Thirty minutes later, two spruce young fellows in freshly laundered uniforms of white duck met at the breakfast table in the dining room of the bungalow.
“Is it really the wild Seminole chief, Osceola?” grinned Bill as he stood and gazed admiringly at his friend.
Osceola grinned back at him. “It sure is,” he laughed and took his seat at the table. “They tell me that clothes don’t make the man, but—well, I’d never have known you for the chap I said good night to a few hours ago.”
“I feel like a million dollars!” Bill unfolded a snowy white napkin, while Sam filled his coffee cup. “Rest, good food and decent clothes, not to speak of a bath, sure do make a difference. These uniforms fit as if they’d been built for us, too.”
Osceola nodded. “These white shoes I’ve got on pinch a bit, but even so, I’m probably a darn sight more comfortable than the lad who owns them. It must be getting pretty hot under the roof by this time.” He motioned toward the ceiling.
“They’ll be found and released later on,” said Bill, his mouth full of buttered toast. “In fact, I’ll leave a note on the table here, when we go, telling where we’ve hidden them.”
“They don’t deserve it,” returned Osceola, “but you’re the boss. Do as you like about it.”
“What time is the plane scheduled to shove off?”
“She generally takes the air about ten. We’ve plenty of time.”
“O.K. We’ll finish breakfast, then I’ll write the note, and we’ll go down to the dock. I want to get to the plane early. A helmet and goggles for each of us will be a grand help to this disguise. What’s worrying me is the getting down there. If the guard at the gate happens to know those lads upstairs, and smells a rat, things are likely to become rather unpleasant.”