“I thought it had to be a clear night for the Aurora Borealis,” suggested Roy, conscious that his companion had also seen the same glow. For a time Norman made no response but he headed the machine directly toward the peculiar flare and ceased his tacking.
“That’s no Aurora,” he said at last. “I think the woods are on fire.”
For ten minutes, through the thinning wind-tossed snowflakes, the Gitchie Manitou groaned its way forward.
“I wonder if it ain’t a big signal fire for us,” suggested Roy at last.
“It’s a big blaze of some kind,” answered Norman.
Through the obscuring snow, the nervous aviators had located the light many miles in the distance. Now it began to rise up so suddenly before them that they knew it had not been very far away. Yet they could not make up their mind that it was a signal fire. It did not at all resemble a blaze of that kind.
“Well, don’t run into it, whatever it is,” shouted Roy a few minutes later as a tall spire-like shaft of yellow light seemed almost to block their progress.
But Norman was already banking the machine, and the flying car responded while the wonder-struck boys gazed open-mouthed.
“It’s the camp,” Norman yelled just then as a little group of shadowy buildings seemed to rise up out of the snow.
“They’ve struck gas!” blurted Roy, as he sprang to his feet. “The men have struck gas and it’s a gusher!”