"There!" he cried, and flung up a pointing finger. "Just over that corner of the field. It's an R.A.F. Bristol Blenheim. Dave! Maybe it's—!"
The English youth stopped short as though not daring to speak the rest. Dawson nodded, but he too held his tongue. Together they watched the British bomber come sliding down lower and lower until it was clearly visible in every detail. And still almost not daring to breathe, they watched the twin-engined plane settle down in a beautiful landing on the field, and taxi slowly over to the North American B-Twenty-Five.
The Blenheim's wheels touching the ground seemed automatically to release hidden springs in the two boys. Together they hot-footed it over to the lee side of the field, and arrived there just as the British-marked plane was wheel braked to a stop, and the powerful twin engines cut off dead. With a wild eagerness and expectancy that made them seem like a couple of kids waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney, they stood there with bated breath, and saucer eyes fixed on the fuselage door. It was swung open in a moment, and a thin, good-looking fellow in oil and grease-smeared flying garb leaped lightly down on the ground and came toward them, grinning broadly.
"Greetings, you chaps!" he called out. "Been waiting for me long? I hope not."
Dawson recovered the use of his feet and his tongue first.
"Jones!" he cried, and leaped forward, hand outstretched. "Are we tickled pink to see you! Holy smokes! Look at the grey hairs we've got! We'd just about given you up for keeps. What happened? What took you so long?"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer chipped in happily. "Dawson and I will never be the same again, I swear. Yes! What on earth happened to you?"
"Weather!" Agent Jones said with a violent nod. "Most beastly stuff that ever hit any part of the world. Right over the middle of Iran it broke. Quick! Just like that. For a spell we all thought we were goners, for sure. Jackson, he's the pilot, knew his Blenheims, though. Put us down in the middle of nowhere. And there we stayed for three days, expecting the blasted wind to turn the aircraft upside down most any minute. After the storm blew past us, it took another day to get sand and stuff out of the engine. We managed to get off early this morning. Being late, we decided not to stop at Baku. But our radio wasn't working, so we couldn't buzz Baku to tell them. We just came on, and—well, here I am."
"And a sight for sore eyes!" Dawson cried as he stared hard at the Intelligence officer's face. "But you're in time, just in time. So come along and meet the commander of this outfit. A pretty Russian girl, believe it or not!"
"Eh, what say?" Agent Jones gasped.