Two red Verey lights, the imperative order to land at once, flashed out from the newcomer’s signal firing apparatus.
That new craft meant business, was commanded by some one in authority.
Going, on his glide, below the cloud scud, Garry circled out over the bay, came around to face the light breeze, took the water with his pontoons and shot toward the landing stages.
As he skittered over the surface he saw crowds rushing about in the wide area covered by the landing lights; evidently everyone driving home from late picture shows and dances had heard the bellowing siren; the airport day force was on hand; feverishly they worked to get the first mail craft off the runways, as the second came in.
Two handlers caught the Dragonfly’s wing as Garry drifted it to the landing stage. Further out on the bay, Don set down the helicopter, to Chick’s intense relief, without a jar. Shutting off the top blades the young flyer used the tractor prop to draw him to the place vacated by Garry.
On the landing wharf Don, as he made sure that Chick was again in possession of his normal color, saw Garry, in the lowered rays of the spot and other lights, surrounded by a group.
Doc Morgan was there, he saw. So, he was surprised to see, were the two Indians, old Ti-O-Ga and his son, John.
Cars were parking everywhere they could find space. Excitement was in the air.
“We’ve got a lot of company waiting for us to come home,” Chick whispered, with an uneasy grin.
“I don’t like it much,” Don responded. “Especially not the man in that ship that ordered us down. He looks angry, from here.”