ore and his reckless pal, Alfred Brightwood.

This light had been playing upon the water since darkness had fallen,
some three hours before. They had been circling for four hours. Their
hopes of completing their search before dark had been thwarted by a
defective engine which had compelled them to make a landing upon the sea
when the journey was only half completed.

At this particular moment the plane was climbing steadily. It was a
perfect "man-bird" of the air, was this _Stormy Petrel_. With broad
spreading planes and powerful motors, it was the type of plane that now
and again hops off from some point in England during the dewy morning
hours and carries her crew safely to Cuba without a single stop.

Yet these boys were not planning a trip across to Europe. They were, as
Curlie had supposed they might be, hunting for the island of "many
barbarians and much gold."

When they had mounted to a considerable height, Alfred shut off the
engines and allowed her to volplane toward the sea.

"Aw, let's give it up and get back," said Vincent downheartedly. "It's
not here. Probably that old map-maker made a mistake of a trifling
hundred miles or so."

"That's a grand idea!" exclaimed Brightwood, grasping at a straw. "Not a
hundred miles but perhaps thirty or forty miles. Old boy, we'll be
cooking lunch on a stove of pure gold in half an hour. You'll see! Just
get your light fixed right and I'll take a wider circle. That'll get
it."

"But if we use up much more gas we won't get back to land," hesitated
Vincent.

"Land! Who wants to get back to land!" the other exploded. "If worst
comes to worst we've got the wireless, haven't we? We can light on the
water and send out an S. O. S., can't we? I must say you're a mighty bum
sailor."

"Oh, all right," said Vincent, stung into silence, "go ahead and try
it."

Again the motors thundered. Again the spot light traced a circular path
across the dark waters, which to the boy who held the light, appeared to
be reaching up black, fiendish hands to drag them down. This time the
circle they cut was many miles in circumference, miles which drew deeply
from the supply of gasoline in their tanks.

CHAPTER XIV

THE COMING STORM

As Curlie's feet carried him forward on the deck of the _Kittlewake_,
his eyes beheld the ghost which rose from the hatch taking on a familiar
form. A white middy blouse, short white skirt and a white tarn, worn by
a slender girl, moved forward