The thing they saw enacted that day will never seem completely real to Curlie. “More like a moving picture drama,” he has said many times.
The day was one of mixed weather. One hour the sky was clear. The next it was filled with scudding clouds. There were times in between when it was half sky and half clouds.
It happened during one of these clearing spells. Their plane was bumping along like a bob-sled over the clouds, with the sky clearing, and fine chances of reaching Resolution in time for dinner when suddenly Jerry nudged Curlie, then pointed silently to the edge of a silver-lined cloud.
There, Curlie made out clearly enough, just emerging was the “Gray Streak.”
“Of all the luck!” Curlie groaned.
But what was that glint of red in the distance? For the first time in his life Curlie thought he knew how a gray-backed old pike must feel when some red lure is drawn through the water at a distance.
“Is it Drew Lane?” he asked himself. “Or is it some strange trick played on me by the sun?”
Now he thought he saw it. And now it was gone. A small cloud appeared to hide it. The cloud moved on. It was not there, that red speck. But yes, there it was, a little larger. Or was it?
Between keeping an eye on his own instruments and that elusive spot of red, he completely lost sight of the “Gray Streak” until once more Jerry nudged and pointed.
Curlie looked, then groaned aloud