“He’s a spy—head him off!” shouted the other man.
“‘Eagle’—‘Andy Nelson’,” continued Duske. “That’s your name, is it? Now then, what are you snooping around here for?”
“What’s that, what’s that?” challenged the other man quickly. “‘Andy Nelson?’ Say, Duske, that sounds familiar. I just read that name somewhere—I have it—in a newspaper——”
“Thunder! he’s slipped us,” exclaimed Duske.
Both men had started for Andy. The latter let them come on, ducked down, dove straight between them, ran to the slitted canvas, squeezed through, and sprinted away from the spot on feet of fleetness.
“I don’t know how much I have mixed up affairs,” he reflected, as he made for the home camp. “Those fellows know my name and that I am with Mr. Parks. What bothers me most, is what the man said about seeing my name in a newspaper. Some one here—in an automobile.”
As Andy reached home he observed an automobile in front of the living quarters. A man came out as Andy stood wondering who the visitor could be. Andy noticed that he carried a small black case.
“A doctor,” he decided hastily. “Can any one be sick? What has happened?” he asked, as Scipio came out.
“Hahd luck, chile, hahd luck!” replied the cook very seriously. “Yo bettah see Mistah Parks right away.”
Andy hurried to the sitting room. Lying covered up on a couch, his right arm in splints, and looking pale and distressed, was the aeronaut.