The Airship "Golden Hind" Part 9

At an alt.i.tude of three thousand feet, or fifteen hundred feet above the summit of the Rock of Gibraltar, the "Golden Hind" received her official send-off at 3.35 A.M., eighteen hours after the Hun-owned Z64.

Evidently there was not a minute to be wasted. The contest had developed not merely into a voyage round the world within the s.p.a.ce of twenty days, but a race in which the British compet.i.tor had to make good her formidable handicap of eighteen hours or approximately three thousand five hundred miles.

With the wind abeam on the port side the "Golden Hind" opened out to one hundred and forty miles an hour. During the earlier stages of the race Fosterd.y.k.e rather wisely decided to keep below the maximum speed, rather than overtax the motors by running "all out." Within a few minutes of receiving her official permit to depart the airs.h.i.+p lost sight of the lights upon the Rock of Gibraltar. She was now steering E. by S.--a course that would take her over the northern part of Algeria and Tunis and within a few miles of Malta.

At 4 A.M. Kenyon, who had modestly refrained from giving any details of the part he had taken in the rescue of Enrico Jaures, and had concealed the fact that he had been temporarily out of action, was relieved by Peter Bramsdean.

As he turned to go to his cabin Kenneth saw that the baronet was standing in a corner of the navigation-room and studying a nautical almanac.

"Sleep well, Kenyon," exclaimed Fosterd.y.k.e. "You've some arrears to make up."

"Rather, sir," agreed Kenyon. "But we've forgotten something."

"Eh, what?"

"That fellow we found hanging on to the wire rope, we didn't put him on board the destroyer."

"No," agreed Fosterd.y.k.e, grimly. "We didn't. I saw to that. Unless I'm much mistaken our unwanted supernumerary can and must give us certain information that will rather astonish us. I'll see him later on, by Jove!"

Kenyon nodded knowingly. Evidently Fosterd.y.k.e had learnt something.

However, as far as he, Kenyon, was concerned, other things of a more pressing nature demanded his attention--food and sleep.

At eight o'clock Fosterd.y.k.e ordered his involuntary guest to be brought before him.

"There's something fishy about the breaking adrift business," he observed to Bramsdean as the two sat at a table in the after-cabin awaiting Enrico's appearance.

"Where's Jackson? We'll want him. No, don't disturb Kenyon; he had a pretty sticky time."

"More than you imagine, sir," added Peter, and proceeded to tell the baronet the part Kenneth had played in the aerial rescue of the imperilled Rock Scorpion.

"Kenyon didn't say a word about it," he added on the conclusion of the narrative. "He was as mute as an oyster over it all. Frampton and Collings told me. It was----"

A knock on the cabin door interrupted Bramsdean's explanation.

"Come in!" exclaimed Fosterd.y.k.e.

In answer to the invitation entered Leading Hand Jackson, followed in single file by one of the crew, Enrico Jaures, and two other members of the "Golden Hind's" company.

The Scorp was still labouring under the effects of his narrow escape.

He looked, to quote Bramsdean's words, "as if the stuffing had been knocked out of him."

Fosterd.y.k.e's handling of the situation was a bold one. Without any preliminaries, without even asking the fellow's name, he demanded sternly:

"How much did Count Karl von Sinzig promise you for last night's work?"

Jaures gave an involuntary start, but almost immediately relapsed into his imperturbably pa.s.sive att.i.tude. Then with a slight shrug of his shoulders he replied:

"Me no spik Englis."

"Try again," said Fosterd.y.k.e, contracting his bushy eyebrows and looking straight at the man. "All I can say is that if you don't speak English it's a case of won't, not can't."

"Me no spik Englis," reiterated Jaures.

Without speaking, Fosterd.y.k.e looked straight at the fellow for a full thirty seconds. During that period Enrico attempted three times to meet the searching gaze of his inquisitor.

"Now!" exclaimed the baronet at length.

Enrico Jaures maintained silence.

Fosterd.y.k.e slowly and deliberately unstrapped his wristlet watch and placed it on the table.

"I give you thirty seconds," he said in level tones. "Thirty seconds in which to make up your mind either to answer or refuse to answer my question. Might I remind you that we are now eight thousand feet above the sea, and it is a long drop. Jackson, will you please remove that hatch?"

"Of course the Old Man was only kiddin'," remarked Jackson when he related what had transpired to his companions after the affair was over; "but, bless me, even I thought he meant to do the dirty sweep in. He looked that stern, that it put the wind up the bloke straight away."

Absolutely disciplined, the Leading Hand obeyed orders promptly.

Throwing back the aluminium cover in the centre of the cabin floor, he revealed to the gaze of the thoroughly terrified Jaures a rectangular opening six feet by four. Far below, glittering in the suns.h.i.+ne, was the blue Mediterranean.

"Five seconds more!" announced Fosterd.y.k.e, calmly.

Of the occupants of the after cabin Enrico Jaures now seemed to be the least interested in the proceedings. His furtive glances had given place to an expression of lofty detachment, as if he were utterly bored by the whole transaction. Bramsdean found himself deciding that either the fellow was an imbecile or else he was a past master in the art of dissimulation.

"Time!" declared Fosterd.y.k.e.

Enrico Jaures positively beamed.

"Me no spik Englis," he babbled.

Sir Reginald eyed the accused sternly, but even his piercing glance seemed of no avail. The Rock Scorp continued to smile inanely.

"Take him away," ordered Fosterd.y.k.e with asperity.

He waited till the door had closed upon the involuntary guest, and then gave a deprecatory shrug.

"The fellow's scored this time, Bramsdean," he remarked, "but I'll get to windward of him yet."

CHAPTER XI--"WITH INTENT"

"Where are we now?" enquired Kenyon on returning to the navigation-room to relieve his chum as officer of the watch.

It was now twelve o'clock. Bramsdean had just "shot the sun" and was reading off the degrees, minutes, and seconds from the arc of the s.e.xtant.

"Almost over Algiers, old thing," he replied, pointing to the glaring, sun-baked Algerian coast. "Hark!"