“Natives might help us. But say! What’s going on?” Steve’s voice rose. Jack hushed him up.
“Look!” Stew insisted in a whisper, handing back the binoculars. “They’re gassing her up! Aren’t those kerosene barrels?”
“Sure are,” Jack agreed, after a look. “But you could put gas in them.”
Fascinated, the boys watched until the strangers had finished fueling the plane and had rolled the barrels into a crevasse, where they covered them with driftwood and dry palm fronds.
“Mighty secretive,” Stew whispered.
“So are all the islanders these days. This is war. We—look!” Jack’s whisper was shrill. “They’ve climbed in to take off and they haven’t any propeller!”
“Good joke on them!” Stew chuckled. “They won’t get far.”
The plane was facing the sea. When the brakes were released, it slid slowly down the slope into the water. Ten seconds later the plane let out a low squeal, then started gliding over the blue sea. The squeal rose to a howl. Faster and faster went the propellerless thing until at last it left the water to sail away at tremendous speed.
“What do you know about that!” Jack stood staring until the plane was a mere speck in the sky. “That’s something I won’t believe—a plane without a propeller that squeals and howls and goes faster than any plane you or I ever saw. Come on! Let’s go down there for a better look at those fuel drums.”
“But there might be more men.” Stew hung back.