In a clearing Bill caught sight of a large red brick mansion, with jutting wings and high gables. All the windows were closely shuttered. The house stood back, quite close to the woods, amid unkempt lawns and shrubbery. A broad avenue lined with maples led across the clearing into the forest. He caught a glimpse as they shot over, of stables and a smaller building, also of red brick, two or three hundred yards to the left of the house.
“And there’s Dad—see him?” shouted Charlie.
A man walked from the front of the house across the drive and stood watching them.
“Yes, I see him,” retorted Bill, “but stop your shouting or I’ll be deaf for a week. When we come back, strip your headgear and stand up, so he can recognize you. Hold on tight, though—it will be rough going.”
Pulling back the stick, he climbed to five hundred feet. Then, leveling off, he made a quick flipper turn over the farther woods and headed back toward the house, nosing downward, throttle wide open. Just before reaching the garage, he zoomed, missing the roof by inches. As he banked again to circle back, Charlie’s excited voice spoke through his receivers.
“He saw me—he saw me! Look at him now! Has he gone crazy, or what? Did you ever see anything so silly—waving his arms around his head like a windmill!”
“Shut up! He’s wigwagging!”
Banked to an angle of 45 degrees, Bill kept the plane describing a tight circle directly above the garage, spelling out Mr. Evans’ signals the while. Presently he waved his understanding of the message, leveled his wings and neutralizing his ailerons, headed the plane out to sea.
“What’s the matter? What did he say?” piped Charlie.
“His exact words,” returned Bill patiently, “were ‘Park plane Clayton. Walk back after dark. Enter through garage.’”