It was headed into the wind.
“Why don’t you tell him to dive?” screamed Chick, shivering with excitement and biting at his lip in vexation. Garry had deliberately ignored prodding by his younger comrade.
“Now!” Garry touched Don.
Has calmer nature had held in check his impulse to move too soon.
Exactly in sympathy with Garry’s touch, Don decided that the time to plunge, to rush past and above the Dart, and then to zoom away into the sky for a turn, and an observation, was just right.
Full-gun, with nose lowered, the Dragonfly dashed toward its target, coming up, in a gentle curve, just timed to sweep the turbulent air disturbance of their propeller through the area into which the Dart was just beginning to rise.
They swept with roaring engine across the sheet of water, their own pontoons and wheel-trucks not twenty feet away from the red wings.
Up they zoomed; Don brought the nose around with as sharp a bank as he deemed safe.
All three looked, expecting to see the Dart upset, and its occupant or the pair, if the older Indian had joined his son for escape, struggling in the murky water.
Instead, the Indian, with the cleverness that he had learned, as they discovered at another time, from enlistment at a Navy training school, had cut the gun, settling into the water again.