“Get a sweater and helmet.” Jack’s lips set in a grim line.
“If you go, we’re going with you.”
“We’ll talk about that later. Thanks, though, fellows.”
As they returned, the aviators were emerging into the hall. With them were Mr. Hampton, Mr. Temple and Don Ferdinand, all wearing anxious faces.
“Here he is,” cried Captain Cornell. “Listen, Jack. We’ve decided what to do.”
The two groups faced each other.
“It wouldn’t do, Jack, it wouldn’t do at all, for you to fly in your boat to Don Ferdinand’s. Your boat is all right, I know, a peach of a little craft. But it isn’t equipped with a searchlight, and it’s too frail to be trusted in a forced night landing. Besides, you haven’t any experience in night-flying. So if it seems necessary to make a flight to Don Ferdinand’s, you and I’ll go in a De Haviland.”
Jack’s face which had been growing more and more set in a grim look of determination, lightened materially. “Oh, say, Captain, that’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re a white man.” And he gripped the other’s hand.
“Hm!” Captain Cornell grunted. “Come on, we’re all going out to the field. The fellows have their car at the door, and we’ve ordered a couple of taxis.”
In the hotel lobby, the group attracted considerable attention from the various groups of old-timers and tourists scattered about. Jack Hannaford, the old ex-Ranger, huge, grizzled, mustached, strode up to Captain Cornell.