“It’s the Stamford, or her twin!” he declared. “Uncle Sam sure is on the job!”
Catching up with the cruiser, he circled her three times. Then the Flying Fish darted ahead, landed and came to rest half a mile beyond. By the time the warship hove to beside them, Bill had a sea anchor out and was waiting on the heaving deck. He held a megaphone in his hand. Beside him, staring at the big cruiser, stood Osceola, Charlie, Hans and August.
“What craft is that?” came a hail from the warship’s bridge.
“The convertible submarine-seaplane, Flying Fish, Midshipman William Bolton in command,” Bill yelled back. “She was part of von Hiemskirk’s pirate outfit. She belongs to Uncle Sam now. We captured her less than an hour ago. Are you the Stamford?”
“You’ve guessed it!” spoke a jubilant voice. “Commander Brown speaking,” it went on, “are you the chaps who sent out that wireless?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Bolton. Where is the Amtonia?”
“At anchor in a small harbor a few miles up the coast, sir. One of her propellers was shot off in the scrap the other day. She hasn’t got steam up, or didn’t have, when we left—so I guess she’s still there.”
“Good! Take off at once and lead us to her.”
“Aye, aye, sir. There’s plenty of water but the channel to the harbor is a narrow one between twin heads. You’ll have to be careful.”