Tim hired a car and sped toward the make-shift field where he had managed to land his own plane. When he reached the pasture he hastily piled some brush at one end of the field and set it afire. Then he raced for the other end and swung the car around so that its headlights outlined the far boundary of the pasture.
The roar of the mail plane’s motor lessened as its pilot cut his throttle and brought his craft down to earth. The big ship bounced and swayed, threatening once or twice to nose over, but the mail flyer jammed his wheel brakes on hard and succeeded in stopping before he crashed into the fence.
Tim left the car and hurried to meet the newcomer.
“That you, Tim?” boomed a deep voice from the cockpit of the mail ship as the new arrival shut off his motor.
Tim smiled. The voice was familiar and Tiny Lewis, who weighed some 250 pounds, eased his bulk gently to the ground.
“Thanks a lot, Tim,” he roared. “I was sure in a pickle. Figured on getting here before dark but made a forced landing about 50 miles back when two of the spark plugs fouled and I had to replace them.”
Before starting for the village, Tim and Lewis put tarpaulins over the motors of their planes and staked them securely lest some freakish wind upset their craft.
When they reached the little hotel and had ordered their dinner, Tim told Lewis all he knew about the wreck of the air mail. When he had completed his story, Tiny whistled.
“Looks bad,” he admitted, “and I guess there isn’t much that I can do except make arrangements here for them to crate up what’s left of the plane and ship it in to Atkinson. The post office inspectors will be here sometime tomorrow and they’ll take charge of the investigation.”
“I expected they’d be on hand,” said Tim, “but I’ve got a little hunch all my own I’m going to see through to the finish. If it works out as I hope, it will be a real scoop for the News.”