“You kids look here.” Pedro shook his fist in Bob’s face. “You be out of here by the time I get my engine started, or I send you both to hell, fast, more fast than your plane,” he promised.
“Thanks a lot, Old Timer. Every little favor is greatly appreciated,” Bob answered, and he scowled quite as fiercely as the Canuck.
“And if you send us to hell this afternoon, maybe we won’t be lonesome,” Jim added. “Can you run a plane?”
“No,” Pedro snapped savagely.
“Well, we can, but not if we’re ghosts. Put that in your peace pipe and get on your own wave length. You don’t own this end of Canada. What are you doing here? If you can answer that, I’ve got another to ask you and it’s right on the tip of my tongue—”
“Stick your tongue out at him,” Bob suggested.
“I’d rather punch his jaw, I don’t like his face. Give me that wrench and I’ll tap him for sap, he’s full of it. Run along, old boy—don’t you know your onions, or haven’t you got any this load?” Jim demanded.
“You get out of the way.”
“You go back to your bus, you make us nervous so we can’t tell whether the tail ensemble is in front or back—”
“You get out—” Pedro insisted, and then as the boys merely stared at him, he started toward the truck, and through a slit in the big car, Jim caught a glimpse of a man’s face, and heard a soft signaling whistle as some one called the driver to his seat. Quickly the big fellow climbed up, and Jim, realizing that trouble was close by, buckled his safety strap, while Bob too made ready for a quick get-away.