The plane circled once. It circled again, this time much lower. A third time they circled, so low that Doris could count the tiny flower beds in the garden. For a half minute she held her breath, then like some wild fowl that circling has failed to find water, the plane shot upward and away.
Curlie Carson and Dot heard the drumming of the plane and wondered at its presence there.
“I have never seen a plane here before,” said Dot.
“Perhaps,” said Curlie, “they have had some word of the revolution that is brewing and are on the lookout for the rebel camp.”
“I doubt it,” said Dot. “I—
“But look!” she broke short off to stand staring. “They’re coming down. They—they’ll crash!” She put both hands over her eyes to shut out the sight. But of this there was no need, for the plane disappeared silently behind the distant treetops.
“Come on!” said Curlie, seizing her by the hand and dragging her down the trail. “They can’t be far away. They may be injured—dying. The plane may be on fire.”
Then madly, recklessly, heedless of bruises and scratches, they went racing, scrambling, rolling, tumbling down the hillside.
“We—we must be half way there,” Curlie said, panting.
Again he paused to puff. “Can’t be far now.”