“Crank as if your life depended on it!” he cried.
Frantically the little bird flew back and forth to tell them each time how much nearer the bear had come. Snythergen was cranking mightily while Squeaky piled in what scanty luggage could be collected in a jiffy.
“He’s almost here!” groaned Sancho Wing.
Snythergen heard the crackling of sticks under the brute’s feet. “It’s now or never,” thought he, putting all his strength into one last pull. The engine gave a sickly “pop.” Snythergen’s heart sank. But there was another little “pop.” Others followed slowly, then more rapidly. Now the explosions were in quick succession. The engine was running! The three scrambled aboard. The airplane coasted down hill and rose gently from the ground. They were saved.
CHAPTER XI
THE JOURNEY TO THE WREATH—A SPIN IN A HUMMING-TOP—AN UNKNOWN FRIEND
The plane had to be an exceedingly large one to accommodate Snythergen’s great length. With much squirming he managed to get out of his tree suit, and now he lay face down, his feet hanging out over the tail. In this position his hands came just right for the controls. Sancho Wing’s compartment was next to Snythergen’s ear and Squeaky occupied a basket on the opposite side. Sancho would have liked going back a little way for a last look at the bear, just to make sure they had left him on the ground but the wind created by their great speed was too strong for a finch to fly in, and the little bird would have been blown away had he ventured out. For some strange reason the nose of the plane kept pointing up in spite of Snythergen’s efforts to keep the machine horizontal.