“I couldn’t stay out of this shindig,” grinned the flyer McDowell had planned to destroy.
“What a break,” chuckled Tim. “Plenty of gas?”
“The tank’s full to overflowing. That’s some plane; fast and easy to handle.”
“We’ll have to leave you here, Tommy,” said the inspector. “Maybe you can get gas in this town and fly back to Atkinson.”
“I’ll make out all right,” grinned Tommy. “You fellows get after McDowell. Gosh, I’d like to see his face when you come barging down on him again.”
“He’s heading for the border,” said Tim.
“Yeah. That old tub carried about a ton of fuel and he’s got a field way over in western Kansas where he can land and refuel without trouble. He knows it so well he can even land at night but unless I miss my guess he won’t be in the air by nightfall.”
Tim climbed into the Jupiter and the inspector scrambled in after him. Tim checked the gauges, tank nearly full of gas, motor temp right, oil pressure up. He released the brakes, opened the throttle, and waved to Tommy as the plane shot down the field and rocketed away in pursuit of McDowell, whose plane now was only the tiniest of dots in the southwestern sky.
The Jupiter was fast and Tim cruised along at an easy, mile-consuming 150 miles an hour.
“We’ll overtake McDowell in no time,” he told the inspector, who was busy refilling the magazine of the rifle.