“Guess I should have told them,” he mused. “Might be something in it. Might be—”
Pant’s signal at the speaking tube broke in on his reflections.
“Plane to our larboard aft,” he called. “Big blue one with wide planes. Looks like a racer.”
Johnny started. What plane could this be? They were not in a region frequented by airplanes, nor in the path of an air mail line. But then, he reassured himself, planes were common enough the country over.
He could not, however, shake off at once the sense of fear that gripped him. He had not forgotten their mad race across the desert, nor his narrow escape on the mountain lake. A race in an airplane might not end happily, especially with him at the wheel.
His mind became at ease presently, and he again took up the thread of thought that had been broken off. Should this day’s work be completed in safety, their days of thrills and dangers would, for a time at least, be over.
“Seem to be following us,” broke in Pant again. “Man, but they’ve got some speed! Let her out a notch or two.”
The plane seemed fairly to leap from beneath them as Johnny, obeying instructions, “let her out.” She was a good, substantial plane, of the type that is destined to become the express-carrier of tomorrow, but she was not of the fastest model.
Johnny risked a glance back. Pant seemed to be fumbling at something near his belt beneath his heavy leather coat.
“If he were only up here at the wheel!” Johnny groaned.