"Chances!" growled Whipple. "We've got guns an' them kids haven't. Where do the chances come in? Pull yer six-shooter an' come on. I'm going ter git even for that whack King give me on the head. An' we want that air ship. It's jest the thing we need. Don't be a fool, Pete."
With this final adjuration, Whipple, weapon in hand, started back toward the trees. Pete, likewise prepared for emergencies, hurried after him.
Before they had covered half the distance that separated them from the trees, however, they saw the black shape of the air ship shoot upward and vanish in the darkness toward the north.
Whipple's rage and disappointment were so keen that he gave way to a torrent of piratical language, storming around until Pete called him to a halt with a show of temper.
"What good does that do? King an' his pals have hiked out, an' mebby it's a good thing fer us that they did. Stop yer swearin' an' let's go on to the ole quarry an' take a look fer Brady."
Stifling his anger, Whipple strode on to the trees and peered over the scene of the recent encounter.
"Yes," he growled, "King has showed us his heels ag'in, but it ain't a good thing fer us noways that he got clear. What d'ye s'pose he was doin' here?"
"I pass. I ain't no mind reader, Whipple."
"No, I reckon ye ain't; an' ye ain't got any too much good, common sense, neither. Mebby King's got a tip that the girl's at La Grange, an' he's come over in this direction lookin' fer us. Did ye ever think o' that? If our game's been tipped off, we're li'ble ter find ourselves in a hard row o' stumps."
"Who's goin' ter tip off our game?" demanded Pete. "Them Chicago detectives ain't been able ter find out a thing."