Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane

“Feel like a wet smack, thank you. The heat is terrible.”

“Wait till I collect my duds and yours,” he suggested, “and we’ll beat it for New Canaan and Home Sweet Home!”

“They’re rolled up in a sea bag,” she told him. “Here it is.”

She started toward him with the bag in her arms, stumbled and would have fallen had not Bill’s steadying hand prevented.

“Kind o’ wobbly, eh?”

“Not as bad as all that, Bill. Caught my toe in that floorboard. It’s loose.”

“Have you had them up?”

“Why, no, I never thought of that.”

Bill took the sea bag from her and tossed it on to the dock.

“Hop on a thwart,” he prompted. “I don’t suppose there’s anything but bilgewater under the boards but we might as well have a look.”

“Need a hand?” asked Dorothy, looking down at him.

“No, I guess not. These sections aren’t heavy – ” He broke off with a sudden exclamation and fished up something from the wet.

“What is it?”

“Seems to be a notebook. Probably dropped out of either Donovan’s or Charlie’s pockets and got kicked under that loose flooring in the gale last night. But it’s soaking wet and its pages are stuck together. Wonder if we’ll be able to get anything out of it?”

Dorothy held out her hand.

“Give it to me. I’ll dry it out on the dock while you look some more.”

For the next few minutes Bill continued his search while Dorothy after placing the notebook on the decking of the dock watched it carefully, lest the light breeze blow it into the water.

At last he joined her and lifted the sea bag over his shoulder.

“How’s it coming?”

“Not so good. It’s going to take a long time to dry the book all the way through even in this sun.”

“Then let’s take it along to New Canaan. I’ll get Dad to put it in our oven as soon as we get home. That’ll do the trick. Get aboard that dinghy and I’ll row you over to the plane.”

Dorothy picked up the notebook and slipped it into her pocket.

“That’s the best thing you’ve said today,” she beamed, “I’ll be home and asleep in twenty minutes! Come along.”

Chapter XIII

THE WARNING

Dorothy and Mr. Dixon were finishing breakfast next morning when the Boltons, father and son, dropped in.

“Good morning, stranger,” was Mr. Dixon’s greeting to Bill. “I understand you’ve been to Europe and back a couple of times since we saw you last. We’ve missed you, boy.”

“Thanks,” returned Bill. “I’m glad to be home again.”

“Which home?” asked his father with an amused smile. “When in New Canaan you seem to spend most of your time across the way here.”

“And why not?” protested Mr. Dixon. “Dorothy and I return the compliment often enough. Since you people moved here two lonely widowers have acquired another child apiece. It’s fine – both Dorothy and I are the happier for it.”

“And that goes two ways,” asserted Bill. “How about it, Dad?”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Bolton assented heartily. “The intimacy is one I enjoy immensely. But I’m afraid that Bill has begun the habit of leading Dorothy into all kinds of dangerous adventures. This diamond smuggling business, for instance.”

Mr. Dixon chuckled. “If you ask me, I don’t think Dorothy needs any leading.”

“Well, I should say not!” exclaimed his daughter. “If it weren’t for Bill, I’d never be able to get out of half the messes we drift into together!”

Mr. Dixon pushed his chair back from the breakfast table. “This meeting of the mutual admiration society is all very nice,” he announced with a twinkle in his eye, “But it is high time the ways and means committee got together on this last Bolton-Dixon hair-raiser. I vote we adjourn to the porch and learn what the subcommittee on the smugglers’ notebook has to report.”

“Second the motion,” chirped Dorothy. “I’m just crazy to hear what you’ve found out, Daddy Bolton. I suppose Bill has been hitting the hay, like me?”

“He put in nearly sixteen hours of uninterrupted slumber,” Mr. Bolton answered as they found chairs for themselves on the shaded porch, where the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle.

“Well, I guess it was a dead heat,” she laughed. “I woke up less than an hour ago, myself.”

Mr. Dixon passed his case to Mr. Bolton and when their after-breakfast cigars were well alight, Bill produced the notebook.

“While you’re busy with that stogie, Dad, I’ll start the ball rolling.”

“Humph! That – er – stogie happens to be a fifty-cent Corona!” snorted Mr. Dixon who was touchy about his smokes.

“Means nothing to me,” replied Bill blandly. “Don’t use ’em myself and – ”

“Say, will you please pipe down on cigars – ” broke in Dorothy, “and get to the notebook?”

“Oh, what a pun – ” groaned Bill, “you certainly – ”

“Be still!” ordered his father. “She’s right. Let’s get down to business. Now, here’s the book,” he went on, opening the little volume. “I dried it in our oven and although the writing is blurred, it is still quite legible. As you see, only a few pages have been used, and they show a simple set of flag signals. The red flag means: ‘Meet Steamship.’ The yellow flag stands for ‘A.M.’; the white, ‘P.M.’ Then there are twenty-four flags to designate the hours and half-hours from one to twelve.”

“Is that all?” asked Dorothy, disappointedly.

“Absolutely. The rest of the pages are blank.”

“I remember hearing the men speak of the bosses’ red flag when I was listening outside the cottage,” she said slowly, “and that meant, of course, that Donovan and Charlie were to meet the steamer.”

“Quite. But until we are able to locate the spot where these signals are displayed we won’t accomplish much.”

Bill nodded. “And now that they know we have discovered their method of smuggling, they’ll probably shift their operations from Fire Island Lightship to some other point along the coast.”