Did they? Little Bexter grinned from ear to ear.
Early next morning they found themselves once more standing beside the airplane. A boy about Johnny’s age had just arrived.
“I’m Donald Day, Malcomb MacQueen’s grandson,” he introduced himself. “I want to thank you for looking after my grandfather,” he said to Johnny and Bexter.
“How—how is he?” Little Bexter’s words stuck in his throat.
“He’s pretty badly busted up!” Donald Day wrinkled his brow. “But he’s tough. He’s always lived right. The doctors say he will pull through but it will take a long time. And during that time,” he squared his shoulders, “during that time I’m to carry on his work.” He jingled a bunch of keys.
“In—down there in that space beneath the mill?” Johnny breathed.
The other boy shot him a quick look. “Yes. Down there,” he replied quietly.
A hundred questions were pressing in Johnny’s mind demanding an answer. He asked none of them.
“All right boys,” said the pilot. “I promised to have this little fellow home for breakfast.” He touched Bexter’s shoulder. “So guess we better step on the gas.”
“Yes,” Johnny thought. “Same old gas. But what fuel could he have been speaking of yesterday? A fresh mystery. I’m sure going to solve that one too.”