“Hope so. That, as the story-books say, was my intention.”
“But what—what made it happen?”
“Remember when I left you by the bushes and you went through the gunman’s pockets?”
“Sure.”
“Well, just about then I was stringing a wire between the old hitching post and the horse trough. Looks to me as if the wire held. Oh, blazes!” he broke off—“here comes another car! Hadn’t counted on a fleet of them! Reckon you were right, Charles. We should have got going sooner.”
While he talked, Bill swung the plane into the wind.
“I thought they might stop at the wreck,” sighed Charlie. “Coldblooded, I call it. Shall I shoot?”
“Their job’s to stop us. Gosh, no, you’d be wasting ammunition—never hit within forty feet of them with all this jouncing.”
The amphibian was gathering speed, rolling lightly over the turf, but, leaping and bouncing, the motor car drew closer. It came alongside the moving plane, not more than five yards off its starboard wing. Two men hung to the running board, their guns spurting fire.
“Duck!” yelled Bill.