<h2 id="c17"><span class="sc">Chapter XVII</span> <br/><span class="small">BILL’S WAY</span></h2>
<p>The moment that the match struck the
water found Bill wriggling across the deck
like a sand-eel. The red tip of the cigarette
in the man’s mouth glowed and waned as he
drew in the smoke. A bright point in the
darkness, it moved forward, and in its soft
luster Bill could distinguish the shiny peak
and white linen top of the man’s yachting
cap, beneath which his face was a dim brown
blur. Everything else was in black obscurity.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_238">238</div>
<p>As quickly as a cat, Bill slipped down the
ladder and, pressing his body against the side
of the yacht, lay motionless. It was unlikely
that the man would descend, for Bill had seen
no boat tethered at the tiny square stage below.
And now he prayed that this yacht’s
officer would not select the spot directly
above him to pause for contemplation of the
night sky.</p>
<p>The man drew nearer, hesitated, as if
halted by the sound of talk in the saloon below,
then passed on. The slow tread of his
rubber soles grew fainter, and Bill knew that
he had strolled to the other side of the deck.
Now was his chance. For an instant he
glanced down at the dinghy. That would be
the easier way, but—well, there was no telling
what might happen if he went ashore.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_239">239</div>
<p>He hastily unlaced his shoes, stuffed them
in his coat pocket, and bending low, ran
lightly along the deck toward the door
whence the officer had emerged. Down the
companionway he darted and at the bottom
found himself in a narrow passage which
bisected this part of the yacht fore and aft.
Being familiar with this type of craft, he
guessed that the passage ran forward from
the saloon where Slim and Sanders were still
conferring, to the galley and the crew’s
quarters. On either side were the closed
doors of the cabins. He listened for a second
at the door nearest the stairs, turned the knob
and pushed it open.</p>
<p>“That you, Petersen?” inquired a sleepy
voice from within the dark cabin.</p>
<p>“The owner wants young Evans in the
saloon,” growled Bill, trusting that his voice
sounded not too unlike Petersen’s, who he
guessed was finishing his smoke on deck. He
was without weapon of any kind. If the man
in the cabin became suspicious, he must run
for it.</p>
<p>He heard a prodigious yawn. “Well, I
ain’t that kid’s nurse,” he grumbled. “You
ought to know, he’s in Number 3. The key’s
in the door. Fetch him yourself. High
tide’s at two bells and we shove off then. For
the love of Mike, get out of here and let me
catch forty winks!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_240">240</div>
<p>Bill hurriedly closed the door and looked
around for Number 3. There was a night
light burning in the passage and by its dim
rays he soon found the cabin, just forward
of the companionway. He unlocked it,
slipped inside and shut the door after him.</p>
<p>“Say!” piped a shrill voice, and one that
he recognized this time. “What’s the big
idea? For the twenty-seventh time I’ll tell
you I don’t know where my father is—and I
care less. Beat it, and let a feller sleep!”</p>
<p>“Pipe down, Charlie, it’s Bill!”</p>
<p>“<i>Bill!</i>” almost shrieked the boy. “Gee
whizz, but I’m glad you’ve come. It’s so dark
in here—I thought—”</p>
<p>“Never mind what you thought. Hustle
it up, kid—we’ve got to get out of here in a
hurry.”</p>
<p>“Wait till I get my clothes on—”</p>
<p>Bill felt rather than saw the small figure
beside him and caught Charlie’s arm. “No
time for clothes. You’re wearing something—what
is it?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_241">241</div>
<p>“One of old Sanders’ nightshirts,” Charlie
ruefully returned. “It’s a million sizes too
big—as usual, they chuck anything at a—”</p>
<p>“Who do you think you are—” whispered
Bill, “the Prince of Wales?”</p>
<p>He pulled Charlie toward the door, opened
it and looked out. Someone was coming down
the companionway, whistling Yankee Doodle
and flatting horribly. Bill jerked back, kept
the cabin door on a crack and waited.
Presently a door further down the passage
slammed and Yankee Doodle was suddenly
and mercifully cut short.</p>
<p>Bill wasted no time. Into the corridor,
followed by Charlie, he sprang. Number 3
was hurriedly locked and the two ran up the
companionway, their bare feet making no
noise on the brass-bound rubber treads.
Both lads leapt across the deck, slithered into
the dinghy and pushed off.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_242">242</div>
<p>The tide was on the flood and made a
splashing noise against the hull sufficient to
muffle the click of the oars as Bill dropped
them into the row-locks. Gritting his teeth,
he took three or four long strokes and then
sat still. In the swing of the tide the dinghy
drifted silently away from the vessel, and was
lost among other crafts at anchor nearby.</p>
<p>They gave the yacht a wide berth, one lad
at the oars, the other crouched in the stern of
the rowboat. Bill used its lights, however,
to get his bearings on the pier steps. He half
expected some angry yachtsman to be waiting
with threats to wring his neck for such bare-faced
robbery. They were still a couple of
hundred yards off the wharf when a sea-going
tug swung round the riding lights of an
anchored sloop. Bill heard the clang of the
engine room bell, and almost directly the
powerful craft slowed down, her propeller
blades churning the water to foam. A voice
hailed them from the deck forward.</p>
<p>“Dinghy ahoy! Scull over here and let’s
see who ye are!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_243">243</div>
<p>“Who wants to know?” piped up Charlie.</p>
<p>“The Stamford Harbor Police Patrol
wants ter know, sonny—that’s who. Give us
no more of your lip. Come aboard and let’s
see what ye got in that there rowboat!”</p>
<p>“Coming!” said Bill, and pulled toward
the tug which was drifting slowly with the
tide.</p>
<p>They were but a few yards off her side when
a blinding light struck the dinghy.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t ye get that dum thing workin’
before, Pat?” growled another voice above
their heads. “Them ain’t the guys we’re
lookin’ for. There ain’t no booze aboard
that dinghy—nothin’ but a couple o’ lads.
An’ one of em’s stole his grandmother’s night
shirt.”</p>
<p>“Grandmother, your eye!” sang out
Charlie, who knew he looked ridiculous, and
was in no mood to appreciate the tug crew’s
laughter.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_244">244</div>
<p>“Shut up, kid,” ordered Bill, and then in
a louder voice: “We are looking for the police.
There’s worse than booze-running going on
out here tonight. Any objection to our
coming aboard?”</p>
<p>“Come aboard, bub—tell us yer troubles.”</p>
<p>They were helped overside by a man in
trousers and a cotton undershirt. Upon closer
inspection he proved to be a short and stubby
individual with very black eyes and hair and
a round face badly in need of a shave.</p>
<p>“An’ now what’s the matter?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Are you in command of this craft?”</p>
<p>“I am, young man. Sergeant Duffy’s the
name. Now let’s have yer monikers—an’ all
about it.”</p>
<p>“My name is Bolton, I live in New
Canaan,” began Bill.</p>
<p>“What? Not the midshipman whose name
was in all the papers fer capturin’ that pirate
liner!”</p>
<p>“I guess,” said Bill, “I have to plead guilty
to the charge.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_245">245</div>
<p>Sergeant Duffy shook him warmly by the
hand. “I recognize ye now from the pictures,”
he beamed. “I’m glad to meet ye,
sor. It’s an honor, it is.... An’ the young
man wid ye—he’ll be Charlie Evans, if I’m
not mistaken? Where in the seven seas did
ye locate the lad? His father had his kidnappin’
broadcasted t’night, but it said them
fellies had got him away down east—Clayton,
Maine, was the place.”</p>
<p>“Well, I found him locked up aboard that
yacht, the one that’s showing lights over
there.”</p>
<p>“The <i>Katrina</i>?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know her name—”</p>
<p>“The <i>Katrina’s</i> right,” cut in Charlie.</p>
<p>“A feller by the name of Sanders is owner,”
offered the Sergeant. “He lives on Shippan
Point.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_246">246</div>
<p>“That,” said Bill, “is the guy. Anyway,
he’s in cahoots with Slim Johnson, the gangster
whom I saw murder a man called Hank
tonight. They’re both on board the <i>Katrina</i>
now, and I have every reason to believe that
Sanders was the brains of von Hiemskirk’s
pirate gang. That yacht, by the way, is
shoving off for Maine at the turn of the tide.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, she ain’t—” declared the policeman.
“By gorry, we’ll attend to the <i>Katrina</i>
in a jiffy. I’m sendin’ ye ashore wid Kelly.
He’s got to call up headquarters, and you can
’phone Mr. Evans at the same time.”</p>
<p>“Can’t we go with you and see the fun?”
begged Charlie.</p>
<p>“No, ye can’t, young man. Ye’re my responsibility
now, and the two of ye have had
enough excitement fer tonight, I’ll be thinkin’.”</p>
<p>“We’re very much obliged to you, Sergeant,”
said Bill, shaking hands again.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_247">247</div>
<p>Sergeant Duffy shook his bullet head.
“It’s me who’s thankin’ you, sor. This is
big business in our line. It’s the chanct I’ve
been waitin’ more than five years for. It
will mean my lieutenancy, Mister Bolton.
And just remember, sor, if any o’ thim dumb
motorcycle cops hold ye up fer speedin’ any
time, tell ’em you’re a friend o’ Duffy’s! If
they don’t let ye go, I’ll break ’em.”</p>
<p>Bill grinned and nodded and they hurried
overside into the dinghy where a husky
policeman was already at the oars.</p>
<p>“Beat it, Kelly,” Duffy flung after them,
“and ’phone the chief to break out a bunch of
his flat-feet and get ’em down to the wharf on
the run. Now you men,” they heard him
say as they drew away from the patrol boat,
“rip them covers off the guns and git under
way. The <i>Katrina</i> over yonder’s got a bunch
o’ murderin’ kidnappers on her, and we’re the
lads what will run ’em in the cells, sure as
Saint Patrick run the snakes out o’ the old
country!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_248">248</div>
<p>The wharf was deserted. After knotting
the dinghy’s painter to an iron ringbolt, the
lads followed Kelly across the rough planking
to the small shack Bill had hidden behind
while watching Slim Johnson.</p>
<p>Kelly produced a key and went inside.
From the doorway they heard him call Police
Headquarters and pour forth the sergeant’s
message into the ’phone.</p>
<p>“Well, Bill,” said Charlie, “you certainly
handed Sanders and his bunch a red hot
wallop. What will they do to them, do you
think?”</p>
<p>“Murder is a hanging matter in this state,
Charlie, and kidnapping means a long term in
state’s prison. When Sanders and Company
get through with that, there will still be a
federal charge of piracy against them on the
Flying Fish job that we cleaned up a few
weeks ago.” He broke off as Kelly came out
and told him he could use the ’phone. Two
minutes later, he had Mr. Evans on the wire.</p>
<p>“Bill Bolton speaking, sir,” he said. “I’ve
found Charlie. He’s safe and sound and
with me now.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_249">249</div>
<p>“Thank God!” Bill heard him exclaim,
and went on talking.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I was so rude earlier this evening,”
he apologized. “I misjudged you,
sir.”</p>
<p>“I understand how you felt, Bill. But I’d
already broadcasted the boy’s abduction when
you called, and—but never mind about that
now. Where are you, and what’s happened?”</p>
<p>Bill gave him a hurried resume of the evening’s
adventures.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_250">250</div>
<p>“Sanders,” said Charlie’s father, “got one
thing wrong. I wasn’t transporting that gold
to Europe in the <i>Merrymaid</i>. It was bound
for two banks in New Orleans—ten million
dollars of it. The reason I didn’t call in the
police was not because I feared Federal censure,
but because I was afraid if Sanders was
frightened, he would drop depth bombs on
the place and scatter the gold so that no one
could find it. I knew it had been sunk by
von Hiemskirk and his pirates somewhere off
Twin Heads, but had no idea it was in the
harbor. Now we’ll get it easily enough. And
that reminds me, Deborah telephoned half
an hour ago. Osceola found Sanders’ headquarters
this afternoon. He had an armed
camp in the woods across the harbor from
Turner’s. The chief got the State’s police on
the job and tonight they captured the place
and every man-jack of them except Sanders,
who you say is aboard his yacht down here—”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” interrupted Bill. He
listened while Kelly called to him from the
open doorway. “The policeman with us,”
he continued, “says the <i>Katrina</i> has been
taken. He can see the prisoners being moved
aboard the patrol boat. He also tells me he
will run us up town in his flivver. Goodbye
for the present. I’ll have Charlie with you
just as soon as we can get there.”</p>
<p>Five minutes later, while they were being
driven toward the heart of Stamford in the
police car, Charlie turned to his friend.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_251">251</div>
<p>“Gee whizz, Bill, I clean forgot to thank
you for getting me away from that gang!”</p>
<p>Bill laughed. “Don’t mention it, kid.
You’d do the same for me any day, I know.”</p>
<p>Charlie smiled complacently. “I sure
would, Bill,” he declared, “but take it from
me, if you’re going to get kidnapped, bring a
pair of pajamas along—these nightshirts
make a monkey out of a man!”</p>
<p>Those who have enjoyed this book and
Bill’s previous adventures, <i>Bill Bolton—Flying
Midshipman</i>, and <i>Bill Bolton and The
Flying Fish</i>, will be sure to find even more to
interest them in the next book of this series,—<i>Bill
Bolton and The Winged Cartwheels</i>.</p>
<p class="tbcenter"><span class="small">THE END</span></p>
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