“Thank you, Mr. Bolton. Any other suggestions?”
“Yes, sir. Please wireless to the state constabulary to guard the road from Twin Head Harbor to Clayton. That’s the only way von Hiemskirk and his crew can escape by land.”
“We’ll attend to it at once,” said the Commander. “Cut along now. We’ll follow you, so don’t get too far ahead.”
“Aye, sir,” said Bill, and sent Hans forward to haul in the sea anchor.
The first pale rays of summer dawn were brightening sea and land when the Stamford navigated the entrance between Twin Heads and pushed her wicked snout into the harbor. At the same instant, Bill landed the Flying Fish on the calm water.
Through the cockpit windows Bill saw that the Amtonia was raising her anchors.
“Von Hiemskirk was all set to run for it,” he said to the chief.
“But he wasn’t quite quick enough,” grinned Osceola. “Next stop, Atlanta, for that bunch. There’s mighty little pirating to be done in a federal prison!”
“They’re hauling down the Jolly Roger!” cried Bill. “Well, that cuts it. Somebody will be sending a boat over here after awhile. Let’s see if we can rustle some chow in the meantime. I’m starved!”
The boat came alongside shortly after the five aboard the Flying Fish had finished doing justice to a very substantial breakfast. And all five were on deck when the ensign in charge came over the side.