Buck was horror-stricken at the terrible fate that threatened his old friend within less than three or four hours. Almost the Airship Boys had come too late, and even now it was a question whether or not he could get back to the airship and make plans for a rescue in time to save him.
Buck easily recalled the place set for the execution. He had passed it not a hundred yards from the highroad, about a quarter of a mile from town.
His brain was in a whirl. He was unable to formulate any practicable scheme of effecting the rescue. The sun at that time of year rose about five o’clock, or five-thirty at the latest. All preparations must be made before then.
Paying his bill at the inn, Buck hurried out into the damp night air again and set out for the place where he had left his comrades. Once clear of the town, he broke into a run. Approaching the vicinity of the sentinel who had challenged him on his way in about an hour before, the reporter made a wide detour through the dew-wet fields to the left of the road. He got by that danger point in safety, struck the highway again and resumed his breathless race against time.
Finally, panting with his exertions and bathed in perspiration, he arrived at the peasant’s ruined hut and saw the vast black shape of the Ocean Flyer looming up behind it. Then something icy cold and round was suddenly pressed against the back of his neck, strong arms pinioned his arms to his sides, and a voice said sternly in English:
“Not so fast there! One outcry and you are a dead man. Where do you think you are going?”
“Alan!” breathed Buck in relief. “Don’t shoot! It is I—Buck Stewart—with news of Bob.”
“Hurrah!” cried Alan. “Come along over to the Flyer where Ned is anxiously waiting. You are back sooner than we expected.”
It did not take Buck long to tell his story.
“Now,” said he, “what’s to be done? We have less than three hours left to do it if ever we want to see Bob alive again.”