It was finally agreed that Josh should remain on guard, and that his dinner should be brought to him. After getting into their clothes, the others started for the house. On the way, Bud was in a deep study. He had no concern about his return to the fair-ground and no fear but what he would give a successful exhibition, but what was to follow? Certainly Attorney Stockwell and Mr. Dare and the deputy sheriff would be on the watch for him.
And, if they were looking out for the stolen aeroplane, they would not only see it approaching, but they would see the direction it took on leaving. On a fast horse, a man might almost keep close enough on the track of the retreating car to see it come down. After that, it might be only a question of a few hours search. You can’t well hide a forty-foot wide expanse of white canvas.
“Mr. Camp,” said Bud, at last, as they hurried along over the wood road, “you figured out that starting apparatus so well, maybe you can help me out of some other trouble.”
He related his predicament as he saw it. The old man wagged his jaws and stroked his long whiskers.
“Gimme a little time,” he replied at last. “That’s a purty tough problem, but mebbe I kin git some answer to it.”
At the house, it was like a holiday.
“Seems jes like Sunday with the mill shet down,” remarked Mrs. Camp, opening a can of pickled pears. “You all git ready right away. Dinner’s all dryin’ up.”
Bud changed his clothes—Mrs. Camp had even pressed his pants—and the four men soused and scrubbed themselves, and all took turns with the hanging comb. Then they filed in to dinner. It wasn’t a question of light or dark meat of the chicken with Mr. Camp when he served the pot-pie. The half spoon and half dipper plunged into the smoking soup tureen came up charged with gravy, dumplings and meat. Into the center of this, went the mashed potatoes, with butter melting on top of the pile.
In the midst of the dinner, Mr. Camp suddenly balanced his knife on his hand, struck the table with the butt of his fork and exclaimed: