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Updated: May 6, 2025
Darkness was falling when at last Curlie and Joe reached the station at Landensport. In spite of the fact that they had had no supper and were weary from travel, Curlie insisted on going at once to the hangar where the Stormy Petrel, Alfred Brightwood's seaplane, was kept. "Yes," said the keeper of the hangar, "they hopped off six hours ago.
Coming out of the bush on two wheels, she sent a shower of gravel flying as she rushed madly down the road. Quick as they were, the quarry had been quicker. As they rounded a corner, they caught the red gleam of a tail-light disappearing at the next turn. "Heck!" said Curlie, then, "Let her out! Show him some speed." The motor of the Humming Bird sang joyously.
Here he threw his car over to one side and, switching on a flashlight, steered with one hand while he bent over the side to examine the left-hand track. There had been a light rain at ten that night. Since that time a heavy car with diamond-tread tires had passed along the road, leaving its tracks in certain soft, sandy spots. "Maybe that's him," Curlie murmured.
So they sat there staring at the sea for a long time. The silence was at last broken by the skipper's announcement: "Smoke on the larboard bow." It was true. Their relief was at hand. Almost immediately afterward Curlie received a second reassuring message from the captain of the liner. A short time after that he had the pleasure of escorting the dripping daughter of a millionaire up the gangway.
She had advanced halfway to her father's desk before she became aware of Curlie's presence. Then she started back with a stammered: "I I beg your pardon." "It's all right." The first smile Curlie had seen on the great man's face now curved about his mouth. "You may remain. This is no secret chamber."
The boy pointed to his aviator's sodden leather coat. Although he had gained much strength from the warm blankets, he had found himself unable to speak of the tragedy which had befallen his companion on the Stormy Petrel. Now as he saw Curlie draw the water-soaked map from the pocket of his coat, a look of horror overspread his face and he muttered hoarsely: "Throw it into the sea.
All about the mur-der-ed millionaire's son!" "Here! Here!" exclaimed Curlie, thrusting his head out of the window. "What millionaire's son? Give me one of those papers." He tossed the boy a nickel and received a tightly wrapped paper. Sent through the window as if shot from a catapult, it landed with a bump on the floor. His hand trembled so he could scarcely unroll the paper. His head whirled.
Like a white chalk-line, drawn by a careless child, the river wound its crooked way across this checker-board. To the left of him was a second narrow window. Through this he caught the dark gleam of the broad waters of Lake Michigan. Here and there across the surface twinkled the lamps of a vessel, or flashed the warning beacon of a lighthouse. A boy in his late teens was Curlie.
And when not sun nor moon nor stars had appeared for many days, we counted ourselves for lost; for, having been carried straight away these many days, we expected nothing but that we would come soon to that dark and dreadful place which is the end of all land and all seas." "Isn't it wonderful?" whispered the girl. Curlie was too much absorbed to answer her.
Once an S. O. S. from a disabled fishing schooner had barely escaped being lost. Something must be done about it at once! By Curlie! In Chicago! With parted lips and bated breath Curlie listened to the message as it came to him in code.
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