“I don’t know why I should be,” answered Tom. “They look like farmahs. Scalpin’ days are ovah, anyway, I reckon.”
“Then,” added Bob quickly, “take the camera—you’ve got the revolver—and I’ll make a sweep down near the ground. Drop off. In an hour, I’ll come back and pick you up—the same way.”
“It’ll be all right, will it?” exclaimed Tom. “I mean, it won’t hurt the machine?”
“I’ll have something to help you when I come back,” answered Bob. “Just use your nerve. It’ll be all right. It’s your ‘Secret City,’ or I’d do it. We can’t both do it.”
“Come back?” exclaimed Tom. “Where are you goin’?”
“Back to Sand Beach Lake,” announced Bob. “It’ll give me a rest, and give you time to investigate. But be ready—in an hour.”
“Drop her down,” said Tom curtly looking at his watch. “It’s twenty-six minutes after nine o’clock.”
In another moment, Tom Allen, his camera still oscillating from his drop from the aeroplane as it darted low over the Indian cornfield, was watching the Anclote’s swift rise and flight over the trees to the northwest.
Bob reached the lake, selected the widest and best beach and made an easy landing. For a few minutes, he exercised his benumbed limbs with a stroll on the hard sand, then refilled his supply tank, looked over the engine, oiled it, and at last, began work on the “something to help” Tom, the marooned aviator.