“I don’t believe we will, but it won’t do any harm. Who did you see when you were in Crofton?”
“Bill, he was going home to lunch, the storekeepers and the postmaster. Just the usual crowd,” Bob answered.
“Where did you leave Her Highness while you did the errands?”
“In the freight yard where we always park. There wasn’t anyone hanging around and the gate was closed. I had to climb over. Did that because I didn’t want to call Bill back to open it,” Bob answered, then he added, ruefully, “You’ll think I’m a rotten pilot to let a thing like that happen—gosh—”
“Aw go on, you’re a corking good pilot. I’ve got a hunch that some sneak, maybe some of those fellows that were in that jam at Don Haurea’s last summer fixed it up so she’d burn slow and then get going good while you were in the air,” Jim explained.
“But how could anyone do that?” Bob demanded.
“You may investigate me, Buddy. Were any kids hanging around when you took off?”
“No. No one paid any attention to me. They don’t any more. It isn’t like it used to be. The people see one of us drop down five or six times a week, so the novelty has worn off. Why even Bill doesn’t come out any more and he used to run to meet us if we landed within sight of the place,” Bob reminded his step-brother.
“That’s so,” Jim nodded. “What you got in the bag?”
“Mail and stuff.”