CR-RASH! SLAP! SWISH!
The school of sharks scattered in all directions, as a seaplane’s pontoons smashed down into the water close by.
“Ahoy, you two!” cried a voice almost over the swimmers’ heads. “Climb aboard, and make it snappy! Those sharks will be back in a minute.”
Looking up, Don and Red saw that a few strokes would bring them within reach of the plane’s starboard pontoon. So skillfully had the pilot maneuvered his craft in the choppy waves that he was now drifting past almost within arm’s reach. The man’s head and arms were just visible through the cabin door which he had slid back.
Don gripped the pontoon’s wet surface, heaved himself up, and reached an arm down to Red Pennington. His revolver was back in its shoulder holster, but the bulge of it was plain, he knew, under his wet blouse.
“Those sharks nearly got us at that!” he observed, imitating Corba’s whining tones. “We’ve been shootin’ at ’em since daylight, but they was gettin’ uglier every second. An’ then that boat put off from the Gatoon. Between it and the sharks, we wouldn’t have lasted five minutes longer!”
“I know all that, sailor!” snapped the pilot, glancing back at the approaching lifeboat. “Stow the gab and climb up here, so I can take off. They’ve got rifles in that boat!”
Muttering under his breath, the fake Corba clambered into the cabin, with his dripping companion at his heels. As they did so, the seaplane’s motor burst into full-throated sound. Gracefully the ship circled, straightened out over the slapping wave tops, and took off into the wind.
“You, Mink!” called the pilot above the motor’s steady roar. “They tell me you’re good with a machine gun. If you want some practice, move over and man that turret piece!”
“Okay!” replied Red Pennington, taking the role of the gorilla seaman. “But wot’s the idea now? We ain’t gonna attack the Gatoon all by ourselves, are we?”