“Well——”
“You’re elected!” Chick exulted. “It’s as good as done. And with, the chart tracing identified and claimed, it doesn’t make any difference how it got into the old boathouse. Maybe I ought to apologize to Doc for accusing him. I do! I jumped to the notion he had taken it but he is proved innocent because he wasn’t anywhere near the control room—and we don’t know but what the paper blew out a window and was picked up by some visitor to the airport who went on a crabbing trip and put the paper down there by chance.”
Chick felt that his explanation was rather lame, but he made it in an attempt to show Doc Morgan that he was no longer suspected of being a traitor to his employers.
For some strange reason it began to seem as though the Indian’s mysterious pouch had some virtue.
At any rate, everything became quiet around the airport.
The seventh day arrived, and on its night the chums watched the dark skies without reward.
No apparition of an airplane appeared: no pair of phantom ships materialized to enact their collision and disappear.
With the spectre of the skies inactive, the rest of the mysteries also dropped into the background of attention. Don was busy with his work on the tracings for the all-metal airplane which he was helping Scott to create.
Garry studied airplane design while he prepared and photographed the multitudes of blue-prints that had to be made for each new model the aircraft corporation planned to try out.
Chick was kept fully occupied: tabulating, filing and procuring for the builders such blue-prints as they required, engaged his whole time.