemed to grow more dense. To land blindly meant a certain nose-in and was out of the question. And even if the mist did not hold to the water’s level, to fly lower meant the chance of striking the mast or spar of a ship, a lighthouse, perhaps, or anything else that came her way.
“We’re up against it, Wispy,” she murmured, opening the throttle and pulling back her stick. “If we can’t go down, at least we can ‘go above,’ as they say in the Navy. Beat it for the heavens, my dear. This beastly fog can’t run all the way to Mars!”
Dorothy was not frightened, although she knew how serious was her predicament. No pilot likes flying blind in a fog. With the knowledge that what one sees, one hits, it is a nerve-wracking experience.
But Dorothy’s nerves were good – none better – and she sent her plane into a long, steady climb, hoping for the best and keeping her vivid imagination well within control.
Headed into the north, she continued her climb, leveling off every few thousand feet to ease the strain on her engine. When the altimeter marked thirteen thousand she began to worry, for the service ceiling of her plane was but two thousand higher. The cold damp of the thick mist penetrated like a knife. Hemmed in by the dank grey walls, she could barely distinguish the nose of her ship. The active needles of the altimeter and rate of climb indicator were the only visible signs that Will-o’-the-Wisp was moving at all.
Fourteen thousand feet – intense physical discomfort, added to the nervous strain, were becoming intolerable. Dorothy clenched her chattering teeth in an effort to retain her control. Then with a suddenness astonishing, the fog parted and she sailed into clear air.
Below her the heavy mist swirled and rolled like a sluggish sea, grey-yellow streaked with dirty streamers, while directly ahead loomed a towering mass of cotton-like clouds rising tier upon tier as far as she would see.
A quick glance over her shoulder and to the sides, brought forth the fact that this small pocket of free air was entirely surrounded by similar cloud formations. There was no time for thought. Automatically, her hand clasping the stick shot forward, bringing down the nose to the position of level flight, and she drove the amphibian straight at the thunderhead. Immediately afterward the plane passed into the cloud, and like a leaf caught in an inverted maelstrom, it was whipped out of her control.
Gripped by tremendous air forces, the amphibian was shot up and sideways, at a speed that burned Dorothy’s lungs. Tossed about like a rag doll, with her safety-belt almost cutting her body in two, she was thrown hither and yon with the plane, blind, and without the slightest idea as to her position.
Never in her wildest nightmares had she dreamed that a heavy plane, weighing close to four thousand pounds when empty, could be tossed about in such fashion by currents of the air.
For a space of time that seemed years, she was entirely away from the controls. But gradually, with infinite effort and in spite of the whirling jolts of her air steed, Dorothy managed to hook her heels under the seat. A second later she had caught the stick and was pushing it forward into the instrument board.
Will-o’-the-Wisp reared like an outlawed bronco, then dived until the airspeed indicator showed one hundred and sixty-five miles per hour. Still her downward speed was less than the rate of the upward draft, for the rate of climb indicator told the frenzied girl that the plane was being lifted fourteen hundred feet per minute.
Still diving at 45 degrees, the phenomenal force of the updraft carried the plane to the mushroom top of the cloud, where with a jar like an elevator hitting the ceiling, it was flung forth into the outer air.
Chapter V
HIDE AND SEEK
The strong air current which spread horizontally over the thunderhead blew Dorothy’s plane sideways and away from the cloud. An instant later it was roaring downward in the thin air, quite beyond her control, a self-propelled projectile rushing to its doom.
While shooting upward in the cloud, the violent and intensely rapid gyrations of the airship caused her safety belt to become unclasped, and had her parachute not caught in the cowling, she must have been flung clear of the plane to a horrible death far below.
With her heels still hooked beneath the pilot’s seat, she wrenched the parachute loose. Then she closed the throttle and half-suffocated by the force of the wind and lack of breathable oxygen, she commenced to pull the stick slowly backward.
A glance at the altimeter showed a height of eighteen thousand feet – three air miles above earth – and three thousand feet above Will-o’-the-Wisp’s service ceiling.
Notwithstanding the shut-off engine, the speed of the diving plane was terrific. Dorothy felt the grinding jar of the wind-strained wings as the nose began to rise in answer to the pull of the elevators; and wondered helplessly if they would hold.
The air pressure was agony to her eardrums. Her head reeled. She was well-nigh exhausted. She no longer cared very much what happened.
The plane dropped into a blanket of fog. She felt the wet mist on her face, refreshing and reanimating her. Suddenly she realized that her parachute was starting to fill and would shortly pull her out of the cockpit. With her free hand she reached under the seat and brought forth a sheath knife. A frenzied second later she had rid herself of the flapping bag. As it flew overboard, she tightened her safety belt and placed her cramped feet back on the steering pedals.
Though still fog-blind, she could at least breathe comfortably now as the plane lessened speed in descent. Will-o’-the-Wisp still shook and groaned, but no longer fought the pull of the stick. Up came the nose, slowly but surely and with her ailerons functioning once more, Dorothy gained control and sent the plane into a normal glide. The altimeter marked five thousand feet. The dive had been over two miles long.
Another fifteen hundred feet and gradually the mist lightened until it became mere wisps of smoky cloud. Long Island Sound had been left behind. Below lay the wooded hills and valleys of the Connecticut ridge country, cloaked in multi-shaded green. As she still headed north, Dorothy knew now that she had been blown beyond New Canaan. She gave the plane hard right rudder and right aileron and sent it swinging into a long half spiral, which, completed, headed her south again. Almost directly below, she recognized the Danbury Fair Grounds, with home just twenty miles away.
Again her hand sought the throttle and as Will-o’-the-Wisp snorted, then roared, Dorothy breathed a thankful sigh. Fifteen minutes later she had housed her plane in its hangar, and was limping up the porch steps of her home.
Lizzie, the Dixons’ servant, met her in the hall.
“Whatever is the matter, Miss Dorothy? You’ve had an accident – you’re half-killed – I know you are! There’s blood all over your face – ”
Her young mistress interrupted, smiling:
“You’re wrong again, Lizzie. No accident, though I know I look pretty awful. I feel that way, too, if you ask me – ”
“But the blood, Miss Dorothy?”
“It’s from a nosebleed, Lizzie. I assure you I’m not badly hurt. If you’ll help me out of these rags and start a warm bath running, I’ll be ever so much obliged. A good soaking in hot water will fix me up. Then,” she added, “I think I’ll be real luxurious and have my dinner in bed.”
When the solicitous Lizzie brought up the dinner tray three-quarters of an hour later, a tired but decidedly sprucer Dorothy, in pink silk pyjamas, was leaning back against her pillows.
“My word, I’m hungry!” She seized a hot roll and began to butter it. “I’m off bucking thunderheads for life, Lizzie. But you can take it from me, that kind of thing gives you a marvelous appetite!”
“Yes, miss, I’m glad,” returned Lizzie, who had no idea what Dorothy was talking about. “You certainly look better.”
“By the way, what’s become of Daddy? Hasn’t he got home yet?”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, I’m so sorry. Sure and I forgot to tell ye – Mr. Dixon won’t be home for dinner.”
“Did he telephone?”
“No, miss. He came home about quarter to five and packed his suitcase. He said to tell you he’d been called to Washington on business and he’d be gone a couple of days. Arthur drove him to Stamford to catch the New York express – he didn’t have much time.”
Dorothy helped herself to a spoonful of jellied bouillon. “Any other message?”
“Yes, miss. He said that Mister Terry hadn’t been found yet. I asked him b’cause I thought you’d like to know. That was all he said. I’m sure sorry I forgot it when you came in, but I – ”
“That’s all right, Lizzie, I understand. You come back for the tray in half an hour, will you? And if you find me asleep, don’t wake me up. I’m tired to death. I need a long rest and I’m going to take it.”
When Lizzie came back she found Dorothy deep in the sleep of exhaustion. She lowered the window blinds against the early morning light and picking up the tray from the end of the bed, tiptoed from the room.
Morning broke bright and clear with no sign of yesterday’s mist and rain. Dorothy remained in bed for breakfast and it took but little persuasion on the part of Lizzie to keep her there till lunch time. She still felt stiff and bruised and was only too content to rest and doze.
Toward noon she rose and dressed in her flying clothes. Immediately after lunch she went out to the hangar. She slipped into a serviceable and grubby pair of overalls, and spent the afternoon in giving Will-o’-the-Wisp a thorough grooming. At quarter to five she was in the air and headed for Long Island Sound.
Half an hour later, with an altitude of ten thousand feet, she was cruising over yesterday’s course above the Long Island shore, when she spied a biplane coming across the Sound. In an instant she had her field glasses out and focussed on the newcomer.
“That’s him!” she murmured ungrammatically, though with evident relief. “Now for a pleasant little game of hide-and-seek!”
The Mystery Plane was flying far below, so continuing on her course at right angles, she watched it with hurried glances over her shoulder. When she reached the Long Island Shore line, it was a mile or so behind and below Dorothy’s tailplane. So waiting only long enough to be sure that her quarry was headed across the Island, she banked her plane and sent it on a wide half circle to the right. Long Island, at this point, she knew was about twenty miles wide.
Dorothy’s plan for trailing the Mystery Plane and doing so without being seen, was as simple as it was direct. The farther end of her circular course would bring her over Great South Bay and the South shore of Long Island at approximately the same point for which the other plane seemed to be bound. She would arrive, of course, a minute or two behind the other aviator. And as she planned, so it happened.
From her high point of vantage, Dorothy, swinging on her arc a mile or so to the east, was able to keep the other amphibian continually in sight. She watched him pursue his southerly course until he came over the town of Babylon on Great South Bay. Here her glasses told her that the bearded aviator turned his plane to the left, heading east and up the bay in her direction.
Below her now lay the Bay, hemmed in from the Atlantic by long narrow stretches of white sand dunes. For a second or so Dorothy thought they would pass in the air, her plane far above the other. But before she reached that point, she saw the other make a crosswind landing and taxi toward a dock which jutted into the Bay from the dunes. Just beyond the dock an isolated cottage stood in a hollow on the bay side of the dunes. There was no other habitation in sight for over a mile in either direction.
“Aha! Run to earth at last!” muttered Dorothy contentedly. Maintaining her altitude, with Babylon across the bay to her right, she continued her westward course above the dunes.
A few miles past the cottage she flew over Fire Island Inlet. When she was opposite Amityville, she came about. Shutting off her engine, she tilted the stick forward and sent Will-o’-the-Wisp into a long glide which eventually landed her on the waters of Babylon harbor.
Dorothy stripped off her goggles and scanned the waterfront. Slightly to her left she spied a small shipyard, whose long dock bore a large sign which carried the legend: “Yancy’s Motor Boat Garage.”
“Good. Couldn’t be better!” exclaimed Miss Dixon in great satisfaction. “Atta girl, Wispy! We’re going over to have a talk with Mr. Yancy.”
She gave her plane the gun and taxiing slowly over the smooth water, through the harbor shipping, presently brought up at the Yancy wharf and made fast.
“Hello, there! Want gas?” sang out a voice above her, and Dorothy looked up. A smiling young man, dressed in extremely dirty dungarees was walking down the wharf toward her.
“Hello, yourself!” she returned as he came up. “No, I’m not out of gas, thank you. I want to hire a boat.”
“Better come ashore, then.” The man wiped his palms on a piece of clean cotton waste and gave her a hand up. “We’ve got plenty of boats – all kinds, lady. Got ’em fast and slow, big and little. Just what kind of a craft do you need?”
“Something with plenty of beam and seaworthy, that I can run without help. I’m not looking for speed. I may want to take her outside – I don’t know.”
The young man pointed down the wharf to where a rather bulky motor boat, broad of beam and about thirty feet waterline was moored head out to a staging.
“Mary Jane– that’s your boat,” announced Mr. Yancy. “She’s old and she ain’t got no looks, but she’s seaworthy and she’ll take you anywhere. You could run over to Paris or London in that old craft if you could pile enough gas aboard her.”
“She looks pretty big,” Dorothy’s tone was dubious. “Think I can handle her by myself?”
“She is big,” he admitted readily, “but she runs like a sewing machine and she’s all set to be taken out this minute if you want her.”
“I’ll look her over anyway,” she declared and led the way to the landing stage.
Stepping aboard the Mary Jane, she peeped into the small trunk cabin which was scarcely bigger than a locker, but would give shelter in case of rain. She observed that there were sailing lights, compass, horn and a large dinner bell in a rack, and two life preservers as well. In one of the lockers she came upon a chart. Stowed up in the forepeak were an anchor with a coil of line and three five-gallon tins of gasoline. A quick examination showed the fuel tank to have been filled.
The motor was a simple and powerful two-cylinder affair, with make-and-break ignition, noisy, but dependable; the sort of engine on which the fishermen and lobstermen along the coast hang their lives in offshore work. It seemed to Dorothy that it ought to kick the shallow old tub along at a good ten-knot gait. The boat itself though battered and dingy, appeared to be sound and staunch so far as one could see.
