“Slip into that jumper and put on your helmet,” he suggested. “It looks no end professional. There’s nothing for you to do but sit in that seat. You can’t very well put down your goggles until just before the take off. So if anyone shows curiosity, pretend to be fixing something on the instrument board. You’ll find a screwdriver in the locker, I guess. That ought to help the picture fifty percent at least,” he grinned, then went on—“But if you love your life, don’t unscrew or tighten anything! There are some men coming down the road now. I’ve got an inspection to make and then—I’ve got to get out on the dock and meet them.”
“Can’t you stick around here, get the motors started or something?” Osceola’s voice was muffled by the jumper he was pulling over his head.
“I'd like to,” Bill assured him. “But it would look queer and somebody would be sure to smell a rat. There’ll be a guy down here to give me orders, all right. From what we know, the pilots of this outfit keep pretty much to themselves. Here’s hoping I don’t run into any of their pals.”
“I’ve got my gun handy, and you’re wearing one,” said Osceola pointedly, as he adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet. “If it comes to a pinch, we’ll shoot it out—field gun or no field gun.”
“That’s the way to talk!”
Bill slapped his friend’s shoulder and went into the cabin.
[CHAPTER XI—WHAT HAPPENED IN THE AIR]
Then there came the sound of tramping on the wooden planks of the dock. Bill took a deep breath and stepped out of the cabin into the bright sunshine. He counted seven—seven men approaching him.
“Morning,” he greeted affably as the leaders drew near. “All passengers?”
“All but me—fer the island,” announced the man in advance of the rest, a cadaverous person with a Vermont twang in his voice. “I got too much to do round here to go joy ridin’. Guess I ain’t seen you before. Funny, but I thought Thompson piloted the plane up last night.”