Flying the Coast Skyways; Or, Jack Ralston's Swift Patrol

By Airline to Atlanta

"Big smoke dead ahead, partner!"

"I've been expecting to hear you announce that fact, Per-I mean Wally!"

"Kinder guess naow it mout be Birmingham, eh, what, Boss?"

"No other-you hit the nail on the head that time, Mr. Observer."

"Huh! my native town, which I'm naow agwine to see fur the fust time."

"Better get out of the habit of making such crazy cracks, brother-what if any one overheard you, and took a notion in his head you might be somebody other than just a Down-in-Dixie product from Alabama,-raised in the North, where you acquired a whiff of the dialect of a Canuck-and by name Wallace J. Corkendell, though generally answering to plain Wally."

"Hot-diggetty-dig! that ere smoke cloud sure looks jest like an ole peasoup fog-pack we done got lost in not so far back. By gravy! I doant b'lieve we'll even git one squint at the pesky city as we fly over the same!"

"I can easily see where I'm bound to have a lot of fun listening to you trying to talk in three different lingoes, all mixed up in one great mess-Yankee, your native brogue; Canadian patios, contracted while with the Northwest Mounted Police; and now a pidgin English, such as a Southern colored boy might use. I only hope such a mixture doesn't queer the big game we've got laid out ahead for us, whatever its nature proves to be."

"I er-reckons-yeou says I gotter use that word right along naow, 'cause no Alabama white or black boy never does guess anything-I reckons, suh, I'll git a strangle-holt on the way a gen-u-ine cracker keeps up his end o' a talkie-given a little time fo' practice."

"That begins to sound like the real stuff, comrade," observed Jack; and despite the clamor of engine exhaust, and whirling propellers both of them were able to hear every word uttered, simply because they were wearing their usual earphone attachments, without which they never made a flight. "I'm beginning to feel encouraged to believe you'll come through with flying colors. There, we're directly over Birmingham, and going strong to eastward."

"Huh! I'm right glad yeou done tole me so, suh," Perk hastened to reply, doubtless with one of his usual chuckles; "'case all I kin make aout's a black smudge o' smoke ahuggin' the ground, with a few church steeples apokin' a finger through the same. So, there she lies, my own, my native city! Ain't it affectin', though, ole pal, acomin' back like this, after many years, an' discoverin' that same thick smoke fog asettled daown on the dear old place? Gee whiz! I'm jest awonderin' whether us Southern kids ever did have a gen-u-ine ole swimmin'-hole in them won-derful days, eh, what?"

When they were positively alone, and no danger of crafty eavesdroppers picking up their words, the two cronies were pleased to extract a certain amount of fun out of their assumed characters-for Jack Ralston of course was also sailing under a nom-de-guerre, as well as his best pal-with him the new name was "Rodman Warrington," and he was supposed to be a rich and eccentric New York City sportsman, weary of the routine of the Carrituck Sound shooting club to which he belonged, and ardently desirous of exploring the various bays, sounds and twisting rivers along the wild coast of North and South Carolina, as well as Georgia.

"To be sure they did, brother," Jack was saying, reassuringly, in reply to the skeptical question propounded by his running mate; "if you stop and think you'll remember how every American boy who grew up and amounted to shucks was always getting a great thrill out of memories of such a meeting-place, where all the boys took occasion to show off in doing stunts with a diving board."

"Say, naow 'at we've left dear ole Birmingham in the rear, haow long 'fore we drop daown on Candler Field outside Atlanta?"

"Depends on what time we keep making," Jack informed him; "we're speeding along at a hundred-and-twenty clip just now, with only two motors working; and if there was any necessity for fetching it up to an even hundred-and-fifty we could easily enough do the same-and then some. I reckon we'll come in sight of Candler Field in about an hour-and-a-half-the chart tells me it's something like one-fifty miles, as the bee flies, between this Southern Pittsburgh and the Capital of Georgia."

"Meanin' to stop over in Atlanta long, partner?" demanded Perk; who apparently was not wholly advised of his leader's plans, as far as they were matured, and as usual "wanted to know."

"Around twenty-four hours, possibly less, buddy," Jack explained. "We've an appointment, made for us from Headquarters in Washington, to meet up with a certain official connected with the Secret Service, who holds forth in Atlanta-from him we'll receive a certain amount of information, and be referred to another party, high in the secrets of the Service in Charleston. When we jump off from that South Carolina city we'll know all we're expected to carry out-what we've been called east to accomplish. There, that's everything in a nutshell; I'm as much in the dark as you, even though I reckon I've figured things out, if a bit hazily, to tell the truth."

"We're goin' after some sort o' big game, I er-reckon, partner?" Perk speculated, his manner making the remark seem like a question.

"No doubt about that, boy-they wouldn't have called for us to fly all the way from San Diego, (with two necessary stops to prevent spies from learning as to who we are, and why we're heading east) if it hadn't been that some others in the Secret Service had played their innings-and fallen asleep at the switch."

"Hot-diggetty-dig! I'd say that'd be a neat compliment they're givin' us, ole hoss," Perk exulted; as enthusiastic as a boy over a Christmas present of a brand new shiny pair of club skates. "Another thing I'd like to hear tell 'baout, Ja-er, Mr. Warrin'ton, suh."

"As what, partner-you'll notice that I'm trying to call you all sorts of chummy names-that's for the purpose of trying to forget I ever knew you as Perk, or Gabe Perkiser. If you do the same there'll be less chance of giving our game away; for if any kind of quick-witted spies should hear us exchanging words they'd remember the real names of the two sky detectives who were playing particular hob with gents who gave Uncle Sammy the laugh. Now, I reckon you're referring to that letter I had just before we lifted out ship at San Diego last night."

"Yeou said it, er-ole pal," replied Perk, catching his treacherous tongue just in the nick of time. "I kinder-reckoned it mout acome from the gent over in San Diego, who's been aour boss since we started operations 'long the Coast."

"A fair enough guess, brother," Jack told him; "because that's the official who gave us the order to break away, and what to do on the skyway east. There was also some interesting information concerning the job we finished up some weeks back; and I meant to hand that over to you; but somehow failed to connect."

"I'm right tickled to hear that, suh-fack is I'd begun to feel they wasn't zactly treatin' us white, not sayin' as haow we'd done the Service proud, the way we fetched Slim Garrabrant back after he'd broke loose from the pen, an' started his ole tricks again."[1]

"Oh! they were quite enthusiastic about the success of our work, after others had fallen down on the job-that is, as warm as those cold people at Headquarters ever do get, it being against their principles to over praise those working under them, for fear of giving the poor guys the big-head. You can read the letter before I destroy it, brother. The Big Boss in L. A. also wrote that Slippery Slim had been safely returned to his former cell in Leavenworth, and with an added sentence; so, as they'll watch him closer from now on, there's small chance of our ever running up against him after this."

"Well, he was a good guy when it came to tacklin' big games, I'll tell the whole world," observed the satisfied Perk; who again busied himself with his reliable binoculars, eagerly surveying the checkered landscape a mile or more under the bottom of their fuselage; and which continued to prove of considerable interest to Perk, this being actually the first time he had ever passed over that section of the Southland, despite his absurd claim to having spent his boyhood days in Birmingham, Ala.

The time drifted along, with their speed undiminished. Pine woods, tracts of corn, cotton, tobacco; acres of fruit trees, pecan groves, even sugarcane patches-all these signs of the Southland he kept seeing as the miles flew past.

"I kinder-er-reckons as haow we've done shot past the dividin' line 'tween Alabam 'nd Georgia, boss," he presently announced, with a grand air of superior knowledge; "case I jest seen a town squatted on a river, an' painted on the roof o' a house was a name, fo' the benefit o' fliers like weuns-Tallapoosa she read, which tells me that must a been the river Tallapoosa-all bein' 'cross the line in Harlson County, Georgia, ('cordin' to my map here.) If that's correct we right naow ain't more'n fifty miles from aour goal-less'n half an hour yet to fly."

"You are hot on the trail, comrade," Jack assured him. "Keep your eyes skinned to pick up another smoke cloud dead ahead, which will be the first sign of our nearing Atlanta, the New York City of the South."

Perk continued to watch and wait, until finally he gave a half suppressed whoop, to add exultantly:

"It's a big smoke smudge, all right, buddy; so we're rushing daown on aour goal like a river afire; which pleases a feller called Wally okay, yeou bet!"

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[1]

See "Trackers of the Fog Pack."