“That’s about all for us,” said Tim bitterly.
“And there goes McDowell,” said the inspector.
The flying reporter scanned the ground for a safe landing place. They were up a little better than 4,000 feet. To their right was a small town and a fair-sized pasture at one edge, flanked by a white highway. Tim nosed the monoplane down. As they glided toward the field he caught the sound of another airplane motor. He glanced up. Perhaps McDowell was coming back. But McDowell’s ship was winging steadily along on the 1,200-mile hop to the border.
“Someone back of us,” said Prentiss. There was no need to shout now and the inspector’s voice sounded unnatural.
Tim glanced back. The ship was familiar. His heart leaped. It was the fast Jupiter owned by the News. Someone had managed to get it out of the hangar and was coming to help them.
The flying reporter opened the window on his left and waved wildly, pointing downward. The pilot of the other plane waggled his wings in understanding and dropped toward the pasture with Tim following him down.
“Looks like Tommy Larkin in the other plane,” said the inspector.
“That’s the News’ ship and I don’t care who’s flying it,” said Tim, “just as long as it’s got a full tank of gas. McDowell is going to be in for a surprise when we shoot up in the Jupiter. That’s an airplane.”
The pasture proved surprisingly smooth and they rolled across the field. The pilot who had brought in the Jupiter had it swung around and had it ready for them when they tumbled from the cabin of the monoplane.
“Tommy!” cried the inspector. “Great work, boy!”