"I'll go on record in the same way, Dick," said Matt.
"Me, too," chanted Carl. "Vile ve haf der Hawk ve can be vay oop in G, all der time. Yah, you bed my life, I like dis pedder as anyt'ing."
That flight was the very poetry of the lads' air-ship experience. Fate was lowering over the Hawk—destruction was skulking just ahead in the heavy timber below—and Motor Matt and his chums were to look back on that flight to Bayou Yamousa as their last.
Mile after mile of tree tops sped rearward under the car. The boys knew that they were drawing close to the bayou, and Carl and Dick were attending strictly to their work as lookouts.
"I t'ink I see der rifer vat der bayou iss on," announced Carl suddenly, pointing ahead and a little to the left. "Vat you t'ink, Tick? Vas I righdt?"
"Come down a little, Matt," called Dick; "I think I'm beginning to recognize this country, and that Carl has called the turn."
Matt tilted the rudder and the Hawk swooped downward. Before Matt brought the air ship to a level, they were less than twenty feet above the tops of the tallest trees.
"Two points to port, mate," shouted Dick. "There," he added, "hold her so. Very well done. We're coming to the bayou, cap'n and——"
Dick's words were bitten short by a sharp, incisive note from below. This was followed instantly by a smashing sound, a spiteful slap, and a wild hissing.