His amateurish effort to watch the control room man had brought no fruit: after a day or two Chick had given up that activity.
“Well,” remarked Don, as the trio stood on the control tower balcony, about to leave after a futile vigil, with no developments to report, “the seventh night has come, Friday, the thirteenth is almost past—and we can——”
“Your uncle wants to see you—right away!” Doc Morgan interrupted.
“What’s the matter?”
“Scott was to fly out to meet the Caledonia—to pick up the mail and fly it in! Scott’s been hurt by a prop that flew off its hub——”
Three excited faces turned to the stairway.
“He might want you to fly the mail!” cried Chick.
“I hope he does!” Garry told Don. “What a chance!” Don kept his hope unvoiced. But he did hope!
Unaware that their excitement made them join Don to answer a summons not meant for them, Chick and Garry were at Don’s heels when he entered his uncle’s private office.
“What a break!” the harassed airport executive grumbled. “I took your suggestion, as you know, Don. The Caledonia is bringing special mail pouches from Liverpool. Scott was warming up the Dart. Just when we need the ship and the pilot most—the propeller hub loosened, the casting broke or it wanted oil and burned out. Whatever happened, Scott’s out of the running, and so is the Dart. I sent for you——”