“Lift up the canvas; come in here,” directed Andy in a more cautious tone of voice. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Guess I do; but what in the world of wonder is the matter with you?”
“Don’t talk so loud,” pleaded Andy anxiously, fearing the arrival of the cook at any moment. “Some bad men have tied me up. Have you got a knife?”
“Yes; and a brand-new one. Won it in a funny game where you throw rings. See there,” and with great pride Silas produced and opened a gaudily-handled jack-knife.
“Oh, thank you, Silas; I’ll never forget this.”
“Hold on! Say! Thunder! Is he crazy? Stop! Stop!”
In profound excitement, Silas Pierce regarded Andy. The minute he had cut the bonds of the young aviator, Andy had bounded to his feet as if set on springs. Afar from the aviation field there boomed out the second, the get-ready gun.
“Ten minutes!” gasped Andy, on fire with resolve. “I’ve got to make it.”
He swept aside the canvas, headed in the direction of the main camp. Hot on his heels came his amazed rescuer, now a wondering pursuer. Andy ran at the fence, gave a spring, and cleared its top in a graceful leap. Silas, more clumsy, ran at two loose boards, and by sheer force of his might and strength, sent them out of place and put after Andy.
“Nelson!” he bawled. “What’s the matter? Nobody’s following you. Crickey, but you’re a sprinter!”