The roads became rougher and their car labored up steep grades. Farm houses looked less prosperous and by six o’clock they had reached a section of Jersey with which few people were familiar. They were almost to the Pennsylvania line in a wild, sparsely settled region.
“We’d better leave my car here,” said Giddings, “and go the rest of the way on foot.”
He drove his car behind a thicket that screened it from the view of any chance passerby and they continued their journey afoot.
Half an hour later they topped a ridge and looked down on a valley, flanked on each side by small clearings. To the right of the creek were several frame houses while on the left side was a wide, low building, half frame, half canvas, which could be nothing but a hangar.
“Take it easy,” cautioned Giddings. “These people don’t like strangers and they’re apt to shoot first and ask questions afterwards.”
Tim and the assistant designer made their way toward the clearings with great caution. Fortunately they were on the left bank of the stream and would not have to cross it in order to reach the hangar.
A small crew of mechanics who had been at work in the hangar came out of the building and made their way across the rough bridge and to one of the houses which evidently was used as a mess house.
“Now’s our chance,” whispered Giddings as he moved toward the hangar.
“You don’t need to go,” said Tim, grabbing at his companion. “There is no need for you to take any chances. This is my game and I can see it through now.”
“I’ve voted myself in on it,” said Giddings. “Let’s go.”