“Let ’em go,” he yelled. And, as Tom released the brake, Bob, grasping the rear vertical rudder, gave the Anclote a “boost” that sent her skimming along the beach. With the first bound into the air, Mac twisted his body about. He was actually grinning.
“Purty soft,” he shouted, “if I don’t git sky sick.”
St. Joseph Bay, seven miles wide, stretched between the Keys and the mainland. On its far side, rising from the white strip of narrow beach, a green band of scrub pines and palmettoes was broken in one place by a gap through which the Anclote River entered the sound.
Up this winding watercourse, small boats made their way to Tarpon Springs, three miles inland. Over this stretch of water and land, Tom and Mac were now shooting at top speed on their most important errand, the securing of a box of matches.
Bob rushed back to the camp, mounted to the backbone of the Key for one last look at the diminishing aeroplane and a glimpse at the deep blue gulf beyond, and then made ready to prepare the long delayed meal. There was a temptation to extend his inspection of the little island, for he had already noticed a most unusual feature of the sand covered Key. At the far northern end of the narrow strip, stood two large trees—oaks he afterwards found—unique both in size and location. He wondered why Captain Joe had not made camp there, but that was soon explained—there was no landing.
With the determination to make Oak Tree Point the object of his first excursion, the boy clambered down to Joe’s inlet, and the camp, and fell to work. Perhaps it wasn’t a joy to overhaul and begin the arrangement of their stores. Tom had already located a place for a camp fire, and collected a pile of palmetto roots.
In a quarter of an hour, Bob had emptied most of the boxes and improvised a pantry. On two of the cases, moved out under a palmetto tree, he laid a cloth and distributed plates, cups, knives, forks and spoons. Then followed bread, preserved butter, marmalade, condensed cream, a can of baked beans and another of tomato soup ready for heating, a few potatoes for frying and the skillets and pots for the cooking.
As Mac’s fish were to be the feature of the “spread,” Bob now began looking for a suitable knife with which to clean them. He knew he had one in his fish box. As he prepared to unlock the latter, his face flushed. Then he broke into a laugh. Snapping open the lid, he reached into the lower compartment and withdrew, not only his fish knife, but two boxes of wind-proof matches.
“Never mind,” he chuckled, “it’s all for the best. Ain’t no use havin’ an airship standin’ ’round eatin’ its head off an’ doin’ nothin’. Besides, Mac had to begin sometime.”
Starting a fire of dead roots, Bob, still shaking with amusement, put on a pot of water to heat the beans and soup, and filling the coffee pot from the fresh water keg, he took Mac’s bucket of fish down to the shore of the inlet to dress them. He was about half done when, straightening up to ease his aching back, he found Mac and Tom silently watching him.