“I can’t make it,” Sandy slowed. “It’s all off!”
He knew that it was safe for him to leave his shelter. The “phib” was past him in its zooming return from the golf course.
“Now we’ll never know what they found, or if they found anything in the swamp,” he told himself dejectedly.
Then his attention was fixed and his mind became mystified.
“That’s their crate, all righty,” he muttered. “But—they’re not landing on the estate. I suppose they’ve come to see that Jeff’s ’plane was safe. Now they’ll go on to Connecticut and we are defeated.”
He came out onto the road, walking with bent head as soon as he had caught his breath again.
For a moody few minutes he considered the wisdom of rejoining his chums.
“No,” he decided. “When I don’t join them they’ll come over to the estate. It might be a good idea to go on to the landing field and see if the amphibian dropped off anything with a small parachute.”
He pursued his way without haste. While he had been divesting himself of his coat Larry had urged the caretaker to go on to his duties.
“I’ll go on!” Sandy murmured more cheerfully. “I’ll have a clear half hour to myself. Maybe—without anybody talking and disturbing me—I might think out some answer to all the queer things that have happened.”