“No!” he cried. “No! Larry—Dick—you, Mister! Come on, quick—under these trees yonder!”
They stared at him.
“Don’t you understand?” he urged. “Jeff will fly over his crate to see if it’s all right. He may see us. Come on!”
So sound was his argument that the others hurried with him to the concealment of the nearby grove, after Larry had thoughtfully cut out the ignition so that the propeller would not revolve if its observers flew low enough to distinguish its position.
Well hidden, they learned how wise Sandy had been.
Coming closer as it dropped lower, the amphibian circled in a tight swing over the fairway several times and finally straightened out, flying toward the wind that came from almost due North on this first cool day after a humid July week, and began to grow smaller to the watchers.
“We’d better get that engine started, now.” Dick left the grove.
“Let’s be careful,” commented Sandy. “They may come back.”
“We can be warming it up and watching!” Larry urged.
“We don’t need to hurry,” Sandy insisted. “I think I know—at last!—what this all means.”