Bill grinned and shook his head. “Sorry I can’t agree with you.” He leaned back in his seat and twiddled the stick. “Here comes Captain Simmonds. I reckon it’s time you and I, Osceola, pushed this bus into the shade of those trees. No need to give any more publicity than we have to, to our whereabouts.”
The State Police Captain strode across the field. “Morning, everybody. The men are posted, Mr. Sanborn. We’ve got the Mizzentop hotel completely surrounded. When Fanely arrives we’ll rush the plane and the house at the same time.”
“You won’t, unless you hurry—” Osceola’s sharp ears had detected a distant hum in the air to the southeast, “here comes the Fokker now!”
Simmonds uttered an exclamation of fury.
“Tarbell is in charge. He’ll handle things all right.” Sanborn though seriously disturbed, was outwardly calm. “Stupid of us not to expect Fanely earlier. But you and I had better hop it, Captain.”
The big airplane appeared suddenly over the top of the mountain; then, just as suddenly went into a steep right bank.
“Wait!” Bill snapped out the order. “They’ve seen us! Swing this bus into the wind. If that Fokker gets away now, we’ll have it to do all over again.”
The three on the ground grasped the situation instantly. They took hold of the tailplane and slewed it round in a quarter circle, as Bill switched on the ignition. Almost immediately, the inertia starter set the propeller revolving, and Osceola taking a running leap half vaulted, half climbed into the rear cockpit. They were moving slowly over the rough ground now, the engine roaring.
With his feet on the rudder pedals and right hand on the stick, Bill adjusted helmet and goggles as the engine warmed up. Then he cut down the throttle speed and clapped on his phone set. A twist of the head told him that Osceola was secure, and he roared the engine into twelve hundred revolutions per minute. They were rolling in earnest now. Bill lifted his ship off the ground with the engine beating a steady tattoo. Then he opened her up wide and pulled back on the stick.
They climbed steadily, heading after the Fokker, which now was but a dot to the southward, and bucking a twenty mile wind from the sea. The air was slightly bumpy, and sharp knocks on the bottom of their fuselage gave the impression of rolling over cobble-stones. Far above the roaring plane, little clouds, like balls of fluff, swam in the light ether.