At first terrified, then made calm by the thought that it must be the mail ’plane pilot who had managed to crawl along the swamp edge to shelter in the old place and needed instant attention, Chick crossed the room.
As he did so a glare of light more vivid than the others showed him for a fleeting instant the face of the man lying in a heap.
“Doc Morgan!” Chick cried out in amazement. “Doc”——
The man was a sort of general helper around the airport, not very keen of wit, nor deft of hand; he aided when ships had to be trundled out of the hangar, and swept up the yards, and did other odd jobs.
“Doc” had earned his nickname because he was always gathering herbs which he maintained were of great medicinal value. Curiously enough, the concoctions he administered to the amused airport personnel often proved to be very helpful. Therefore “Doc” was forgiven his dull wit and liked for his good nature.
But what was he doing there, in the supposably untenanted boat shack?
Morgan stirred, groaned. Chick bent down, “‘Doc’—are you hurt?”
The man stirred again, and then Chick, with a stare, moved back a step. The man was muttering. An empty bottle, reeking as did his breath with the odor of cheap alcohol, gave the clue to his condition.
A fierce gust of wind swept through the place before it banged the door against its frame with a crash that made Chick jump. Before the slam of the door shut out the fire of a bolt that came close, Chick saw a bit of paper caught up by the draft and sent through the air. He ran to the door, threw it wide, turned, and, waiting for the next gust, and its accompanying flash, he located the paper—secured it—caught sight of its marked surface, thin, inked lines on light tracing paper—and cried out, in disgust.
“You traitor! You’ve taken some of the plans for the new all-metal ship! This is one! Where are the others?”