“I can’t see anyone on board.”
“Neither can I—and still, if she was abandoned after sunset yesterday when her colors had been hauled down, why doesn’t she show her three red lights in vertical line—that’s the sign of a ship not under control?”
“Some mystery!”
“I should say you’re right, Osceola. And what’s more, I don’t like it—not one little bit.”
Bill banked until the amphibian was headed into the teeth of the light breeze. With the wings level once more, he closed the throttle and pushing his stick forward, sent the plane into a normal glide. At an altitude of about twenty-five feet, he began to break the glide with a slow backward movement of the stick. With expert precision he gradually decreased their gliding angle until they were in level flight with the bottom of the hull perhaps a foot above the water. Although the plane was steadily losing speed he did not yet permit his craft to make contact; but continued to pull back the stick gradually raising the nose and depressing the tail.
Like every other trained aviator he knew that as a plane approaches the stalling point, its nose-heaviness increases sharply and the stick must be pulled farther back to compensate for this. When his point of stall was reached, Bill pulled the stick fully back, completing the stall. The step of the hull made contact. There was no rebound. For an instant, the plane skimmed the surface, then floated forward. A few yards to windward lay the yacht, broadside to the gentle ground swell.
Bill ripped off his headgear.
“Slap your feet on the pedals, Osceola,” he called. “Keep her headed for that gangway amidships. She’ll fetch it all right!”
Without waiting for a reply, he caught up a looped mooring line and climbed out of the cockpit. An instant later he stood on the heaving grating, with the taut line wound about his arm.
“Come aboard!” he shouted. “Make it snappy, will you? This ship’s rolling like a drunken sailor!”