“He seems to want us to go down, Dave!” Freddy said.
“He’s got another think coming!” Dawson grunted back, and shook his head.
Then on sudden thought he motioned to the Cub pilot to cut his throttle completely, and at the same time eased the Vultee’s Cyclone down to a murmur. Then he shoved back his glass hatch and cupped a hand to his lips.
“What’s the matter?” he roared at the top of his voice.
Both planes were nosing down into a flat glide, but the Vultee was slowly drawing ahead of the butterfly type of plane. The pilot’s voice came to Dawson’s ears as a distant echo.
“Trouble—other side of mountains. Need—help—bad! A crack-up! Need help—bad! My—plane—too—small!”
Dave thought the other pilot shouted something more, but he couldn’t tell for sure because the Vultee had pulled down way ahead of the smaller craft. Still keeping the engine idling, Dave pulled up the nose and hovered close to the stalling point while the Cub pilot used his engine and came up alongside again.
This time the light plane’s pilot almost fell through the cabin window, so wild and frantic were his signals to Dave. And his voice rose as high as the scream of a woman.
“Crash! Crash! People hurt! Need help! Need help! Other side of range! Follow me down. Need help bad!”
“What shall we do, Dave?” came Freddy Farmer’s voice close behind Dawson. “Think the chap really means it? Or is this some kind of a funny game? He certainly looks excited enough. What do you think?”