“If the Professor spots my men and Captain Simmonds’ police,” said Sanborn, “his plane won’t land. Then it is up to you fellows to get after him, and I give you carte blanche—you can do as you like about it.”
“Force down the Fokker and capture the villain,” said Osceola. “If we can.”
“That’s the idea,” replied Sanborn cheerfully.
“Only,” said Bill, “Professor Fanely won’t spot the secret service men and the police because they’ll be too well hidden. All that you and I will get out of it, Osceola, is a rotten view of the battle, half a mile away, from those trees over yonder. It’s a grand life, this secret service stuff—if you like it!”
“I’ll tell you one thing, Bill,” promised the detective, “if this raid is pulled off successfully, and we round up the cartwheel gang in their lair, the people of the United States will have you to thank for saving them from the most frightful menace that has ever threatened this land of ours. And I’ll see that you get full credit.”
Bill leaned over the side of the cockpit. “Why, that’s the bunk, too, Mr. Sanborn—and you know it. Osceola found the first winged cartwheel and—”
“And ran it to a dead end,” supplied the chief calmly. “You were the brains of this piece, Bill.”
“And you also put in plenty of grit and brawn,” amended the secret service man.
“Heck, no. How about yourself, Mr. Sanborn? You’ve been running the show.”
“But if you hadn’t saved my life last night, Bill, my boy, I wouldn’t be running anything. And as the Chief says, without your brains, the winged cartwheels mystery would have remained unsolved—and I would still be watching poor Kolinski, over at Heartfield’s. No, Bill, you’ve played the lead in this piece, there’s no disputing it.”