Flying the Coast Skyways. Jack Ralston's Swift Patrol

Flying the Coast Skyways. Jack Ralston's Swift Patrol
Ambrose Newcomb

Flying the Coast Skyways Jack Ralston's Swift Patrol

CHAPTER I

By Airline to Atlanta

“Big smoke dead ahead, partner!”

“I’ve been expecting to hear you announce that fact, Per – I mean Wally!”

“Kinder guess naow it mout be Birmingham, eh, what, Boss?”

“No other – you hit the nail on the head that time, Mr. Observer.”

“Huh! my native town, which I’m naow agwine to see fur the fust time.”

“Better get out of the habit of making such crazy cracks, brother – what if any one overheard you, and took a notion in his head you might be somebody other than just a Down-in-Dixie product from Alabama, – raised in the North, where you acquired a whiff of the dialect of a Canuck – and by name Wallace J. Corkendell, though generally answering to plain Wally.”

“Hot-diggetty-dig! that ere smoke cloud sure looks jest like an ole peasoup fog-pack we done got lost in not so far back. By gravy! I doant b’lieve we’ll even git one squint at the pesky city as we fly over the same!”

“I can easily see where I’m bound to have a lot of fun listening to you trying to talk in three different lingoes, all mixed up in one great mess – Yankee, your native brogue; Canadian patios, contracted while with the Northwest Mounted Police; and now a pidgin English, such as a Southern colored boy might use. I only hope such a mixture doesn’t queer the big game we’ve got laid out ahead for us, whatever its nature proves to be.”

“I er-reckons—yeou says I gotter use that word right along naow, ’cause no Alabama white or black boy never does guess anything – I reckons, suh, I’ll git a strangle-holt on the way a gen-u-ine cracker keeps up his end o’ a talkie – given a little time fo’ practice.”

“That begins to sound like the real stuff, comrade,” observed Jack; and despite the clamor of engine exhaust, and whirling propellers both of them were able to hear every word uttered, simply because they were wearing their usual earphone attachments, without which they never made a flight. “I’m beginning to feel encouraged to believe you’ll come through with flying colors. There, we’re directly over Birmingham, and going strong to eastward.”

“Huh! I’m right glad yeou done tole me so, suh,” Perk hastened to reply, doubtless with one of his usual chuckles; “’case all I kin make aout’s a black smudge o’ smoke ahuggin’ the ground, with a few church steeples apokin’ a finger through the same. So, there she lies, my own, my native city! Ain’t it affectin’, though, ole pal, acomin’ back like this, after many years, an’ discoverin’ that same thick smoke fog asettled daown on the dear old place? Gee whiz! I’m jest awonderin’ whether us Southern kids ever did have a gen-u-ine ole swimmin’-hole in them won-derful days, eh, what?”

When they were positively alone, and no danger of crafty eavesdroppers picking up their words, the two cronies were pleased to extract a certain amount of fun out of their assumed characters – for Jack Ralston of course was also sailing under a nom-de-guerre, as well as his best pal – with him the new name was “Rodman Warrington,” and he was supposed to be a rich and eccentric New York City sportsman, weary of the routine of the Carrituck Sound shooting club to which he belonged, and ardently desirous of exploring the various bays, sounds and twisting rivers along the wild coast of North and South Carolina, as well as Georgia.

“To be sure they did, brother,” Jack was saying, reassuringly, in reply to the skeptical question propounded by his running mate; “if you stop and think you’ll remember how every American boy who grew up and amounted to shucks was always getting a great thrill out of memories of such a meeting-place, where all the boys took occasion to show off in doing stunts with a diving board.”

“Say, naow ’at we’ve left dear ole Birmingham in the rear, haow long ’fore we drop daown on Candler Field outside Atlanta?”

“Depends on what time we keep making,” Jack informed him; “we’re speeding along at a hundred-and-twenty clip just now, with only two motors working; and if there was any necessity for fetching it up to an even hundred-and-fifty we could easily enough do the same – and then some. I reckon we’ll come in sight of Candler Field in about an hour-and-a-half – the chart tells me it’s something like one-fifty miles, as the bee flies, between this Southern Pittsburgh and the Capital of Georgia.”

“Meanin’ to stop over in Atlanta long, partner?” demanded Perk; who apparently was not wholly advised of his leader’s plans, as far as they were matured, and as usual “wanted to know.”

“Around twenty-four hours, possibly less, buddy,” Jack explained. “We’ve an appointment, made for us from Headquarters in Washington, to meet up with a certain official connected with the Secret Service, who holds forth in Atlanta – from him we’ll receive a certain amount of information, and be referred to another party, high in the secrets of the Service in Charleston. When we jump off from that South Carolina city we’ll know all we’re expected to carry out – what we’ve been called east to accomplish. There, that’s everything in a nutshell; I’m as much in the dark as you, even though I reckon I’ve figured things out, if a bit hazily, to tell the truth.”

“We’re goin’ after some sort o’ big game, I er-reckon, partner?” Perk speculated, his manner making the remark seem like a question.

“No doubt about that, boy – they wouldn’t have called for us to fly all the way from San Diego, (with two necessary stops to prevent spies from learning as to who we are, and why we’re heading east) if it hadn’t been that some others in the Secret Service had played their innings – and fallen asleep at the switch.”

“Hot-diggetty-dig! I’d say that’d be a neat compliment they’re givin’ us, ole hoss,” Perk exulted; as enthusiastic as a boy over a Christmas present of a brand new shiny pair of club skates. “Another thing I’d like to hear tell ’baout, Ja – er, Mr. Warrin’ton, suh.”

“As what, partner – you’ll notice that I’m trying to call you all sorts of chummy names – that’s for the purpose of trying to forget I ever knew you as Perk, or Gabe Perkiser. If you do the same there’ll be less chance of giving our game away; for if any kind of quick-witted spies should hear us exchanging words they’d remember the real names of the two sky detectives who were playing particular hob with gents who gave Uncle Sammy the laugh. Now, I reckon you’re referring to that letter I had just before we lifted out ship at San Diego last night.”

“Yeou said it, er-ole pal,” replied Perk, catching his treacherous tongue just in the nick of time. “I kinder – reckoned it mout acome from the gent over in San Diego, who’s been aour boss since we started operations ’long the Coast.”

“A fair enough guess, brother,” Jack told him; “because that’s the official who gave us the order to break away, and what to do on the skyway east. There was also some interesting information concerning the job we finished up some weeks back; and I meant to hand that over to you; but somehow failed to connect.”

“I’m right tickled to hear that, suh – fack is I’d begun to feel they wasn’t zactly treatin’ us white, not sayin’ as haow we’d done the Service proud, the way we fetched Slim Garrabrant back after he’d broke loose from the pen, an’ started his ole tricks again.”[1 - See “Trackers of the Fog Pack.”]

“Oh! they were quite enthusiastic about the success of our work, after others had fallen down on the job – that is, as warm as those cold people at Headquarters ever do get, it being against their principles to over praise those working under them, for fear of giving the poor guys the big-head. You can read the letter before I destroy it, brother. The Big Boss in L. A. also wrote that Slippery Slim had been safely returned to his former cell in Leavenworth, and with an added sentence; so, as they’ll watch him closer from now on, there’s small chance of our ever running up against him after this.”

“Well, he was a good guy when it came to tacklin’ big games, I’ll tell the whole world,” observed the satisfied Perk; who again busied himself with his reliable binoculars, eagerly surveying the checkered landscape a mile or more under the bottom of their fuselage; and which continued to prove of considerable interest to Perk, this being actually the first time he had ever passed over that section of the Southland, despite his absurd claim to having spent his boyhood days in Birmingham, Ala.

The time drifted along, with their speed undiminished. Pine woods, tracts of corn, cotton, tobacco; acres of fruit trees, pecan groves, even sugarcane patches – all these signs of the Southland he kept seeing as the miles flew past.

“I kinder – er-reckons as haow we’ve done shot past the dividin’ line ’tween Alabam ’nd Georgia, boss,” he presently announced, with a grand air of superior knowledge; “case I jest seen a town squatted on a river, an’ painted on the roof o’ a house was a name, fo’ the benefit o’ fliers like weuns – Tallapoosa she read, which tells me that must a been the river Tallapoosa – all bein’ ’cross the line in Harlson County, Georgia, (’cordin’ to my map here.) If that’s correct we right naow ain’t more’n fifty miles from aour goal – less’n half an hour yet to fly.”

“You are hot on the trail, comrade,” Jack assured him. “Keep your eyes skinned to pick up another smoke cloud dead ahead, which will be the first sign of our nearing Atlanta, the New York City of the South.”

Perk continued to watch and wait, until finally he gave a half suppressed whoop, to add exultantly:

“It’s a big smoke smudge, all right, buddy; so we’re rushing daown on aour goal like a river afire; which pleases a feller called Wally okay, yeou bet!”

CHAPTER II

The Cipher Letter

Jack did not seem to be at all surprised when his best pal made this abrupt announcement; but then he always kept himself prepared for coming events.

“I was expecting to hear you say that, buddy;” he told his mate; “for the past fifty miles on, our string up to date had about run through. I reckon we’ll be on foot before many more minutes. Get the airport yet – Wally?”

“Sure do, and right naow I kin glimpse a big – looks like our Fokker, agoin’ to drop daown.”

“Yes, possibly belongs to either of the latest lines using Candler Field for a base – Eastern Air Transport, for passengers and mail; and Southern Air Fast Express – covering the route between Los Angeles and Atlanta – both now-a-days carrying capacity loads, the papers have been saying.”

“Shucks! takes yeou to git things daown pat, Big Boss,” Perk went on to comment. “Where do we go from here, Mister?”

“After we’ve made arrangements for housing our crate,” explained Jack, good-naturedly – although he had told his chum the same thing at least twice before the present occasion – Perk could be so forgetful, he remembered – “we’ll make straight for the Henry Grady Hotel, where we’ll find a letter in code awaiting us, unless there’s been a nasty hitch in the arrangements.”

“But – yeou said we had to meet up with some gent here, partner?”

“That’s right, too, Wally; but only after I’ve decoded the letter from Headquarters, which is going to put us wise about the nature of our present big adventure. No great hurry to get moving on, as far as I know at present; so it might be we can hang around Atlanta a day or more. But both of us will have to play our parts, and fend off any too inquisitive newspaper men. I’ve learned that the Atlanta reporters are keen on picking up every scrap of aviation news possible, so’s to make up a story that will go well. We shun that sort of notoriety, don’t forget, brother, as the devil does holy water.”

They were by this time circling Candler Field, which seemed to be bustling with feverish activity – planes of various types were either landing, or else starting up; while several could now be seen cruising at sublime heights, either being put through their paces by pilots, or what was more likely carrying excursionists in the shape of “sandbags,” greenhorn air holiday makers, out to get an experience that would give them a superior advantage over friends who had never as yet gone aloft.

Jack made an exceptionally clever landing, and then turned over the stick to his mate, as if eager to make it appear that Perk was the real article when it came to being the head pilot of the multi-motored cabin Fokker, that had not the least sign of a name, nor yet a number to identify it.

A number of men came running toward the rather retired spot where Jack had purposely come down. Leading them was a little whipper-snapper specimen, in a rather loud checkered suit, who gave all the recognized signs of being a hustling, live-wire newspaper man, always on the scent for some unusual happening such as could be turned into a thrilling story, – such keen investigators are to be found at nearly every airport worth while, eager to satisfy the curiosity of the multitude of readers who are developing air mindedness at a rapid rate.

“Greetings gents;” he started in to say, with a cheerful grin on his sharp features, and holding a pencil in one hand while he had a pad of blank paper all ready in the other. “If you would kindly give me a few facts connected with your identity, where you jumped off, whither bound, and so forth the many readers of my paper would be glad to extend to you a warm welcome to the Gate City of the South.”

Jack gravely shook hands with the diligent worker, and obligingly fed him a little cock-and-bull story, giving the names he and Perk had recently taken upon themselves, and merely stating they were from Texas, bound to Atlanta on private business connected with aviation circles. He did this to quiet the news gatherer, until they could dispose of their ship, and get started for the hotel in a taxi to be hired near by.