Fifteen minutes of brisk walking and he judged himself to be near the place where the parachute had dropped.
Turning his back to the fence he prepared to walk straight forward for some distance. He had not taken a dozen steps when his foot caught on something and he barely escaped a fall.
Putting out a hand, he let forth an involuntary exclamation. He had tripped on the red parachute.
“Great luck!” he exclaimed.
The next moment found the precious bag and the parachute (which he vowed should still bring a doll to his little friend) tucked under his arm.
“Now,” he thought, “what next?”
He paused to reflect. This was a pasture. Every pasture, if it does not touch the farm yard on one corner, has a lane leading to the farm buildings. If he continued to follow the fence he might come to the farmer’s house. So he reasoned.
And he was right. Fifteen minutes had not passed before the farmer, aroused by the loud barking of his dog, was standing in his door, demanding:
“Who’s there?”
“An Air Mail flyer,” Curlie replied, in as even a tone as he could command. “Plane’s down in your pasture. I need your help. The mail must go through.”