Chick was signaling. Two red flares!—did that mean the air signal, for an airplane to land, the storm call “proceed no further!”
Or, Don wondered, was Chick himself in danger?
“I can’t go!” he muttered. “Oh, Garry—hurry!”
Garry, revealed by a fresh, and even more vivid stream of heavenly fire, was lifting something.
Don saw him wave, as if urging him to go away.
Then something heavy seemed to come against him, almost taking him off his feet. Instinctively he clutched it, recovering his footing.
“The mail sack!” he gasped.
In the next vivid flash Garry came, hand over hand, along the edge of the wing as the whole ship toppled forward, and the change of angle, freeing its trucks from the mud, enabled the wind to get under the wings with telling effect.
As Don steadied Garry after his drop to the ground, the lightning showed the menace of the toppling airplane.
Backward they leaped, Don with the heavy sack of precious mail.