“Changed!” he muttered. “Somebody’s been here. That spark plug there; never had one like that. And that one; I cracked the enamel when I put one in there. It’s gone. Perfectly good-looking one there now. Somebody’s tampered—”
He drew from his pocket a wrench. Quickly unscrewing the spark plug, he placed it on top of the cylinder, then gave the propeller a whirl.
“No spark,” he mumbled. “Dead! Dead as a last year’s ragweed!”
Again he paused in thought.
The next moment he was all action. Dropping to the fuselage, he dragged from within the space back of the seat numerous odds and ends of wooden rods, coils of wire, clamps, bolts and glass insulators. These he pieced together with incredible speed. At length a wire-strung pole was thrust high in air. Wires were attached at the bottom, a receiver thrust over his head, and then, seated in his place before the wheel, he was allowing his fingers to play upon the key of a wireless.
“Sput—sput—sput!” The snap of the electric current sounded above him. He was sending out an S. O. S. addressed to Pant at the home station.
“Sput-sput-sput,” the instrument sounded again and again. Each time he waited for an answer. At last, to his great joy, it came. The buzzing in his receiver resolved itself into the dots and dashes of the Morse code: “Shoot, Pant.”
“Thank God!” Johnny exclaimed.
The purpose of the intruders was plain enough. They had hoped to drive Johnny to desert his plane in this lonely spot, then they would return and strip it of its priceless steel at their leisure.
“I’ll show them!” he hissed.