It would do no harm, Sandy thought, to let Jeff know that his fellow conspirator, if that was Mr. Whiteside’s real standing, was not playing fair. “When people who may be wicked turn against each other, we learn a lot,” Sandy decided.
He failed in his purpose.
“Tommy’s a good pilot,” Jeff admitted. “Well—I’ll be on my way. See you at the next air Derby!” Jeff grinned at his joke and walked on.
So did Sandy.
While he hurried on, pausing only to collect a “wienie” and roll for lunch, Larry and Dick saw Jeff approach across the green of the fairway and took cover.
“He’s inspecting that airplane—I hope we didn’t leave any clues!” whispered Dick.
“He’s feeling the engine cowling—he wonders how the motor stayed so warm,” Larry retorted under his breath. “Now he’s looking around—get down low, Dick—well, he’s shaking his head. Now he’s in the cockpit. There! He caught the spark on a compression stroke—used his ‘booster magneto.’ There goes the engine.”
And, from the descent of Jeff, to give the ground careful inspection to the moment when he gave up his own baffling puzzle and took off, the youthful amateur pilot reported to Dick, from a spy-hole in the greenery.
“I wonder if Sandy knows Jeff has come on to take his airplane off,” Dick mused.
“It’s safe to go and see. If Mr. Whiteside is on the estate it will look as though we came out extra early. Besides, I’m hungrier than Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf. Come on!” Larry led the way from the golf course as he spoke.