“I’d hate,” thought Roy to himself, “to take a chance on either side for five thousand dollars.”
On the cross arm supporting the propellers was fastened the anemometer or speed recording device. As it was a breezeless morning, Roy knew the instrument was recording truly. They were traveling at the rate of thirty-two miles an hour. A little calculation showed that the aeroplane was then about eighteen and one-half miles from Bluff.
Roy had had time to do some thinking. For the first time, it began to strike him as strange that Mr. Cook should form the theory, on which they were working, out of such improbable conjectures.
“It’s like one of these detective stories,” he at last suggested.
“No,” answered Mr. Cook, “just the reverse. Your all-wise detective would tell you just where to go and find your man. We’re just taking one chance in a hundred. The chances are much against us. If he hasn’t come this way, Wooley’s men’ll get him. We’ve gained just that much—but we are on the right track,” exclaimed the manager suddenly—“turn south!”
Roy’s heart thumped. He tried to follow instructions and discover what Mr. Cook had seen at the same time. The result was that, on the sharp turn, the aeroplane almost “turned turtle.” As it righted and darted away over the desert toward the Navajo Mountains, Mr. Cook spoke:
“Close shave that. First time I felt chilly.”
“What’d you see?” asked Roy embarrassed, but not the less curious.
“Three Company pine logs on a point o’ rocks,” answered Mr. Cook.