At fifteen hundred feet, the approximate altitude of the Fokker, Bill leveled off. The distant shape which had been growing smaller, now appeared to remain constant.
“We aren’t gaining any!” Bill heard Osceola’s voice through his ear phones.
“Oh, yes, we are! But you can’t notice the gain at this distance. That Fokker can’t do better than 118 m.p.h. high speed. I can squeeze 135 out of this crate.”
“But they’re miles ahead, Bill. If old Fanely takes a notion to have his pilot land him, all we’ll find is the deserted plane when we get there.”
“I know it, you old fusser—that’s why we’re going to climb again—Perhaps you aren’t aware that it’s bad business to change temperature too quickly?”
“But why go higher?” The young Seminole sounded annoyed. “We’ll lose speed climbing—and it will take us longer to land at the finish.”
“Think so? Well, it’s the only way we can possibly catch up with them in a hurry.”
“I can’t see that.” Osceola was frankly puzzled.
Bill pulled back the stick and sent them hurtling upward again. “See those clouds up there, Redskin?”
“Better than you, probably, Paleface. What about ’em?”