“He’s in trouble, Raoul. That’s an American plane,” André cried.
“How could he be in trouble?” Raoul objected. “He’s still in the sky, is he not?”
But listening closely, he too, heard the engine sputter. “That engine needs repairs!” he declared disapprovingly.
Hastily, André shouted, “DUCK!”
Their heads went down as the plane’s wings, trailing wisps of fog, swept close overhead. André had just time to make out a high-wing monoplane with patches and holes in its fabric covering.
The plane banked, sailed over a field behind the Coty house, and was set down expertly.
André was already scrambling down the ladder.
He pelted across the meadow with no thought of danger. Racing toward the plane, he thought only that the pilot might be hurt. Through the plexiglass enclosure of the little ship, André saw a blond young fellow, in an odd, peaked cap.
At the sound of pounding footsteps, the pilot whirled, an automatic suddenly in his hand and pointed at André.