  “Pretty as a picture!” said Bill and laughed. “A picture no artist could paint,” declared Charlie rather ruefully, studying his reflection in the mirror. Arrayed in a jumper and sweater of Bill’s and a pair of linen trousers, converted into shorts by hacking off the legs above the knees, he made a comical picture indeed. “I reckon,” said Bill, surveying him, “that you’ll have to go barefoot.” “Okay,” returned Charlie. “Let’s eat.” They went downstairs together and after raiding pantry and icebox, sat down at the kitchen table to a plentiful meal of bread and butter, cold ham, milk and cookies. “There’s no sense waking the maids,” Bill was talking with his mouth full, “the chauffeur took Dad and Osceola to the city, and those girls are better off asleep. If there’s a row outside with that bunch when we go for the plane, they’d probably raise the roof and start phoning for the cops. And if Mr. Evans had wanted the police to horn in on this business, he’d have got hold of them long ago.” Charlie finished his milk and attacked the ham again. “That’s the way I figure it.” “I wonder he took the chance of sending you, though,” Bill went on. “Why couldn’t he have telegraphed me or phoned me? It would have been quicker.” “Dunno. There’s too much hush and rush about this whole biznai to suit me,” grunted young Evans. “Well, shake a leg,” advised the older lad. “I’m going into the study to write a note to Osceola, and leave one for Dad and the maids as well. When I come back, we’ve got to vamoose. It’ll be light soon.” “Why not wait for sunup? Those lads can’t very well stick around after daybreak.” “No, but if they’ve got a plane handy, they can trail us and make it darned disagreeable at the other end.” “P’raps they will, anyway.” “Well, we haven’t taken off yet—much less arrived. Come on, eat. You get no more food until we reach Clayton, you know.” Bill faded away toward the front of the house and Charlie started on the cookies. Ten minutes later, Bill was back again. On his head was a soft leather helmet, while strapped to his waist, the butt of an automatic protruded from its leather holster. He laid another flying helmet, goggles and a small Winchester repeating rifle on the kitchen table. “For you! How’s the tummy, full enough?” “Just about,” grunted Charlie, stuffing the remainder of the cookies into his trousers pockets. “Lead on, MacDuffer!” He slapped the helmet and goggles onto his thatch of red hair and picked up the gun. “I left lights burning upstairs and in the study,” said Bill. “We’ll fool those guys yet. It’s the cellar for ours, come along.” He waited at the foot of the stairs and beckoned to Charlie. “Give me your paw. We daren’t show a glim down here.” Young Evans caught his hand in the inky darkness, and presently Bill stopped again, released his hand and could be heard fumbling with something above their heads. “There—she’s open at last.” Charlie thought he could make out a lightish blur on a level with Bill’s shoulders. “Hand over the Winchester,” his friend commanded, “and when you get through the window, lie flat on the ground behind the rhododendrons, and I’ll pass it up. Don’t go scouting round by yourself, either. Wait for me.” Charlie scrambled through the narrow aperture, caught the rifle as it was handed up to him, and crawling a foot or two along the side of the house, lay still. Although it had stopped raining, the ground was soaking wet. Above him, the thick foliage of the rhododendrons dripped moisture with every breath of wind. “I might just as well have kept my own clothes,” he thought, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness, but without success. “Hang it all—a little more crawling, and I’ll be sopping again!” A whisper in his ear startled him. Bill had reached him without a sound. “Follow me. Keep on your hands and knees—and don’t breathe so hard. I could hear you down in the cellar, and I don’t propose to have the show given away just because you ate too much! Come on, and stay right behind me.” Charlie gulped down a retort and followed Bill’s lead along the house behind the wet shrubbery. They had gone perhaps a hundred yards in this manner, when Bill turned to the left and crawled away through the bushes, on an oblique from the house. Without stopping, they crossed the drive, where the hard gravel left its painful imprints on hands and knees, and kept on through another belt of shrubbery beyond. “You can stand up now,” Bill whispered and got to his feet. “We’re in the back of the house. Those guys are posted in front and along the sides—No, they aren’t!—not all of them—Down, Charlie! Keep where you are whatever happens!” Footsteps crunched along the gravel on the drive. Both lads crouched low. They saw a dark figure move out of the shadows and come directly toward them. The man walked slowly, humming a tune. In the hollow of his arm he carried a rifle. When he was within a couple of paces of them he turned on his heel and started back the way he had come. Bill was up on the instant. He took three crouching steps and even Charlie, who watched with all his eyes and ears, never heard a sound. Then he sprang on his prey. Up went his right arm and down. The man dropped like a poleaxed ox. Bill dragged his body back to the bushes. “Did you kill him?” Charlie’s voice came in a tense whisper. Bill snorted. “Nothing like that, kid. I tapped him on the bean with my automatic. He’s out for half an hour or so—but that’s long enough for us. You stop here and go through his pockets. Take any letters or papers he may have about him. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” “But Bill—I don’t like being left with a dead man! Can’t—” “Cut it, Charlie! If you don’t obey orders, you can hike back to the house. What’s the matter with you? This is no time for fussing. I told you the man’s only stunned.” “Oh, all right,” grumbled the boy. “I wasn’t afraid of him—honest I wasn’t, Bill.” “Good. Carry on, then,” said his friend, as he melted into the bushes. Charlie bent over the man on the grass and consistently went through his pockets. “I’ll bet Osceola taught Bill how to move that way,” he thought, “and if the chief ever gets up to Maine, I’m going to have him show me how to do it.” “What are you mumbling about?” Charlie jumped. “Oh, it’s you, Bill. Gosh, you gave me a scare! What have you been doing?” “Setting a trap. Got his papers?” “Two letters, that’s all.” “Come along, then. We’ll have to hurry. He’ll be missed soon. Here, I’ll tote his gun.” Their course now led them back from the house through a copse of hemlock. As they came out of the little wood, Charlie saw a blur of wooden buildings to the left. On their right was a field of tall corn, and between the two, a broad stretch of greensward. “Those are the barns and garage,” Bill explained in answer to the boy’s whispered question. “There’s nobody out here—yet. I reconnoitered while you were frisking that fellow. But we’d better go through the corn, just the same.” “What do you mean, there’s nobody here yet?” “The bus is parked in the hangar. Wait till that nice inverted engine gets talking!” “Think there’ll be a fight?” Charlie was running now. It was hard going in the cornfield between the tall stalks. He stumbled frequently. His long-legged friend seemed to know by instinct just where to plant his feet. “Well, I don’t know—it all depends on how fast they can run, and which way they come.” Bill stopped on the edge of the field and waited for Charlie. Before them now lay a broad meadow. Over to the left the dark shape of a building was visible. “Is that the hangar?” puffed the youngster. “Yep. It used to be a hay barn, but when I got my pilot’s license, Dad had it fixed up with a concrete floor and a tin roof. The Loening and the Ryan are both in there. Well, I don’t see anybody around. Let’s make a dash for it.” “Gosh, that’s all I’ve been doing lately!” “That and eating,” chuckled Bill. “On your toes, fat boy!” He sprinted across the open space and had the hangar doors open when Charlie arrived, puffing and half-winded by his efforts to make fast time. “Slow but sure,” teased Bill. “You’re better at tucking away chow than you are at track-work, Charles.” “Aw, cut it out! How do you expect me to keep pace with the Navy’s star end?” “Never mind, you did fine. Lend me a hand and we’ll wheel out the Loening.” Charlie pointed to the monoplane. “Isn’t that a Ryan M-1?” “Sure is. Come and get busy.” “But that type is faster that the Loening. Why not take her?” “Because, my boy, she can’t land on water more than once, that’s why. It may come in mighty handy to have an amphibian up there on the Maine shore. And don’t think for a minute this biplane can’t travel. Wait till you ride in her and see.” When they had wheeled the plane out on the concrete apron, Bill went back and swung the doors shut and locked them. Charlie was already seated aft when Bill climbed into the fore cockpit and adjusted his helmet, goggles and safety belt. “Okay?” he asked the youngster. “Okay!” “Safety belt fastened?” “You bet.” “Fine. Keep that rifle handy. If those lads get too close—let ’er go.” “I will, Bill, you can trust me.” Bill snapped on the ignition. The propeller swung into motion as the inertia starter did the trick. The engine sputtered, then roared. He slipped into a heavy flying jacket as the engine warmed up. Charlie, he knew, had already donned his in the rear cockpit. The engine was roaring smoothly as Bill fitted the phones over his helmet and adjusted the receivers over his earflaps. A mouthpiece hung on his chest and a wire ran back to the headset that Charlie wore. This would allow them to talk in the air, even with the coughing bark of the engine through the exhausts. Bill stared up at the white fleecy cloud rolling in over the field. Then he twisted his head in the direction of the house, and cut down the throttle speed. “Here they come, Charlie!” he said evenly. “Better get that rifle ready!” |
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