He had discovered some time back that the rival crate resembled their own, in that it was in the amphibian class–could hop-off either from the land or when on the water.
Really he had taken it for granted that such would turn out to be the case, since occasions without number must arise when, for instance, the smugglers wished to take alien Chinamen from some schooner or speedboat by means of which the first part of their journey to the Promised Land had been carried through, when it would be necessary for the plane to drop alongside the boat from Cuba or other foreign ports and make the transfer.
The prospect was far from displeasing to Perk–he felt positive that it would be the first time on record when one of Uncle Sam’s Secret Service men fought it out with a taxiing seaplane on the subtropical waters of the great gulf.
The outcome of course was hidden behind a haze of mystery–one, or both of those engaged might never live to tell the story but then that sort of uncertainty had been his daily portion during his thrilling service on the French front and its coming to the surface again after all these years of less arduous labor only made Perk hug himself, theoretically speaking.
Now the flying ship was passing directly over his place of concealment, although at rather a high ceiling. Would the Argus-eyed pilot make any suspicious discovery, or, failing to do so, continue his scrutiny along the many leagues of similar mangrove islands stretching far into the south?
Perk saw him pass the spot, which caused him to imagine the game was all off, and he would have nothing but his trouble for his pains. Indeed a sense of heavy disappointment had even begun to grip his heart when he saw the other suddenly bank and swing as though meaning to come back again.
“Zowie! kinder looks like he did glimpse somethin’ that struck him as wuth a second scrutiny,” chuckled the anxious watcher, that delicious thrill once more sweeping over his whole frame.
Indeed, it was a moment of more or less suspense, although Perk was telling himself he did not care a particle whether the smuggler pilot discovered the mast of the sloop, with its camouflaged deck below or not.
He was only hoping that the other might not take a notion to fly overhead and try to drop some sort of a miserable bomb down upon the spot where things looked a bit suspicious to him. Possibly Perk still seemed to get a faint whiff of the tear-gas that had drenched the smugglers’ boat at the time he himself hurled those two bombs with such deadly accuracy and the possibility of being himself made the target of a similar attack was anything but pleasing for him to contemplate.
This time the Curtiss-Robin sped past not much more than three hundred feet above, so that he could plainly make out a head, with its protecting helmet, earflaps, and goggles, that was projected from the cabin.