hal accepted mrs. balfour’s invitation to luncheon, and jerry hastened away to eat at a restaurant. but, his weakness getting the better of him, the colored boy reached the schooner at three o’clock, foodless and moneyless, glad enough to stay himself with a hunk of captain joe’s bread and a piece of cold fish. while he ate this, the three sisters, with a supply of gasoline, a big box of fresh fruit presented by mrs. balfour, and the baggage of the aviators, was throwing the spray on her return trip out of the bay.

bob and tom, after the anclote left the river and settled into an even glide, did not relax. it was impossible for either boy to enjoy his first real dash in an airship, and each, hardly breathing, sat tense and with hands gripped. at each small rise, drop or slightest dart, the hearts of the two boys seemed to stop. then, with each steadier glide, there would come the sighs of breathing anew. for perhaps five minutes neither boy spoke.

the aeroplane was perhaps two hundred feet in the air, and almost over the white shell road leading from tampa to tarpon springs. as the highway, like a dirty white ribbon, flew to the rear, both boys sat with eyes fixed straight ahead. a little settlement popped into the air, rushed toward the speeding machine with a buzz of calls and yells, and disappeared behind. it seemed to give bob new courage.

“how fast?” he asked, in a nervous voice and between his set teeth.

“twenty-five miles,” gasped tom, with a quick glance at the anemometer. “hadn’t you better—?” but the sentence was not finished. reaching ahead, to throw the forward rudder up for a still higher flight, preliminary to putting on more speed, bob’s straining ear had caught the lessened beat that denoted a dead cylinder. he acted on impulse, and swiftly. as the forward rudder came to a level and the guiding planes in the rear shifted to stay the upward flight and bring the machine over the roadway to the left, bob’s left hand shut off the engine.

tom asked no questions, but he knew something had happened. the aeroplane, hurtling along under its own momentum, settled swiftly[191] toward the earth. up went the forward rudders again, and the quick descent was checked.

then, released once more, the semi-buoyant machine fell on another slant, and, the cold perspiration of intense excitement on both boys’ faces, the landing wheels struck squarely on the smooth road—ran forward swiftly in lessening bounds until, with a clamp of his foot on the spoon brake, bob brought the car to a full stop.

tom’s hands were so tensely gripped about the section uprights that he could scarcely release them. bob’s knees were shaking.

“wha—what’s the matter?” mumbled tom.

“a cylinder stopped,” answered bob in the tone he might have used to say one of his parents had died.

“can you—you fix it?”

bob was already partly recovered. but there was no color in his face.

“i reckon so,” he answered, none too confidently. “i’ve fixed them on automobiles.”

“were you scared?” asked tom, as he unbent his limbs.

“do you want me to tell the truth?” answered his companion, trying to laugh. “well, when i first got on that seat, i didn’t have cold feet. they were frozen.”

tom laughed feebly, and shook his head.

“i didn’t weaken till we hit the water.”

“i was over the worst of it as soon as we got goin’,” went on bob. “but talk about jumpin’ into a cold bath! for awhile, i wished we’d never thought of the thing.”

“how about it now?” went on tom.

“now? oh, it’s all over now. i’ve been baptized. you feel all right, don’t you?”

“i’ve felt better—in a sail boat,” laughed tom, “but i’m game. fix her up. we’re losin’ time.”

the trouble was only a loose wire and a deficient spark. it was adjusted in a moment. bob looked at his watch.

“five minutes after two,” he said, “and i suppose we’re about twenty miles from the island. all aboard for anclote—due there at two thirty-four.”

the hard roadway gave the anclote an easier start than the softer ground in the factory yard. with hardly a wobble, the aeroplane took to the air again. fragrant fruit orchards and picturesque stretches of hummock land rolled along beneath the flying car. before half past two, thickening dwellings indicated a new town, and, with the white-topped breakers of[193] the distant ocean in sight to the west, the swiftly flying machine passed over the city of tarpon springs. instantly, bob brought the airship on a new course to the west and pointed for the red flash light on greater anclote.

when the lighthouse fell beneath the young aviators, there was another turn to the north. the blue waters of the gulf on the left and the gray-brown shimmer of the shoals between the keys and the distant beach on the right were ample guarantees of happy vacation days at hand.

“there she is,” exclaimed tom, at last, as mac’s flag came suddenly into sight. at the extreme northern end of the group, captain joe’s selection had been reached. with a long, curving sweep to the right, bob dropped lower and lower over the water, and, at two forty-five p. m., the aeroplane entered into a little bay, shaped its course parallel with the flat, hard beach and sank on its landing wheels as if alighting on a mattress.

when bob drew his benumbed limbs from the landed car, he threw himself flat on the warm beach and closed his eyes with a tired but happy smile.

“well, we did it, tom,” he said slowly. “are you satisfied?”

“satisfied?” repeated tom. “wait till i get my chance—i’ll show you.”

“you can try any time you like,” laughed bob. “the machine belongs to all of us. i’ve had my fling. you can take hal up and show him the way to do it, and then he can take mac.”

“how about jerry blossom?” said tom grinning.

“i’ll attend to jerry. leave him to me,” answered bob. “but when every one has had his turn, you and i will make the real flight. we’ll try to see just what the deepest recesses of the big swamp are like.”

“you mean the hidden home of the last of the seminoles?” suggested tom eagerly.

“sure,” exclaimed bob. “if white men can’t get there by swimmin’ or by boat or on foot, it’s our duty to go. you know, tom, i think you’re cut out for a writer—a sort of literary fellow—if you tried. your mother showed me the stories you’ve written. and if we really find those old indians who have an altar decorated with spanish armor, and that’s what they say, you know—and who say their prayers to a big, sacred alligator, why you can write a piece about them, and, maybe, get it printed.”

“do you think so?” asked tom eagerly.

“i know it. and i’ll take photographs of the whole shootin’-match.”

“if i could do that,” exclaimed tom, in an earnest voice, “i’d be happy. i’ll try.”

how tom succeeded, any one can learn who will turn to the files of the pensacola sunday journal for the following september where were published the articles on the “secret city of the seminoles” that eventually started the southern lad on his reportorial career.

north key of the anclote group of islands was not much over a thousand feet in width, but its sinuous length formed a crescent curve of nearly a mile. in formation, it was soft coral stone covered with wind blown sand, and a backbone of thin soil in which grew a ridge of scanty vegetation, a barrier of fan palmetto and sea grass, which protected the inner slope of the crescent. captain joe’s camp site was at the head of a little bay cutting into the island almost as far as the green topped ridge.

here, the smooth shores of the beach changed to an abrupt bank some five or six feet high on the side of which, overhung by a group of three[196] tall cabbage palmettoes, stood the new khaki tent. this the two boys easily made out, the little flag fluttering stiffly in the sea breeze, but there was no sign of the camp sentinel. wondering where mac might be, bob and tom ran forward.

before they could scale the little slope, there was a cry from the other side of the converging beach, and mac was made out, a tin bucket in one hand and a long bamboo rod in the other—barefooted and his trousers rolled to his knees—racing at top speed to meet them.

the three boys met at the camp.

“lemme see her,” panted mac, dropping his bucket. “i seen her comin’. gimme a ride. gee, but it’s lonesome here. say,” he added before the amused boys could either make answer or get a look at the camp, “have you fellows got any matches?”

“matches?” exclaimed both bob and tom, running their hands into their pockets.

“yes, matches. i ain’t had a fire since captain joe left. this is a fine camp,” sneered mac indignantly. “when them fellows sailed away, they didn’t leave me a single match. as i ain’t no indian i ain’t had no fire, and nothin’ to eat that had to be cooked.”

bob and tom looked at each other blankly.

“you don’t mean to tell me you fellows hain’t got no matches?” exclaimed mac, with increased contempt. “look at them,” he said, bitterly pointing to his bucket, “as fine a mess o’ pan red fish as ever made a skillet smoke. well, by golly,” and he threw his pole on the sand, “if that ain’t the limit. when’s that schooner goin’ to git back?”

“to-morrow morning,” answered bob, with a smile.

“laugh,” roared mac, “it’s awful funny—specially if you had a good hot breakfast in some swell café. mebbe by to-morrow, you won’t feel so funny.”

“we haven’t eaten since mahnin’,” interposed tom. “we sort a reckoned you’d have a hot dinnah a waitin’ fo’ us.”

“dinner?” retorted mac. “i’ll get your dinner—just what i had for three days.”

he dashed into the little square supply tent and a moment later returned with a big slice of cheese and a handful of crackers.

“if you want it hot,” he snapped, “put it out in the sun.”

still laughing, bob had a hasty look at the camp. mac’s indignation certainly had not interfered with his camp housekeeping. and[198] what bob saw was ample compensation for the absence of such trifles as a few matches. the camp site was on a level bit of sand ending in the always picturesque saw palmettoes. protected in the rear by this hedge of green, the site faced the wide bay and white-capped sound, beyond which could be made out the white sand of the mainland beach.

the sleeping tent was as fresh, clean and airy as the quarters of a west point cadet. next to it was the supply tent and quarters for jerry. here were the unopened supplies—canvas encased smoked meats, tins of preserved meats, vegetables and fruits, rods and fish-boxes, the shot gun and shells, candles, rain coats, cooking utensils and table dishes—in short, to the eye at least, enough provender to supply a half dozen men a month or more.

on a box in the center of the tent, a new towel covered something. bob raised it. beneath, was a half a link of bologna sausage, a piece of yellow cheese and the fragments of some crackers. the boy broke out into a peal of laughter.

“why didn’t you try some baked beans or potted tongue or some preserved peaches?” he[199] asked as the disgruntled mac followed him into the tent.

“preserves and cold beans?” sneered mac. “with them buster crabs and sweet red fish a curlin’ up in the sun just for the lack o’ a match? i want meat. an’ i didn’t come all the way over here to eat peaches outen a can.”

bob stepped to tom’s side and spoke in a low voice. tom’s eyes bulged. then he too smiled.

“go on,” added bob aloud. “it isn’t over five miles. you can be back in twenty minutes or so.”

tom seemed to hesitate.

“do you think i could?” he suddenly asked with a strange enthusiasm.

“could what?” broke in mac.

“only a little errand,” explained bob pretending to yawn. “we are out of matches and we want those fish for dinner. we can’t have a fire without matches. since we haven’t any, we’ve got to go and get some.”

“that’s it,” said mac, shaking his head as he bit out the words. “go and get some! this is a fine campin’ expedition. why we ain’t even got a boat. mebbe, you’re goin’ to swim.”

“come with us,” said bob, still laughing.[200] puzzled and growling, mac followed tom and bob around the little cove to the bay beach where the aeroplane rested on the sand. as they approached the beautiful airship, mac forgot his grouch and darted ahead.

“don’t be in such a hurry,” called out tom. “you’ll have plenty of time to see it. you’re goin’ with me.”

“with you?” exclaimed mac.

“yes. you and i are goin’ to fly over to tarpon springs for a box of matches.”