“Where is Osceola now?”
“He is still aboard the Flying Fish. He is to act as your assistant. You see, my dear fellow,” the Baron went on, his manner changing from curtness to affability. “As a midshipman in the United States Navy, you are too dangerous a person to allow you to mix freely with the other passengers of this ship, unless—shall I put it frankly?—unless I have a hold of some kind over you. Those people, wealthy men and women, or they should not be here, are nevertheless but a flock of sheep. You and the Chief proved in Florida that you were made of different stuff. Aboard the Merrymaid, I gave you my reasons for the offer. What is your final answer, now that you have had time to think it over?”
Bill hesitated no longer. “I will fly the plane as agreed,” he said. “But there, my duty to you and your organization ends.”
“That satisfies me. I am glad to take your word as an officer and a gentleman on this matter.” He rose from his chair and beamed at Bill. “My organization is perfect, Mr. Bolton—perfect. You will have no chance to escape—there is no where to escape to—but if you and your friend should wish to try—you have my permission to do so!”
Bill smiled, and said nothing.
“Time to shove off now,” continued the Baron bruskly. “The boat will be waiting for us.”
They went overside by means of a ship’s ladder and were rowed over to the Flying Fish. Her airplane engines were making their appearance topside by the time they stepped aboard. For a few minutes Bill watched them rise one by one, and slide on grooved tracks into place. At the same time, he noticed that the decking just forward of the central motor was moving upward to reveal itself as the roof of a glass-sided structure about two feet high.
“What’s under that?” he asked the Baron, “the pilot’s cockpit?”
“Just so. Come below and we’ll inspect it.”