“Down, there!” the man growled at his dog. “What do you want,” he asked Curlie.
“Have you a car?” Curlie asked, stepping to the door.
“Yes, a truck.”
“How far is it to town?”
“To Aurora, eight miles.”
“Aurora!” Curlie’s hopes rose. At Aurora there was an airport. If this farmer but knew the way to the airport, the precious parcel of mail would not be long delayed.
He felt for the sack. The three packages, undamaged by the fall, were still there.
“Take me to Aurora at once,” he said in a tone that carried authority. “You will be well paid. But besides this, it is your duty. Every man, in time of emergency, is the servant of his country.”
“Yes, that is true,” the man agreed, as he drew on his coat. “We’ll get the car; then we’ll go for the mail.”
“I have it here.”