Читать книгу White Wings and Blue Water - George E. Rochester - Страница 3
ОглавлениеOUTWARD BOUND
Less than half the tables in the big breakfast room of the hotel at San Francisco airport were occupied when fifteen-year-old Arthur Buckley Brown walked in. He stood looking about him for a moment, then made towards a table at which a pretty, curly-headed girl of about his own age was seated.
“Come on, slacker!” she greeted him gaily. “Breakfast is nearly over. I suppose you’ve just got up?”
“Oh, no, I haven’t,” said Buck, seating himself. “I’ve been up for hours. I’ve been out on the airfield, looking at the aircraft.”
He was flying from London to Sydney by way of New York, San Francisco and Samoa, to spend the school summer holidays with his father, Group-Captain Brown of the Royal Air Force, who was temporarily attached to the Royal Australian Air Force.
The aircraft on which Buck was travelling was a big four-engined Falcon amphibian of British Atlantic & Pacific Airways, and his companion at the breakfast table had joined it at New York.
She was an American girl named Beth Carson. She had been on holiday in New York and was now on her way out to Samoa to rejoin her father, who was an island trader.
Both she and Buck were travelling alone and, being the only two youngsters on the passenger list, they had chummed up and become firm friends during the flight from New York to San Francisco, for Beth was a tomboy and possessed of a sense of humour which appealed vastly to the cheerful and light-hearted Buck.
“You’ve got exactly twenty-six minutes before we’re due to take off,” she told him, glancing at the wall clock as Buck tackled the grapefruit which the waiter placed in front of him.
“Which gives me bags of time in which to get through the bacon and eggs,” remarked the boy. “I’m not the faddy type who toys with his food, you know.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Beth, as the last of the grapefruit vanished. “One day, when you’re older, you’re going to have the most awful indigestion, eating at that rate.”
“Not me,” said Buck. “It’s just a healthy appetite, that’s all. Do you mind pouring me out a cup of coffee?”
Beth made no reply. She was staring fixedly past him.
“Do you see what I see?” she demanded.
Buck looked at her, then turned his head to follow the direction of her stare. As he did so he, too, stared. For at a nearby table, in the company of a big, burly, broad-shouldered man, a fat, puddingy-faced boy of about twelve years of age was sitting with his tongue thrust out at Beth.
“What’s the matter with him?” demanded Buck.
“I don’t know,” said the girl.
“But don’t you know him?”
“No, of course I don’t,” said Beth. “I’ve never seen him in my life before.”
“Well, he seems to know you,” remarked Buck. “And he doesn’t seem to think an awful lot of you, either.”
Across the table the burly, broad-shouldered man was remonstrating with his small companion, whose tongue was still protruding.
“Now, now, Ogden, that ain’t nice,” the burly one was chiding. “Honest, it ain’t. The young lady ain’t done nothing to you that you should go for to stick your tongue out at her thataways. C’mon now, stoppit!”
For all the notice Ogden took of this, he might just as well have been deaf.
“Do you think he’s crackers?” asked Beth, turning to Buck.
“He could be,” was the reply.
“He must be!” declared Beth, looking at Ogden again. She raised her voice loud enough to carry to the others’ table. “He’s a poor little idiot boy travelling with a keeper,” she said pityingly.
“There, d’you hear that, Ogden?” rebuked the burly man. “The young lady says you must be crazy, and you sure can’t blame her, you sitting there like that. Aw, c’mon now, stoppit!”
Ogden withdrew his tongue.
“Shan’t!” he cried shrilly, then his tongue promptly protruded again.
Buck pushed back his chair and rose. Ogden watched warily as the boy approached him.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Buck.
Ogden withdrew his tongue and pulled a face at him so hideous and grotesque that Buck stared with astonished interest, then enquired:
“Would you like a smack round the ear?”
“Don’t hit him!” cried the burly man hastily. “It’s just his fun. You don’t wanna take no notice of him.”
“Who is the little wart, anyway?” enquired Buck.
“He’s Ogden Pugg, son of Silas P. Pugg,” replied the other.
“And who might Silas P. Pugg be when he’s at home?” asked Buck.
The man regarded him in amazement. “D’you mean to say that you ain’t never heard of Silas P. Pugg, the multi-millionaire?” he ejaculated.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well!” gasped the other, as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “If that don’t beat the band! Never heard of Silas P. Pugg! Say, where’re you from, anyways?”
“England,” said Buck. “London.”
“Aw, I get you!” exclaimed the man, as though Buck’s ignorance was now fully explained. “From England, hey? But even over there I reckon they must’ve heard of Silas P. Pugg. Why, he’s the biggest pickle-maker in America. Yes, sir, you betcha! Pugg’s Perfection Pickles, they’re called. You see ’em advertised everywhere. In every noospaper and magazine and in electric light signs on Broadway and everywhere. Pugg’s Perfection Pickles is on every table in America—or most every table.”
“Is that so?” said Buck. “Still, in spite of his millions, it must be pretty rotten for Mr. Pugg to have a lunatic son.”
“Aw, Ogden ain’t a looney,” explained the other. “He’s just kinda sassy, that’s all——”
He broke off, as, slewing round on his chair, Ogden aimed a sudden kick at Buck which missed its mark.
“Don’t hit him!” cried the big man in alarm, half rising from his chair as Buck raised his hand. “For Pete’s sake, don’t hit him, else he’ll tell his Pop and I’ll most likely lose my job!”
“What is your job?” demanded Buck.
“I’m his bodyguard,” explained the man. “My name’s Bowker—Jake Bowker. I was on the detective force in Chicago before I got this job. That’s how I got the job, me having been in the police, see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Buck. “But what does the little lout want a bodyguard for?”
“In case any wrong-minded guys try to kidnap him,” replied Mr. Bowker. “He’s been kidnapped once and the guys what done it got fifty thousand dollars out of his Pop as ransom money before they handed him back.”
“My Poppa’s got millions of dollars!” piped Ogden triumphantly at Buck. “He’s got millions an’ millions an’ millions of dollars. I bet your Pop hasn’t got millions an’ millions an’ millions of dollars. I bet your Pop’s poor!”
“Oh, well, we can’t all sell pickles, you know,” said Buck pleasantly. “But here’s a present for you, my little man.”
With the words he stretched out his hand, picked up the marmalade dish from the table and crammed it upside down on Ogden’s head. Then, ignoring that youth’s howl of rage and Mr. Bowker’s hoarse and alarmed protest, he turned on his heel and went back to his own table.
“I’m very glad you did that,” said Beth, smiling approvingly, as he seated himself. “I was hoping you’d do something to the little wretch. Who is he, anyway?”
“I’ll tell you later,” said Buck, tackling the plate of bacon and eggs which was waiting for him. “I can’t talk now, there’s no time.”
“Righto, I’ll go and collect my travelling case,” said Beth, rising. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
The marmalade-pated Ogden and his bodyguard were already leaving the breakfast room. Not that Ogden was going willingly. On the contrary, he was kicking, struggling and squealing as he was forcibly propelled towards the exit by the muscular Mr. Bowker, who was expostulating:
“Stoppit now! Quit kickin’, will you? You’ve gotta get that marmalade off’n your hair afore the aircraft leaves, an’ if we don’t move mighty quick we’re gonna miss her. Yes, sir, we’re gonna miss her!”
“I don’t care if we do miss her!” screamed Ogden, struggling more violently than ever. “I want to kick that nasty boy on the shins. Whaffor did you let him put marmalade on my head, you great goop? You should’ve hit him! That’s what Pop hired you for. I’ll tell Pop about you, that’s what I’ll do. You lemme go!”
But Mr. Bowker didn’t let him go. Instead he propelled him from the room and Ogden and his squeals receded along the corridor in the direction of the gents’ wash-room.
Buck, who had been an interested spectator of the scene, quickly finished his breakfast, collected his suitcase, and was joined in the lobby by Beth.
Leaving the hotel, the two set off along the tarmac in the direction of the hangars, Buck in school blazer and grey flannels, Beth in plum-coloured slacks and yellow pullover.
The morning was gloriously fine and the vast airfield was echoing and re-echoing to the roar of mighty engines being run up on test preparatory to the great air-liners and powerful freight-carriers being handed over to their respective pilots and crews.
“Who was that little shocker?” demanded Beth, harking back to the subject of Ogden and raising her voice to make it audible above the roar of engines.
Buck told her and explained the relationship between Mr. Bowker and Ogden.
“So he has a bodyguard in case someone tries to kidnap him, has he?” said Beth. “My goodness, one would think his parents would be only too pleased to be rid of him instead of paying enormous sums in order to get him back.”
“Parental affection is a very queer thing,” remarked Buck sagely, out of the wisdom of his fifteen years.
“It must be,” said Beth.
By this time they were approaching the big silver-coloured Falcon amphibian, which was standing with her four engines ticking over. On the tarmac beside her were intending passengers, officials and employees of the Company, luggage porters and three or four of the inevitable newshounds, who were invariably around when long-distance aircraft were leaving or coming in.
“Hallo, there’s Raynor, the senior pilot!” exclaimed Buck, nodding towards a tall, lean-faced young man who was standing talking with one of the officials.
Glancing in their direction, Raynor saw them and gave them a cheery wave of his hand. A few moments later he came towards them.
“Well, and how are you this morning?” he greeted them, smiling.
“Fine, thanks,” said Buck and Beth.
They chatted a few moments, then Raynor said: “I don’t think you’re going to find this particular stage of the flight very interesting. It’s sea, sea all the way except for a few scattered islands, so you’d better take some magazines with you.”
“We won’t be bored,” declared Buck. “What time are we due in at Samoa?”
“We should touch down about six o’clock this evening,” replied the pilot. “You’d better be getting aboard now. We’ll soon be off.” Then, as he moved with them towards the Falcon, he said with a smile: “We’ve got quite an important passenger with us to-day.”
“Have we?” said Beth, with interest. “Who?”
“His name is Ogden Pugg,” replied Raynor. “He’s the son of Silas P. Pugg, the multi-millionaire, and sole heir to the family fortune.”
“Oh, him!” exclaimed Beth, crinkling her nose in disgust. “We know him. We met him at breakfast this morning. What’s he travelling with us for?”
“He’s flying out to Samoa, where’s he’s going to join his father’s ocean-going yacht, which is pleasure-cruising in the Pacific,” explained Raynor. “Ferguson, our traffic manager, has just been telling me about him. He’s been ill with mumps, or measles, or something, which is why he’s just joining the yacht now. But you’ve met him, you say?”
“We certainly have,” said Beth. “He was very rude to Buck and me at breakfast this morning, so Buck emptied a dish of marmalade over his head. He seems a perfect little horror!”
“Yes, Ferguson was saying he’s a bit of a handful,” laughed Raynor. “Apparently some of the more atrocious of his antics, such as trying to blow up one of his many tutors with a concoction of gunpowder, have got into the newspapers. The Press reporters simply love him. As copy, of course. I must hear about this marmalade business later. At the moment, however, you’d better get aboard.”
