"All right," commanded Jerry; "let her down again—easy, now. That's the ticket. Now, Frank—the two Franks—you scout ahead and pick us out a clear trail to the water. You'll have to figure on a good twenty-foot clearance.
"I guess we might as well finish the work you young Sandows started. I see that the right plane—or wing or whatever you call it—is just as good as gone. We'll cut her away and that'll give us a better carrying chance."
"Why not take her all apart while we're at it, Jerry?" suggested Phil.
"We'll have to anyway to get her over to the island."
"Just leave it to me and we won't. I've got a little scheme. Who's got a heavy knife with a sharp big blade in it?"
"That's part of our Scout equipment," answered Phil proudly. "Come on,
Scouts, the boss says whack away the right wing."
"Wing?" grunted Fred Nelson, hacking vainly at the tough wood. "Feels more like a drumstick to me!" Although the rods were splintered badly they did not yield readily to the knives. The two trail scouts returned long before the task of clearing away the plane was finished.
"There's a fairly easy way if we go around that hazel thicket and make for the road about a hundred yards south of here, then come back along the road to that cut-over piece by the little creek, go in through there to the river trail, and along that, south again, till we come just about straight across from here," reported the two.
"All right. Now one of you stay here and mount guard over the left-behinds, while the other goes ahead and shows us the way. How's the knife brigade coming on?"
"Ready any time you are. What's next?"
"Line up on each side the stick of the Skyrocket, and we'll pick her up and tote her to the beach. Back here, Dave, you and Barney; we need more around the motor—it weighs sixteen ounces to the pound. All set now? Right-o—pick her up. Lead ahead, Frank."