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The Boy Aviators\' Treasure Quest

C >> Captain Wilbur Lawton >> The Boy Aviators\' Treasure Quest



Produced by Paul Hollander, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




THE BOY AVIATORS' TREASURE QUEST

Or, The Golden Galleon



By

Captain Wilbur Lawton
(pseudonym for John Henry Goldfrap)

Author Of "The Boy Aviators In Nicaragua." "The Boy Aviators On
Secret Service," "The Boy Aviators In Africa," etc.




Boy Aviators' Series

By Captain Wilbur Lawton

Six Titles. Cloth Bound. Price 50c

Uniform With This Volume

1 THE BOY AVIATORS IN NICARAGUA;
or, In League with the Insurgents.

2 THE BOY AVIATORS ON SECRET SERVICE;
or, Working with Wireless.

3 THE BOY AVIATORS IN AFRICA;
or, An Aerial Ivory Trail.

4 THE BOY AVIATORS' TREASURE QUEST;
or, The Golden Galleon.

5 THE BOY AVIATORS IN RECORD FLIGHT;
or, The Rival Aeroplane.

6 THE BOY AVIATORS' POLAR DASH;
or, Facing Death in the Antarctic.




CONTENTS.


Chapter
I. The Eagle and the Buzzard
II. Billy's Strange Tale
III. A Trial Flight
IV. Eben Joyce Appears
V. A Strange Story
VI. The Golden Galleon
VII. A Fire Alarm By Aeroplane
VIII. Nearly Out of the Race
IX. The Grasshopper's Mishap
X. The Aero Race
XI. Lost in the Fog
XII. Billy Hears an Interesting Conversation
XIII. Luther Barr's Trap
XIV. Mr. "L. B.'s" Dirigible
XV. Off for the Sargasso
XVI. In Dire Peril
XVII. Billy's Narrow Escape
XVIII. Into the Sargasso
XIX. The Rat Ship
XX. The Golden Galleon
XXI. Dirigible vs. Aeroplane
XXII. On Board Barr's Ship
XXIII. Prisoners in Dire Peril
XXIV. The Inventor's Treachery
XXV. The Fight on the Island
XXVI. The Boys Win Out




CHAPTER I.

THE EAGLE AND THE BUZZARD.


"Hurrah!"

The shout went upward in a swelling volume of sound as a thousand
voices took up the cry.

"Say, those boys can fly!"

"I should say so."

"Did you see that swoop!"

"Did I? I thought they were goners sure."

"They handle that sky-clipper like a bicycle."

These admiring exclamations came in a perfect hailstorm as the big
biplane air-craft, which had called them forth, swept earthward,
bearing her two young occupants downward in a long graceful glide, and
landing them at the door of their red aerodrome with the precision of
an automobile being driven up to its owner's front steps.

The drone of the engine ceased and little spurts of dust shot up from
the landing wheels as the young aviator at the helm of the beautiful
craft applied his brakes, threw out the spark and cut off the engine.
The plane ran about one hundred feet on its wheels and then came to a
standstill.

"Hurrah for the Golden Eagle!" shouted a voice. The enthusiasm was
echoed all over the crowded field. From the long rows of autos, parked
at the edge of the field and crowded with applauding men and women,
came the "honk! honk!" of horns in a deafening clamor.

Smilingly making their way through the enthusiasts who swept down on
them, Frank and Harry Chester, the Boy Aviators, who had just
concluded a tuning up flight for the Hempstead Plains Cup--the contest
for which was to take place in a week's time--entered the shed and,
making their way to a screened-off room in the corner, shed their
leather coats and woolen caps and removed the grime from their hands
and faces. Their mechanics, in the meantime, had shoved the Eagle into
the shed and closed the doors on the horde of the inquisitive.

The boys' flight had taken place above the aviation grounds of the
Aeronautic Society, situated at Mineola, on Long Island, a few miles
outside New York city. For several days they, and several others who
had announced their intention of competing for the coveted Hempstead
Plains Cup, had been making flights that had attracted vast crowds
from the metropolis and filled the papers with air-ship news. The city
was aviation mad.

The wide sweep of green flats was dotted at the end where the town
encroached upon it with the sheds in which were housed the different
aerial craft that were to take part in the great contest. Some of them
had tents snuggled closely up to them in which the machinists, and
others employed on them, made their temporary homes. Some were
elaborate structures of galvanized iron, carefully fireproofed and
covered with notices warning against smoking; others, again, were
plain, hastily erected wooden structures. The Boy Aviators' shed was
one of the latter, for they had returned from their adventures in
Africa only a short time before this story opens.

In that far-off country, as told in "The Boy Aviators in Africa; or,
an Aerial Ivory Trail," they had outwitted a wicked old man named
Luther Barr, who tried to steal from them the ivory that they had
recovered from the grip of an Arab slave-dealer. In Luther Barr's
yacht, which they had acquired in a surprising manner, they had
brought the ivory back to America and saved Mr. Beasley, the father of
their chum, Lathrop Beasley, from financial ruin. After a short rest,
they had announced that they would contest for the Hempstead Plains
Cup. There was an interval of impatient waiting and then the freight
steamer, which carried the Golden Eagle II from Africa, arrived safely
and the work of setting the biplane up for the great contest had been
at once begun.

The boys' first craft, The Golden Eagle, had been destroyed in a
tropical storm in which they were blown to sea, as described in Volume
One of this series: "The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, Leagued With
The Insurgents." The Golden Eagle II was the same craft in which,
besides their African adventures, they had accomplished the dangerous
mission for the Government, with the details of which our readers
became conversant in "The Boy Aviators on Secret Service; or, Working
with Wireless."

Their hasty toilet completed, the boys donned street clothes of neat
fit and pattern and hastened to an automobile, halted at the roadside,
in which their father and mother were seated. The two lads, as they
leaned against the side of the car and chatted, made a pleasant
picture of vigorous, adventurous youth. The eldest, Frank, was a
little over sixteen, Harry, the younger boy, was about two years his
junior. Both lads had crisp, curly hair and frank, blue eyes. Their
faces were tanned to a dark tinge by their African trip.

Mrs. Chester looked eagerly about her at the shifting, colorful scene.
There was certainly plenty to be seen and every minute held its own
bit of interest. As they watched, another 'plane soared into view,
black as a crow against the evening sky; it showed first as a mere
speck, rapidly grew larger, and dropped to earth like a tired bird,
while the crowd applauded once more.

"Whose 'plane is that?" asked Mr. Chester, as the machine was trundled
into its shed--a pretentious affair built of corrugated iron and
painted dark blue.

"Why, that's a mystery," laughed Frank, "but it's a dandy flyer. In
fact it's about the only rival we really fear."

"What do you mean by 'a mystery,' Frank?" asked his mother.

"Well, mother, nobody knows who owns it. Its black-covered planes have
earned it the name of The Buzzard and it can glide like one too, but
as to its owner we are all in ignorance, though we should like to
know."

"Whoever he may be he has made a lot of money," chimed in Harry.
"Several enthusiasts who have watched the Buzzard fly have placed
orders for similar machines."

"How much does such a craft cost?" asked his father.

"Oh, ones patterned after the Buzzard sell for $25,000," was the
reply; "and if that machine wins this race, of course, it will give
the mysterious manufacturer a tremendous prestige. But I think at
that," he broke off with a merry smile, "that the Golden Eagle II is
going to prove more than the Buzzard's match."

"Did you go over the whole course this afternoon?" asked his father.

"Yes, and the Eagle handled like a race-horse," replied Frank; "if she
makes a like performance on the day of the race I think we have the
cup as good as won."

"Don't be too sure, my boy," warned his father. "There's many a slip
'twixt the cup and the lip--or rather the aeroplane, you know."

"That's so, father," replied the lad, somewhat abashed, "it doesn't do
to be overconfident. There's only one thing I don't like about the
course."

"What is that?"

"Why, the 'take off' at the Harrowbrook Club links."

"What do you mean by 'take off'?" inquired his mother.

"I mean the space in which an aeroplane makes its preliminary run, as
you might call it, before it takes the air," rejoined the boy. "You
see the rules of the race are that we fly from here to the Harrowbrook
Club--a distance of twenty miles, alight there and refill our gasolene
tanks, drink a cup of coffee in the club-house and then rise up once
more and fly back."

"You mean that you are afraid that there will be difficulty in
starting back from the Club grounds?" asked his father.

"Yes, father. You see, while we did it all right this afternoon, on
the day of the race there will be a lot of 'planes all on the ground
at the same time, and it's going to make it more difficult. However, I
daresay we shall be able to manage it all right."

"Oh, Frank, do be careful," cautioned his mother.

"Of course I will, mother," the lad reassured her. "If I thought there
was any serious risk I would not cause you anxiety by competing."

After a little more talk the elder Chesters drove off, as the boys had
decided to sleep in their aerodrome that night, on the two camp cots
they had provided for such emergencies. They intended to get an early
start in the morning, on another practice sail, as at that hour there
was usually little wind.

As they strolled across the grounds which were now rapidly being
deserted, as all the aeroplanes were housed for the night, they
encountered Armand Malvoise, the French driver of the mysterious
Buzzard. He was a heavy-set, blue-chinned man with eyebrows that met
in a black band, lending his face a perpetual scowl.

"You made a fine flight this evening," cried Harry cheerfully.

"You think so?" replied the Frenchman. "I shall make a better one on
the day of the race. I mean to win that cup."

"Well, give us at least a look-in," laughed Frank good-naturedly.

"Bah, you are boys. I am a seasoned aviator. I have flown at Rheims
and Vienna and in the south. It is absurd for you to compete with me."

"Personally I should like to see an American carry off the trophy, but
if the best flyer wins I shall be quite satisfied," was Frank's quiet
reply.

"You will see the colors of La Belle France floating over my aerodrome
after the race," was the rejoinder.

"We shall see," was Frank's quiet answer, as the Frenchman strode off
toward the village, where he usually remained gossiping in the hotel
and complacently receiving the adulations of his admirers till late at
night.

"Ach, he is as goot-natured as a caged lion, dot feller!" came a
sudden exclamation behind the boys.

They turned about and faced old August Schmidt, the German aviator,
who had started his career as a builder and operator of dirigibles,
but was entered in the Hempstead Cup race as the flyer of a monoplane
of his own design; and which, on account of its peculiar appearance,
the crowds had already nicknamed the Grasshopper. As if in furtherance
of this idea the German had painted his queer craft a bright green.

"Vell, you boys have a good chance for der cup got," the old man went
on, between puffs at an enormous pipe with a china bowl that formed
his inseparable companion when he was not in the air.

"Do you think so?" asked Frank.

"Ches, I do. Der Grasshopper is a goot leedle monoplane, but I am
afraid dat some of der principles I have worked oud in her iss all
wrong. Some day I break mein neck by der outside I am afraid much."

"Why you've done some good flying in the Grasshopper," consoled Harry.

"Ches, she is a goot leedle ship, bud she vont vin dees race, I dink.
By der vay, boys, I have been meaning to warn you aboud dot
Frenchman."

"How do you mean--'warn us'?" asked Frank.

"Vell he means to win dis race. I know dot he has bet a lot of money
on himself. Den also the manufacturers of der Buzzard will make a lot
of money already if der Buzzard wins der cup. If she does not--abend,
dey lose. Yah, der is a lot to vin and much to lose for der Buzzard,
and dot Frenchman vill do anything to make sure of vinning."

"Well, I guess we can take care of ourselves," laughed Frank, as he
and his brother bade the queer old man good-night and entered their
shed. It was filled with the appetizing odor of frying steak. On the
top of the blue flame stove in a screened-off corner, Le Blanc, one of
their mechanics, was cooking the simple meal with the loving care of a
ten-thousand-dollar chef.

"Smells good!" remarked Harry sniffing. "Where's Sanborn?"

Sanborn was the other machinist and had been taken on in the place of
their faithful old Schultz, who had fallen heir to a large sum of
money in Germany, and gone home to spend his days in a cottage on the
outskirts of Berlin.

"He has gone down to the village," replied Le Blanc, vigorously
shaking the pan of sizzling potatoes.

"He seems to spend a lot of time down there lately," remarked Frank.

"I'd rather see him about the aerodome," put in Harry; "we don't want
everybody to know all the details of our trials."

"That's so," assented his brother, "I'll speak to him about it when he
comes in to-night."

The two lads fell to with keen appetites on their supper, which was
served on tin plates and washed down with coffee out of tin mugs. Not
a very aristocratic service, but the boys rather liked roughing it
than otherwise, and you may be sure that the "dinner set" off which
they ate did not engross a fraction of their attention. The meal
disposed of, Le Blanc and the boys fixed up the folding camp cots and
spread their blankets. There was still no sign of Sanborn. Frank was
still struggling to keep awake in order to read the man a sharp
lecture when he returned when drowsiness overcame him and he dropped
off to sleep.

It was an hour later, and not far from midnight, when two dark figures
crossed the deserted aviation field and threaded their way among the
various aerodromes. They paused in front of the one in which the boys
were asleep. Had the lads been onlookers they would have seen that one
of the men was Sanborn, the new machinist, and the other was Malvoise,
the driver of the sable Buzzard.

"You won't lose your nerve?" said the Frenchman.

"Not me. I'm sore at those kids, anyhow," was the reply. "The eldest
one undertakes to call me down for going out at night all the time."

"Well, you have a good chance to get back at him and make some money
at the same time," was the other's rejoinder.

"You are sure the money will be forthcoming?"

"Well, I should say! Old man Barr, who bought the patent of the
Buzzard dirt cheap from her inventor, has a pile of it. He's going to
manufacture the Buzzards to make money out of 'em and he'll stop at
nothing to gain the prestige of winning this Hempstead Plains Cup."

"I've heard of old Barr before. He's a regular skinflint, but I
suppose, if you say it will be all right about the money, I'll have to
take your word for it. I need some coin too badly to stick at
anything."

"That's the way to talk. By the way, talking of the inventor of the
Buzzard, I saw a piece in the paper about him to-night."

"What was it?"

"Why it seems that the poor beggar applied for shelter at the
Municipal lodging-house in New York and told them a long tale of Barr
having robbed him of his invention. They sized him up as being just
another of those inventor bugs and so sent him to the booby hatch in
Bellevue."

"A good place for him," was the rejoinder, "these inventors are all
crazy."

"Well, Luther Barr's found a way to make this particular crank pay,"
was the reply.

"That's so. Well, good-night. Oh, say what was the name of the man who
planned the Buzzard?"

"Oh, Eben something--let's see--Eben--it began with a J. I've got
it--Eben Joyce, that's it--Eben Joyce."

"Queer name that--Eben Joyce," was Sanborn's comment. "Well,
good-night."

"Good-night. You won't fail us."

"Not I," responded the machinist, as he slipped into the aerodrome and
was soon wrapped in slumber as profound as if the thought of
committing a treacherous act had never entered his mind.




CHAPTER II.

BILLY'S STRANGE TALE.


The next morning, as soon as the alarm clock rang out its summons at
four-thirty, the boys were up and stirring, dashing the sleep out of
their eyes with plenty of cold water. Le Blanc and Sanborn soon joined
them, the latter heavy-eyed and sleepy-looking from the late hours of
the night before. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Look here, Sanborn, I don't want to be too strict, but you know
there's too much gasolene around here for it to be safe to smoke in
the shed," said Frank, with some irritation, as he spied him.

Sanborn threw the cigarette away with an ill-tempered exclamation.

"Gee! It's a wonder you don't start a Sunday-school in here," he said.

"Well, I don't think it would do you any harm to attend one for a
while," answered Frank, "and by the way, can't you make it possible to
come in a little earlier? You are a valuable man to us and you can't
do your best work if you are sitting up till all hours at the village
hotel."

"You ain't got no complaint about my work, have you?" was the surly
rejoinder.

"No, I think that you are a very capable mechanic but I hate to see
you wasting your time and opportunities this way," replied Frank. The
boy was in some doubt as to the wisdom or the utility of calling
Sanborn's attention to the latter's bad habits, but having embarked on
his admonition he was not going to quit just because the man was
surly.

"When are you going to go up?" asked Sanborn, changing the subject
abruptly.

"Right after breakfast," was the boy's reply, as he looked out of the
big sliding doors and surveyed the cloudless sky. "There doesn't seem
to be a breath of wind and it's ideal weather for a good long flight."

But if the boys were up early they were not the only ones astir.
Gladwin, who was an experimenter and who, although he had only been up
a few times, meant to compete in the big race, was already busy
outside his aerodrome, lovingly adjusting the engine of his
queer-looking monoplane which had already been wheeled out. Malvoise,
his hands in his pockets and a red sash about his waist, was also
studying the sky. As Frank gazed about in the crisp morning air a
dozen other aviators opened up their sheds and the day-life of the
aviation camp began.

After breakfast had been despatched the boys at once went to work on
their engine, a hundred horse-powered, eight-cylindered machine which
was capable of driving their twin-screwed craft through the air at a
rate of sixty miles an hour. One of the cylinders needed a new gasket
and they were engaged on the task of fitting it when a sudden hail
outside the shed made them look up inquiringly. A short, fat youth
with a pair of spectacles bestriding his round good-natured face stood
in the doorway. The boys recognized him instantly.

"Why, hullo, Billy Barnes!" they cried, "come on in."

"Hullo, Frank, hullo, Harry," grinned the newcomer, frantically
shaking hands. "I'm an early caller, but I slept at the village hotel
last night and the beds there are as hard as a miser's heart. So I
decided to get out early and take a chance on finding you fellows up
and about."

After the first hearty greetings between the boys and the young
reporter--with whom the readers of the other volumes in this series
have already formed an acquaintanceship--the boys started asking
questions.

"What are you doing here anyhow?" demanded Frank.

"Yes, you mysterious scribe, tell us what you are after--a scoop or a
story of how it feels to ride in an aeroplane?"

"Well," laughed Billy in response, "I've had so many flights in the
Golden Eagles--both one and two--that I really believe I've had too
much experience to write a story about it from the novice's
standpoint. No, the fact is that I am down here on a story--a good one
too."

"You can't keep away from the newspaper field, can you?" laughed
Frank.

"No, that's a fact," agreed Billy ruefully; "I've tried to, but it's
no good."

"Well, you ought to be 'a man of independent fortune' now, as the
papers say," cried Harry.

"You mean with the percentage I got of the recovered ivory?"

The others nodded.

"I always felt I didn't really deserve that money," urged Billy. "You
fellows did most of the work in Africa, I just trailed along."

"Oh, get out, Billy Barnes!" cried Frank. "You did as much as any of
us in overreaching old Barr."

"Go ahead and tell us about this story of yours," demanded Harry.

"Well, it sounds like a weird dream and perhaps you fellows will laugh
at me for taking it seriously, but a few days ago an old fellow in a
tattered blue suit called at the Planet offices and said he wanted to
see the city editor. Of course nobody ever does see the city editor,
so I was sent out to ascertain what the visitor wanted. I saw at once
he had been a seafaring man. He told me his name was Bill Hendricks,
known better as Bluewater Bill. He beat about the bush a good while
before he would tell me what he was after, and finally he unfolded the
wildest tale about buried treasure you ever heard--that is, I don't
mean buried treasure--floating would be a better word to describe it.
He told me that he had been one of the crew of a sailing vessel that
had drifted, after being dismasted in a storm, into the Sargasso Sea."

"You might tell us where the Sargasso Sea is," struck in Harry. "I
never heard of it."

"Why, it's a vast expanse of floating seaweed brought together by
circling ocean currents," explained Billy. "There are hundreds of
miles of seaweed in it and from the name of the weed it gets its title
of Sargasso. It is in the north Atlantic, just about off the Gulf of
Mexico roughly speaking, though many hundred miles from land. It is
shifting all the time though, I understand, and a ship that once gets
into it never gets out. The weed just holds her in its grip till she
rots. Bluewater Bill told me that, after his ship drifted into it, he
counted ten steamers and four sailing vessels drifting idly about on
the brown expanse that spread like a desert on all sides. But the most
remarkable of all, according to his story, was a high-pooped,
castle-bowed affair with three masts that the tattered sails still
hung to. According to him she was a real, sure-enough galleon. One of
the old treasure vessels that used to ply the Spanish Main."

"Oh, I say, Billy, you don't believe such a yarn as that, do you?"
burst out Frank and Harry, both at once.

"Well, I don't know," replied Billy, "the fellow seemed serious enough
and I am half inclined to believe he was telling the truth. He wanted
to get somebody to finance an expedition to go down there and prove
that he was not falsifying, and give him a small share of the treasure
he is sure the vessel is laden with, in return for his information."

"In other words he is seeking a backer for an enterprise that looks
ridiculous on the face of it," commented Frank.

"I'm not so certain of that," went on Billy. "Look here," and with the
air of a conjurer producing a card from the empty air, he dived into
his pocket and then, after a moment's fumbling, held out a round gold
coin for the boys' inspection.

"A Spanish pistole!" exclaimed Frank, as his eyes fell on the dull
yellow metal of the golden coin.

"That's right," said Billy. "I took it to a coin-dealer and had him
give it a name. Of course the paper laughed at the story, so I'm after
it now on my own hook. I got a leave of absence to dig it up.
Bluewater Bill lives in Mineola and I'm going to see him later to-day
and get more details from him. The more I think it over the more I
think it's worth looking into."

The boys, whose opinion of the old sailor's story had been much
altered by Billy's production of the indisputable evidence of the gold
coin, agreed with him that it was indeed worth investigating further.

"But you haven't told us half the story, Billy," objected Frank. "How
did Bluewater Bill escape? What became of the other men on the ship?
How did he get aboard the galleon and get the coin? Oh, and heaps of
other hows? and whys?" he broke off, laughing at Billy's serious face.

"I haven't got time to tell you all that now, and besides I am not
clear on many of those points myself," replied Billy. "Suppose, if you
are not doing anything this evening, you come round with me to
Bluewater Bill's home and talk to him about it yourselves."

"Say, are you trying to lure us into any fresh adventures?" said Frank
with mock seriousness. "Didn't we have enough of them in Africa?"

"I don't see how we could get at the galleon, supposing there is one
there, even if we did go after it," chimed in Harry, whose active mind
had already jumped ahead of the boys' conversation.

"Why not?" demanded Billy.

"Why, you chump, if ships get in there and can't get out, how are we
going to sail in there--get the treasure--always supposing there is
any--and then return to civilization?"

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