This was nothing less than a single rung swinging ladder, the advantage of which, in picking up his companion, was apparent. It required but a few minutes’ work. The cords were extra strength, flexible, rewound bracing wire from the supply kit and the rung was a strong, round piece of pine from a live tree, which was laboriously hacked out with his pocket knife, thoroughly tested and then scraped smooth.
Timing himself carefully, Bob was in the air again twelve minutes before the hour expired. With eyes alert, he fixed his gaze on the big clearing of the garden mound and made ready for the ordeal of recovering his companion. With his thoughts on the crucial experiment, Bob gave little heed to anything else. He was just about to swerve on a long curve to pick up the waiting Tom on a return slant when a distant explosion startled him. It was from the vicinity of the concealed settlement. One glance threw the already nervous Bob almost into chill. Clinging to the broken forks of a dead oak, just on the edge of the “well,” was some one waving his arms. At the same moment, the startled Bob heard a desperate yell. It could be no one but his companion. But why had he failed to return to the open field?
In a flash, Bob understood. The shot, the waving arm, the call meant only one thing—danger and the need of rescue. Perched on the blackened forks stood the yelling figure. With the wild possibility of a mid-air rescue gripping his brain, the cool-headed aviator pulled his levers and, cold with apprehension, curved the aeroplane toward the towering tree. He could do no more. There was but one way he could help the boy perched on the dead branches.
To bring the swinging ladder squarely within reach was Bob’s task. Tom must do the rest. If he missed the ladder, it would undoubtedly mean death in the pathless swamp, from which not even his body might be recovered. With his eyes on the now unmoving figure, the boy on the tree became to the tense Bob no more than the bull’s eye of a target. Just over it, he aimed his craft, his lips set and his grip fixed like steel upon the levers.
Larger and larger grew the figure—one glance only, and the unmoving operator saw Tom, white of face and poised, his body rising upright as if ready to hurl itself far from its support. Then Bob’s every thought flew to his levers and his steadying grip. He could not look. Had he missed his human target? His head hit his chest with a sudden shock. As if in ruinous collision, the framework of the aeroplane groaned, creaked and shook. The car, lunging downward, careened and then righted.
Bob felt a second shock and the explosive groan of supreme effort. A swinging leg swept into view in front of the car—another panting groan and then, venturing his first glance, the desperate operator made out the white-faced Tom, with one leg over the rung of the hanging ladder, just [pulling himself up to safety] on the rung.
“Stay where you are,” whispered Bob hoarsely. “Don’t try to get up here. I’ll land at the lake.”
The Anclote was already on her way to the landing beach. For several minutes no sound came from below except the labored breathing of the rescued boy. Bob looked again. Tom, seated on the ladder cross bar, with his hands gripped on the light wires, had his eyes closed. His face was blue-white and he was trembling in all his limbs. His cap, coat, camera, revolver and shoes were gone.
“A few minutes more, old boy,” called out Bob, “and we’ll be on the ground.”