Dick stared at him.
"Do you think it's another spy?" he asked.
"I don't think anything about it yet, Dick. But I'm not going to be caught napping. That's a Bleriot–and the British army flying corps uses Bleriots. But anyone with the money can buy one and make it look like an English army 'plane. Remember that."
There was no mistake about that monoplane when it was once down. Its pilot was German; he was unmistakably so. He had been flying very high and when he landed he was still stiff from cold.
"Petrol!" he cried eagerly, as he saw the two boys, "Where can I get petrol? Quick! Answer me!"
Harry shot a quick glance at Dick.
"Come on," he said, beneath his breath. "We've got to get him and tie him up."
The aviator, cramped and stiffened as he was by the intense cold that prevails in the high levels where he had been flying, was no match for them. As they sprang at him his face took on the most ludicrous appearance of utter surprise. Had he suspected that they would attack him he might have drawn a pistol. As it was, he was helpless before the two boys, both in the pink of condition and determined to capture him. He made a struggle, but in two minutes he was lying roped, tied, and utterly helpless. He was not silent; he breathed the most fearful threats as to what would happen to them. But neither boy paid any attention to him.
"We've got to get him to the car," said Harry. "Can we drag him?"
"Yes. But if we loosened his feet a little, he could walk," suggested Dick. "That would be ever so much easier for him, and for us, too. I should hate to be dragged. Let's make him walk."