The parachute had fallen into the lake. Now he was a hundred feet from it, now fifty, now twenty-five, and now—now, his hand shot out and seized it just as, water-logged, it was beginning to sink.
As he dragged the cloth affair from the water, from his lips there escaped a glad shout. Attached to the parachute’s cord were three spark plugs.
Hardly had he made this discovery than there came again the shout:
“Watch this!”
He did watch, and did do his best, but in spite of his efforts the second parachute sank before he reached it.
But there were others. Twice more he succeeded and three times failed. But he now had nine new spark plugs. Surely there were enough.
Paddling hastily to the plane, he made the changes, dropped into his seat, and again touched his lever. This time there came a welcome burst of thunder and he was away.
He gazed for a second behind him to see Pant, his purpose fulfilled, speeding away toward home.
“That,” smiled Johnny, “was a clever trick. I’d never have thought of it. But trust good old Pant for that. Who’d have thought, though,” his brow wrinkled, “that old Slim Jim, the contortionist, was still on our trail?”
Strangely enough, during the days that followed the contortionist put in no second appearance.