Curlie Carson Listens In

by Roy J. Snell

It had been a wild race. He had lost thus far; would he lose in the end? Had he, after all, trusted too much to theory? Had these two sons of rich men really only gone for some picnic trip to a well-known island farther south along the coast? Or had they, as he had assumed, guided by their ancient map, gone in search of the island of "many barbarians and much gold," an island which he was convinced existed only in name?

The girl, too; what had she meant when she said she was in some ways responsible for her brother's actions? There was something queer about the whole affair. Who had taken the wireless equipment from the wrecked car out there by the Forest Preserve? Did young Ardmore have the ancient original of that interesting map or only the photograph? If he did not have it, who was in possession of it? Strange thing that it would be lost for a hundred years only to have a brand-new photograph of it show up all at once. Rather ghostly, he thought. He had meant to ask Gladys Ardmore about that. He'd ask her now if she were here. But he was more than glad she was not here.

"No trip for a girl," he told himself, "and she said she'd go. Strange she gave it up so easily. Strange that—"

His thoughts broke off suddenly as he stared forward. The Kittlewake was equipped with three cabins; a forecastle and aftercabin, both below the main deck, built largely for stormy weather, and a fair-weather cabin in the center of the main deck. The night was dark, the moon not having come up. It was difficult to distinguish objects at a distance, but, unless his eyes deceived him, Curlie saw some object, all white and ghostly, rising slowly from the hatchway leading to the forecastle. Cold perspiration sprang out upon his brow, his heart beat madly, his knees trembled as he involuntarily moved forward. That was the way he had of treating ghosts; he walked straight at them.

In the meantime, had one been on some craft three hundred miles farther on in the direct course of the Kittlewake, he might have caught the thunderous drumming of two powerful Liberty motors. He might also have seen a spot of light playing constantly upon the black waters. While this light was constant, it moved rapidly forward in a wide circle. The circle was never the same in size or location, yet the spot of light did not move more than twenty miles in any direction from a certain given center. The spot of illumination came from a powerful searchlight mounted upon a seaplane. It was manipulated by a boy in the rear seat. A second boy drove the plane. These boys, as you have no doubt long since guessed, were Vincent Ardmore and his reckless pal, Alfred Brightwood.

This light had been playing upon the water since darkness had fallen, some three hours before. They had been circling for four hours. Their hopes of completing their search before dark had been thwarted by a defective engine which had compelled them to make a landing upon the sea when the journey was only half completed.

At this particular moment the plane was climbing steadily. It was a perfect "man-bird" of the air, was this Stormy Petrel. With broad spreading planes and powerful motors, it was the type of plane that now and again hops off from some point in England during the dewy morning hours and carries her crew safely to Cuba without a single stop.

Yet these boys were not planning a trip across to Europe. They were, as Curlie had supposed they might be, hunting for the island of "many barbarians and much gold."

When they had mounted to a considerable height, Alfred shut off the engines and allowed her to volplane toward the sea.

"Aw, let's give it up and get back," said Vincent downheartedly. "It's not here. Probably that old map-maker made a mistake of a trifling hundred miles or so."