Far behind, unable to keep up, or, perhaps, giving up the chase, the Demon in the helicopter—human or otherwise—stayed aloft.
Down to the runway in a well-calculated glide Don swung his ship.
“Hooray!” exulted Chick. “Don—Garry—we win!”
The trucks leveled with the tail. The ship lost speed. Its wheels set their tires on the concrete and the ship, rumbling, ran forward.
Instantly Don cut the gun.
Mr. McLeod, the control room chief, and Doc Morgan ran up.
Garry tossed out the mail pouches.
“The ship-to-shore record is just tied!” cried McLeod. “Don—I owe you a lot for this—and your friends, too!”
“All right, Uncle!” Don swung about in his cockpit. “Doc—Mr. Vance—has anything been done about the Dart?”
“Why—ah—” Doc rubbed his chin as the older executive, with the control room chief at his side, raced for the waiting car in which the mail, still in its sacks, would be rushed to the New York Post Office, “yes, Don. They got a new prop set!”