Osceola waited until Bill was in his stocking feet with his shoes tied together and hanging about his neck. Then he passed up the stair to the passage that led to the deck like a stealthy shadow, with the young aviator at his heels.
After pausing to make sure the way was clear, the two went out on deck. Osceola seemed at a loss for an instant, then started aft, motioning Bill to follow. He walked with his body bent forward so as to keep below the level of the deckhouse portholes, and darted into the main companionway. Then without the slightest hesitation he entered a large cabin on his right, evidently the main salon. For a moment, he gazed about, then he sprang back into the passage, pushing Bill ahead of him.
While his friend watched, Osceola did a peculiar thing. He dropped to the floor and wormed his way along the passage wall until he could peer round the open door. His hand, with the automatic revolver in it, came forward, and trained the gun on someone within the room.
“You’re covered,” he said in his deep voice, “come out from under that couch—and come pronto! Or I’ll fire!”
Chapter II
SURPRISED
Bill didn’t care to be thrust out of danger’s way by Osceola. He stepped into the open doorway, his revolver leveled. At the far end of the yacht’s salon, taking up the entire space across the rear wall, stood the couch. It was so low from the floor that he wondered not only how a human being could squeeze beneath it, but how Osceola could possibly have known that anyone was hidden there.
“Come on! Get out of that!” growled the Seminole. “And come out feet first, or you’ll stop a bullet before you leave the floor.”
“Please don’t shoot!” cried a high-pitched, muffled voice. “I’m—I’m coming!”
A pair of rubber soled sneakers appeared from beneath the couch, soon followed by two stockinged legs. Then while the two friends stared in amazement a boy of possibly twelve years wriggled forth and got to his feet. He was a round-faced, red-headed youngster in khaki shorts and outing shirt, and across his nose and one side of his face he bore a great smudge of black coal-dust. He looked hot and badly rumpled, but did not appear to be frightened in the least; on the contrary, he was bursting with rage, and began to hold forth immediately.
“Look here, you!” he piped in his ridiculous treble, both hands thrust into trouser pockets and balancing on the balls of his feet against the roll of the ship. “What are you fellas doin’ here? Whose yacht do you think this is, anyway?”