“Nothing down there, I’m afraid,” said Bob, peering down through the celluloid window set in the floor of the cabin. “There’s not a sign of life.”
“We’re too high to see,” declared Ned. “Wait until we get a bit lower.”
“That’ll be in a few seconds,” said Jerry, and he sent the machine down at a sharper angle.
“Hand me those glasses,” said Bob to Ned, who took a pair of powerful binoculars from their case on the cabin wall and gave them to his chum.
“See anything?” Jerry inquired, after waiting a few seconds.
“Take a look, Ned,” requested Bob, and there was that in his voice to indicate that he was laboring under some excitement.
“What’s this?” cried Ned, as he fixed the focus to suit his eyes. “I—I see smoke down there in the old camp!”
“Smoke!” cried Jerry.
“Yes—in little puffs—as though someone were signaling with a damp fire and a blanket—the way the Indians used to do. Here, give me the wheel, Jerry, and take a look yourself.”
As the two changed places there was a sharp metallic sound near the engine—a clang of metal that sounded above the noise of the explosions. And, just as Ned took hold of the wheel which Jerry relinquished, the motor stopped.