# The Boy Scouts of the Air at Cape Peril/Chapter 8

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CHAPTER VIII
PLUGGING A MAN-EATER
"I don't like this line-fishing," asserted Turner as he prowled around the store-room. "I've been used to fishing with a rod and reel on the Pasquotank and I can't get over the habit."
No rod was in sight, however, but he suddenly hit on the expedient of taking a pole with a hook in the end, used by Luke for some domestic purpose.
"I haven't got any reel," the Tarheel continued, "but I'll hitch my line on the end of this, like Simple Simon, and see how the fish take to new inventions."
Soon the three, equipped for their sport, proceeded to Lake Herring, and filed out on the narrow plank bridge to the nest of the hydroplane. As Turner proceeded to make all needful preparations for the flight, the two scouts, although familiar with the seaplanes that soared over Hampton Roads, found novel points of ​interest in the improved prow and high curved tail of this biplane flying boat.
The tank filled and fishing tackle stowed, the pilot nimbly climbed to his seat, the lads scrambled to theirs just behind, the propeller set to threshing, and off went the bird skimming the tranquil waters for a hundred feet, then rose upon the air like some magic creature of Eastern fable. Over the lake she soared, left the sand bar behind, and sped along far above the combers.
For twenty minutes, that seemed but one to the enraptured scouts, she circled over the deep; then planed gracefully till she tipped the water; spanked along over the waves until she lost her momentum, and was brought to a halt as the pilot cast anchor at a point no great distance from the spot where the fishnets had been set for their prey.
Not many minutes later Turner, with a line attached to the end of his hook-tipped pole, was manipulating this clumsy instrument more as a joke than with any great expectation of results. Jimmy, sitting cross-legged on the starboard side of the boat, was line-fishing, and had already landed two mullets and a small alewife. On the ​other side Cat, shoes off, with his feet dangling, was engaged in the more thrilling and productive pastime of crabbing. The net that lay beside him was frequently called into play to scoop in some unwary shellfish toled to the surface by the cautiously raised piece of meat suspended from a line. The victims, squirming and clawing, were dumped into the cockpit to create a small pandemonium about the toes of the long-suffering pilot.
Suddenly, this peaceful scene was shattered by a wild yell from Miller, who fell back, feet in air, as if propelled by some powerful spring, and rolled against Jimmy. The latter, struggling to his feet, gazed upon a pallid face and two staring, terror-stricken eyes. Turner, startled from his own pursuit, whirled about, and as his glance passed from the terrified boy to the water in search of the source of the commotion, his eyes fell upon a pale bluish torpedo-shaped body of monster proportions, in the act of rolling to one side, exhibiting, as it did so, a gleaming white belly and, below the muzzle, a hideous many-toothed mouth agape in preparation for snapping the meat bait.
​"Good heaven!" almost shrieked the ordinarily stolid pilot. "A shark, it's a shark!"
Jimmy, after scrambling to his feet, had dragged up the terrified Cat, and the two, hugging one another and shuddering, were staring down at the object of their terror.
"For heaven's sake, hold on! Don't slip, your life depends on it," cried Turner as without a moment's hesitation he vaulted from the cockpit, dragging the pole out after him. Supporting himself by the framework of the well with one hand, he thrust the hooked end of the pole with unerring aim with the other straight into the gaping maw of the monster and, with a powerful twist of the wrist, jabbed and dug the iron in behind the triple teeth of his prey. Instantly the shark began to writhe and squirm and flip his huge tail so convulsively that the airship was shaken from stem to stern. For the man, it was question of releasing the pole in a very few seconds or being dragged overboard.
"Cat—Jimmy!" he yelled, "my pistol here—belt—shoot—head or belly—quick—quick!"
The two lads, forgetting their own plight in ​the imminent peril that seemed to confront Turner, made a grab for the weapon at the same time, but Miller was the first to close his hand over the butt, snatching the weapon from the holster.
By a supreme effort, the man still clutched the pole, his teeth clenched and with a desperate look on his tense face.
"Shoot—shoot!" he commanded.
Cat's form became rigid, he thrust his arm downward, tightened a finger on the trigger, and as a swelling wave brought the great fish a foot closer, he plumped shell after shell at his victim. The first steel plopped the water, but the rest found their marks in the head and throat. After several tremendous churning flips and convulsions, the creature rose and fell an inert mass on the surface of the water.
Turner, heaving a sigh from the bottom of his chest, released his hold on the pole and staggered back against the cockpit.
"Thank God!" he gasped as every muscle relaxed from the tremendous tension. "That was a man's shot! Cat, boy, it gives me the shivers all over even now to think of what might ​have happened to you in another minute. A shark, a blue shark, not the worst kind, thank heaven, but devil enough!"
He passed the back of his arm over his forehead to wipe away the sweat that stood in great beads.
Cat and Jimmy, still shuddering, were unable to take their gaze from the great, grinning, now bloody, mouth of the floating monster, rising and falling with the waves and thudding against the boat side.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Cat shakily, his heart still pounding. "Seven feet long if he's an inch." And then his invincible turn for jesting came upon him. "Plenty of room for you inside, Jimmy," he added with a forced grin.
The boy stooped to pick up the pistol that had slipped from his hand and was on the point of rolling overboard.
"You did it," admitted Jimmy. "You paralyzed him, believe me, you sure did paralyze him."
"Back to your seats," directed Turner, "they go in schools. May be some more around, and I don't think I care to tackle another just now."
​"Can't we land him?" asked Cat, with rising bravado, as pride in his feat began to assert itself.
"I'll attend to the landing part," retorted Turner, pushing the lads towards the cockpit. "Get back and stop talking."
The mysterious commotion on the floating hydro had already created a tremendous flutter among the fishermen, and at the climax of the pistol shots one boat had put out and was swiftly nearing the scene of the mystery.
"It's a shark," shouted Turner to the oncoming rowers.
Instantly the men rested on their oars.
"Dead?" inquired one excitedly.
"As he ever will be!" bawled Turner.
"Gosh!"
"Ain't any more o' them things prowlin' around, is there?" the man was anxious to know.
"No," yelled Turner, "come on. Land him for us and it means ten dollars for you."
The offer of money had a magnetic effect. The man took his seat once more, and all pulled for the plane with a will, keeping a sharp lookout as they did so. Drawing up alongside, the crew, ​under directions of the Tarheel, secured the shark in tow by means of an anchor barb attached to a rope, and made ready to return to shore.
"First time I ever heard tell of goin' fishin' with a pistol," declared the skipper after hearing a full account of the episode. "You folks has sho' learned me a new one."
"Now, boys," said Turner as the scouts watched the boat pull away with their huge prize in tow, "let's get out of here in a jiffy. The wind's rising, so we'll beat it. Believe I've got a steady enough hand for the joy-rod by this time."
"Let her clip," approved the triumphant Cat, and off went the plane. She rose, breasting the wind, circled gracefully, and a few minutes later was back at her starting point.
"Poor old Legs," Cat grieved as the three made their way back to headquarters. "Just think, he's trying to kill time on that lonesome Knott's Island, while we've pulled off the biggest show ever seen on this old coast. But, golly, if his props had been hanging where mine were, that brute certainly would have put a ​crimp in him. On the other hand, Jimmy's are so short the whale wouldn't have noticed them."
"That's all right," retorted Jimmy, "you notice the shortest fellows always dance with the tallest girls."
"Ain't girls soft!" propounded Cat.
"I don't know, are they?" asked Jimmy as one appealing to authority.
"This is strictly a stag party," put in Turner. "No discussing the softer sex on a shark hunt. I wonder how Hardy is making it," he suddenly changed the subject. "I believe there's a blow coming up."
"S'pose he took Legs all the way?" Jimmy wanted to know.
"He's got a little sense. Hatton's safe in the pickle shop on Knott's Island. But I'm afraid Hardy may have had to land somewhere short of Kitty Hawk."
"Can't a plane stand a pretty high wind?" asked Cat.
"In France, I've seen 'em in a small-sized hurricane," answered Turner with a laugh, "but that was war, and you might as well take chances one way as another. But, in peace ​times, most folks look out for their own skins. Fact is, though, to an experienced pilot, there's not much danger if the velocity of the wind isn't greater than the speed of the motor."
When the party reached the house, Luke came out with the news that the coast guard, a short time before, had brought the report of the oncoming gale. While Turner made a rush for his wireless, the lads stopped to recount to their audience of one of the blood-curdling incident through which they had just passed.
"Got a message," announced Turner half an hour later. "Hardy hasn't been heard from yet, but there's nothing strange about that, as he hasn't had time to get to Kitty Hawk with the stops he had to make." His tone was a trifle disturbed. "There's something else," he continued. "Hatton's father's yacht is coming up the coast and trying to reach Hampton Roads ahead of the gale. He won't be able to stop anywhere. From the latitude given when the yacht wirelessed, she ought to pass us by early this evening."
For a moment the lads' faces fell as the yacht trip they had counted on went up in smoke.
​"Gee! I thought it was in Cuba, and wouldn't be up for four days. That's what Legs told us," said Cat.
"That's what I don't understand," returned Turner, "Something important must have hurried him. But I'm telling you all I could get."
"Well, if he had stopped," remarked Jimmy, in a tone of some relief, "he wouldn't have found Legs around and I bet you there'd been some hot times raised."
"That's so," conceded Turner. "I reckon it's just as well he shouldn't know about that wild goose chase. Doggone it! I wish Hardy hadn't been fool enough to take this trip."
"Don't think there's really any danger, do you?" demanded Jimmy anxiously.
"Oh, no!" explained Turner. "No more danger than we're in right now."
He had changed his tone directly he noticed the effect his remark had had on the boys, and then, to divert any more conjectures, hastened to suggest a trip over to the fishing settlement to inspect their prize. Instantly, shark filled every corner of the lads' minds and off started the three.
​"Well, sharks do lay eggs—at least, some do—a couple at a time," informed Turner.
"I know," Cat struck in, "those black things with points to 'em you pick up on the beach."
"They're the cases, not the eggs," corrected the Tarheel.
"Somebody else's dome is solid ivory," Jimmy thrust at Cat. For answer Miller returned a comical leer.
"Those are the empty cases," proceeded Turner. "The young sharks, when hatched, hreak through the case at the weakest place. Some folks call those black pill-boxes 'mermaids' purses.' I reckon, because the fishy ladies keep their powder puffs and beauty jiggers in 'em," he added, with a knowing chuckle. "But, speakin' of sharks, there are other fish kin to 'em without havin' their shape and bad habits. The dogfish infestin' these waters is one of 'em."
"That's where you have to beat it, Cat," flashed Jimmy.
"I'm the burr kind of cat," objected Miller, "the kind that lights on a dog's back and buries in. You can't shake this Cat off, sonny."
​"The only Simon-pure, pious, kind-hearted, law-abiding, Sunday-school shark I ever heard of," Turner went on, "was one I was reading about the other day, a freak variety, white all over. He was called the Pilot shark of New Zealand. His parlor trick was to guide every ship through a narrow, dangerous pass between the rocks by leaping, diving and cutting up capers in front of the bow till the craft got to safety. The sailors swore they couldn't bribe him from his path of duty by chuckin' meat to him. Even Mrs. Shark and the little Sharkeys couldn't entice him till he had finished his job."
"You believe that?" demanded Cat skeptically.
"I saw it in a paper," declared Turner. "'Nuf said."