Russ Steele’s face contracted in a sour grimace. “I don’t know. And stop trying to spoil my appetite.”
CHAPTER SIX
A Futile Search
Immediately after breakfast, they set out north from the ranger station.
“We’ll be back in three days,” Russ Steele told Dick Fellows. “Using your station as a base, we’re going to cover all the territory between the Black River and the Rapid River, from Red Lake to the Canadian border.”
“Good luck,” the ranger said. “I hope I can be of some help to you.”
Russ shook the young man’s hand. “You have already, Dick.”
As they started through the woods, with Prince crashing through the underbrush ahead of them, Sandy was pessimistic. “How much ground do we have to cover, Uncle Russ?”
“One hundred and twenty square miles or thereabouts. I’m not sure exactly.”
“It seems so hopeless,” Sandy said. “I read in the paper about an airplane that crashed in the north woods with three men aboard and they didn’t find it for four months. A bomb—even an A-bomb—must be considerably smaller than a two-engine plane.”
Russ nodded grimly. “It’s a big order, all right. But don’t forget, there are, or soon will be, hundreds of teams like ours, each covering an assigned sector. If we’re all thorough and painstaking, we’ll find the bomb sooner or later.”