Then he lifted his head as the car roared away, and when Doc Morgan and Vance reached him, he sat up, smiling.
“Let’s take my car!” cried Vance. “Come on, Chick. Doc, stay and take care of the place. Get my assistant back to the control room!”
“Yes!” urged Chick, running toward the control chief’s bigger, faster roadster, “I remember something. Garry was taken to an Indian camp in that very car, and the very fellow who’s getting away with blue-prints or tracing is the Indian’s son who drove Garry back. I know the license, too. Come on!”
CHAPTER XVII
AN AERIAL CAPTURE
Flying low, as though trying to account for the mysteriously twinkling glow from the helicopter, Don watched carefully.
“There’s the crash boat,” he murmured, as his sharp eyes made out the dark object against the sheen of the still water in a channel.
“I’ll ‘give it the gun,’ now,” he decided. “The noise will drown out Garry’s motor hum.”
He opened his throttle.
Necessarily he drew further away. That suited their plan perfectly: it gave him distance in which to turn for his approach in a position to come down in a power-stall that would keep the engine running just fast enough to let the Dart settle onto the water without too much forward speed.
Garry’s hand was on the switch of the stopped electric motor: in the other he held his self-igniting flare.