to the surprise of the other boys, mac’s frightened demur lasted only a few seconds. then, as if steeling himself to mount the gallows, the barefooted, bewildered boy exclaimed:

“i call you—you’re on. i’m game.”

as a matter of fact, tom was perhaps more apprehensive than mac. but, one thing reassured him. the start would be over shoal water, in which, if they got a ducking, they would not dash out their brains. the spot where the aeroplane landed was comparatively soft. after a little search around the point, the beach was found to be harder, more like a cement floor, and considerably wider. to this point, the three boys trundled the airship like pushing a gargantuan baby cab.

as mac climbed aboard, he handed eight dollars to bob.

“it’s all i have,” he said, without smiling—although, to tell the truth, neither was he nervous—“give it to my father if we don’t get back.”

“not on your life,” exclaimed tom. “that’s a jonah sign—bad luck. put that money back in your pocket.”

bob was a little concerned over tom’s initiation. but the moment, he saw the southern boy prime the cylinder cocks and grasp the levers, he knew that tom had let nothing go unobserved. again the engine started, the propeller began to hum and tom sat with the wheels braked, waiting for sufficient momentum. then the car wobbled, and bob saw it was time to free the starting wheels.

“let ’em go,” he yelled. and, as tom released the brake, bob, grasping the rear vertical rudder, gave the anclote a “boost” that sent her skimming along the beach. with the first bound into the air, mac twisted his body about. he was actually grinning.

“purty soft,” he shouted, “if i don’t git sky sick.”

st. joseph bay, seven miles wide, stretched between the keys and the mainland. on its far side, rising from the white strip of narrow beach, a green band of scrub pines and palmettoes was broken in one place by a gap through which the anclote river entered the sound.

up this winding watercourse, small boats[203] made their way to tarpon springs, three miles inland. over this stretch of water and land, tom and mac were now shooting at top speed on their most important errand, the securing of a box of matches.

bob rushed back to the camp, mounted to the backbone of the key for one last look at the diminishing aeroplane and a glimpse at the deep blue gulf beyond, and then made ready to prepare the long delayed meal. there was a temptation to extend his inspection of the little island, for he had already noticed a most unusual feature of the sand covered key. at the far northern end of the narrow strip, stood two large trees—oaks he afterwards found—unique both in size and location. he wondered why captain joe had not made camp there, but that was soon explained—there was no landing.

with the determination to make oak tree point the object of his first excursion, the boy clambered down to joe’s inlet, and the camp, and fell to work. perhaps it wasn’t a joy to overhaul and begin the arrangement of their stores. tom had already located a place for a camp fire, and collected a pile of palmetto roots.

in a quarter of an hour, bob had emptied most of the boxes and improvised a pantry. on[204] two of the cases, moved out under a palmetto tree, he laid a cloth and distributed plates, cups, knives, forks and spoons. then followed bread, preserved butter, marmalade, condensed cream, a can of baked beans and another of tomato soup ready for heating, a few potatoes for frying and the skillets and pots for the cooking.

as mac’s fish were to be the feature of the “spread,” bob now began looking for a suitable knife with which to clean them. he knew he had one in his fish box. as he prepared to unlock the latter, his face flushed. then he broke into a laugh. snapping open the lid, he reached into the lower compartment and withdrew, not only his fish knife, but two boxes of wind-proof matches.

“never mind,” he chuckled, “it’s all for the best. ain’t no use havin’ an airship standin’ ’round eatin’ its head off an’ doin’ nothin’. besides, mac had to begin sometime.”

starting a fire of dead roots, bob, still shaking with amusement, put on a pot of water to heat the beans and soup, and filling the coffee pot from the fresh water keg, he took mac’s bucket of fish down to the shore of the inlet to dress them. he was about half done when,[205] straightening up to ease his aching back, he found mac and tom silently watching him.

“if that’s a joke,” exclaimed mac, pointing to the roaring fire, “do it again. i’m satisfied. we was in town twelve minutes, and it was forty-two minutes from the time we left till we got back. an’ i’ll bet you she kin—”

bob held up his hands in protest, while he broke in with an explanation of how and where he had found his matches, at the end of which he told mac they would talk “aeroplane” later. tom exhibited three boxes of matches rather contemptuously, and then, mac being a more experienced cook, bob and tom turned over the culinary affairs to him, while they visited the aeroplane to prepare it for the night.

the rubber-silk plane coverings were so attached that they could be rolled up and buttoned like a buggy curtain, thus decreasing the wind surface and liability of damage from the elements. both top and bottom silk coverings (except in the engine section below) were kept taut and in place on their rear by wire edgings drawn over each slightly projecting rib end.

when these wires were removed, the silk surfaces were easily rolled up and reefed along the forward edge of the car to which they were permanently attached. this done, the delicate starting wheel frame was quickly unbolted and removed, the bare framework set flat on the ground and anchored with four shoulder pins. then, covering the engine with a waterproof jacket, the aeroplane was safe enough from ordinary storm or wind.

when tom and bob rejoined the perspiring mac, they encountered a smell from the fish skillet that set bob to rubbing his stomach.

“wait till i get a mess of pompano,” remarked mac squatted over the fire. “red fish are good—mighty good—but pompano—!” words failed him. about half past four, the meal was ready. at five o’clock, it was at an end, and three rotund youngsters were lying on the warm sand, content with themselves and the world.

“i could lie here forever,” mumbled happy bob.

“which means about five minutes,” drawled tom.

“that reminds me,” exclaimed bob, springing up, “i’m goin’ to explore the island.”

“i reckoned as much,” continued tom. “i nevah knew you all to keep still moah than ten[207] minutes if theah was anything you could do. come on.”

“here,” protested mac. “i don’t mind cookin’; but that don’t mean dish washin’. get busy.”

it wasn’t much dishwashing that was done, but bob did recall that the dish rag had to be washed and hung out to dry. when that had been stretched over a palmetto the three members of the club set out on their tour. mac was leader. his main discovery had been a little projecting arm of the island on the gulf side on which the wash of the sea fell. it was literally a mine of small shells. they were not mixed with sand or gravel, but lay, many feet deep, a solid bank of sea shells.

bob was anxious to reach oak tree point, and, at first, he was somewhat indifferent to sea beans, shark’s tears, conchs, wave-worn sponges, sugary-like corals of endless forms and the broken fragments of yellow and blue and purple fans from the distant indies. but, once started on the quest, in a few moments, he and his companions forgot their excursion and the fleeting hours.

after seven o’clock, the three boys, with cramped backs, ceased their search.

“ain’t you goin’ to the end of the island?” exclaimed bob, as tom and mac started toward camp again. mac shook his head and tom sighed.

“all right,” laughed bob, “i’ll see you later.” and while his companions made their weary way back to joe’s inlet, the indefatigable bob set out in search of still further adventures.

it was the hour of twilight—later there would be a moon, but, instead of dimming the view, the fading day only seemed to lend sharper details to the lonesome key. as bob followed the beach toward the far end of the island, stopping now and then to impale on a long stick the body of a dead jelly fish and hurl it splashing back into the sea, the boy at last came to the point of the trees.

that such ancient and sturdy woodland monarchs should be growing on the stony island was inexplicable. some act of nature had parted the coral foundation of the key and made a little inlet—in form something like the one terminating the bay where the camp was located. into this fissure, the light waves rushed, welling up at the apex of the cleft like a fountain and then rushing out again like the exhaust of a pump. at the very mouth of this, stood a smaller tree,[209] its gnarled roots reaching down through fissures and entwining great blocks of the broken coral stone. at the far end of the fissure—as if stopping further inroads of the rupture—rose the larger tree.

as bob, after a circuit of the trees, threw himself on the soft sand and settled himself to enjoy the darkening blue of land and sky, far to the east over the black of the mainland pines rose the silver rim of the full moon.

it was the time for dreaming. his head on his hand, bob drifted far from the reality of day. anclote key drifted with him into the shadowy world of romance. the spaniards of old were again sailing the seas before him and where he now lay, the red men, who had been dazed by the sheen of knightly de soto’s armor, might have met to stay the approach of the invaders of the new world.

then later days came—days of west indian marauding at sea, wherein turbanned cut-throats ravaged the spanish main for slaves and colonial merchandize and killed men too for the pleasure of killing. in such times, jerry blossom’s mythical outlaw might have lived, some west indian of color—even with jerry’s big sword. such had sailed and slain and[210] robbed in plenty, but they had passed like many of bob’s loved romances, leaving behind them only tales of blood letting and buried treasure.

“buried treasure!” as bob’s wandering thoughts came upon those magic words, he thought of jerry. in such a spot as this, the fabricating jerry might well have located his invented tale of the black pirate and his treasure. bob arose, and, in the new moonlight, again examined the shadowed trees, the rocky inlet at their feet and the drifting sand behind them.

if there was ever a spot made to lure on the treasure seeking negroes of the gulf coast, this was one. “perhaps,” thought bob. then he stopped and scratched his head. a swell of the sea rushed into the inlet and broke with a swish, like harsh whispers. bob’s face lit up with a sudden idea. despite the lonesome surroundings, he even smiled. for a few moments, he paced the ground between the trees and round about and then, as if moved by an eager impulse, he set off on a run for the camp.

tom and mac were debating whether they should prepare another meal when bob, full of his new idea, burst upon them. so keen was bob’s interest in his project that eating talk[211] was put aside. then, to the great amusement of the other boys, bob related how jerry had paid for his passage to the island with a fabricated story of hidden treasure. also, he told how jerry had weakened in his story, and sought to escape his recent compact with bob by explaining that he had lost the record written on the orders of the “ole black pirate wif de big sword.”

bob’s project was to turn the tables on jerry, have some innocent fun at the colored boy’s expense, and, in a measure at least, lessen his proclivity for telling falsehoods. as he explained his plans, tom and mac chuckled with laughter. mac in turn added some ideas that pleased the other boys. withdrawing into the tent, with the aid of a candle, the first step in the conspiracy was taken.

when the plan had been well worked out, the boys took a long stroll on the moonlit shore, had a lively contest as to who could find and dump into the sea the most jelly fish, and finally, the air growing a little cool, they found it ten o’clock and that each was hungry.

“it’s no use to wait for captain joe,” explained mac. “they may be here at one o’clock and they may not get in before daylight.[212] besides, they have plenty to eat and a brazier to cook it on. we’ll eat something and turn in.”

hauling the prearranged signal lights up on the palmetto that mac had stripped, the cook fire was replenished and mac tried his skill on some refreshments. to the surprise of the other boys, mac climbed down the little ravine slope and returned, dragging a coffee sack that had been buried in the sand. bob and tom saw a heap of fine fat oysters gathered by mac in his idle hours from a bank just off great oak point.

when mac announced supper, the main dish was the bivalves. he roasted them in the coals, then cracking open three dozen of them, dropped a bit of butter and a little lemon juice in each.

“oysters à la anclote,” laughed mac, “but wait till we get that pompano, broiled—”

then, dishwashing postponed till morning, the boys rolled themselves in their blankets to dream of the next night, jerry, and “the hidden treasure of the black pirate.”