“I—met the estate caretaker in the village. He asked me to run on ahead and tell you—and Mr. Whiteside—” Sandy watched, “—he could not find a Six-B slotted bolt anywhere!”
“Oh, couldn’t he?”
Jeff did not change a muscle of his face.
“Sorry he had all the trouble. We got the ‘phib’ engine going and I took Whiteside off on a little private matter in that.”
“Have you brought him back?”
“No. Set down in the little inlet, yonder.” He waved toward the shoreline concealed beyond the estate shrubbery. “It was closer to my own crate—it’s stalled yonder in the golf course.”
“Oh!”
Yes—stalled! Sandy repressed a taunt and pretended to accept the false statement.
“I hear Larry’s been getting instruction off that-there Tom Larsen,” Jeff turned suddenly on Sandy.
“Yes. Mr. Whiteside paid for it.”