Nose depressed below level, a lively flipper turn to left brought Will-o’-the-Wisp sharply round facing the field again with its wings almost vertical. Immediate application of up aileron and opposite rudder quickly brought the amphibian to an even keel once more. Then Dorothy nosed over, went into a forward slip, recovered and leveled off for a landing.
As the wheels of her plane touched the ground, she saw the Ryan come to a stop on the grass some yards to the right. Just ahead and between them was the Mystery Plane. It lay drunkenly over on one side, resting on its twisted landing gear and a crumpled lower wing section.
Dorothy stood up in her cockpit when Will-o’-the-Wisp stopped rolling and saw the smuggler-pilot vault the wall at the far corner of the field and disappear into a small wood. Bill was walking toward the disabled amphibian. She got out of her plane and hurried toward him.
“Pancaked!” she cried, pointing toward the wreck as she came within speaking distance.
“You said it—” concurred Bill. “That guy was in such a hurry he leveled off too soon. Usually I don’t wish anybody hard luck but that bird is the great exception. Too bad he didn’t break a leg along with his plane. Now he’s beat it and—”
“We are just about where we were before,” she broke in.
“Not quite, Dorothy. The Mystery Plane is out of commission.—I wonder where we are?”
“Somewhere in the North Stamford hills.”
“I know—but whose property are we on?”
“Haven’t the least idea.”