"San Diego," Colonel Welsh said. "I have to get there as soon as possible. But maybe you haven't the gas."
"San Diego, huh?" the older one, who was the pilot, murmured, and arched his brows. "Yeah. I guess we can make it there from here. Had engine trouble, huh? Not much fun in this neck of the woods. Okay. Get aboard."
A hidden thought was tugging at Dave's brain, but he couldn't seem to get it out in the open. Something was just a wee bit wrong with the picture, but after a moment of deep thought he decided it was worry about a take-off from the narrow space of level ground.
"Think you've got a long enough run?" he asked, and jerked a thumb at the crippled Lockheed. "Maybe the five of us should haul that out of the way. But even then you wouldn't have much extra. There's a sharp drop-off just ahead of it."
"Don't get in a sweat, kid," the man mouthed, and gave him a hard stare. "I wouldn't have come down if I'd thought I couldn't get off again. Just get aboard and keep your seat. We'll get you places, and with no trouble at all. Okay, Colonel, let's get going."
With a curt nod the pilot and his passenger turned and climbed back into the plane. Colonel Welsh followed at their heels, but for an instant Dave and Freddy hung back. They looked at each other and frowned slightly.
"Queer couple of blokes, aren't they?" the English youth murmured. "Can't say I like their looks much."
"I've seen better," Dave replied with a nod. "But so long as they get us out of here, I don't care what they look like. But—is there something on your mind?"
"Not a thing," Freddy replied. Then, with a puzzled scowl: "Just sort of feel funny, though. One of your confounded hunches, I guess. Oh well! No doubt it's your American climate. I'm sure I should have stayed in England."
"Hop in, or do you two kids want to stay and play boy scout?"