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!”
| [1] | See “Trackers of the Fog Pack.” |
CHAPTER II
The Cipher Letter
Jack did not seem to be at all surprised when his best pal made this abrupt announcement; but then he always kept himself prepared for coming events.
“I was expecting to hear you say that, buddy;” he told his mate; “for the past fifty miles on, our string up to date had about run through. I reckon we’ll be on foot before many more minutes. Get the airport yet—Wally?”