Sandy Maclaren, with narrowed eyes and an intent frown, bent his gaze on the pilot’s back and muttered under his breath.
“That engine didn’t die. I saw what Jeff did. He was as quick as a cat—but he didn’t fool me.”
His expression altered to a puzzled scowl.
“But why did he shut off the ignition and pretend the engine had stopped—so handy to this old, abandoned estate?”
No answer rewarded his agile thoughts as Jeff skilfully shot the small field, compelled to come in to one side because of tall trees directly in their line of flight, over which his dead engine made it impossible to maneuver. Nor did he get a solution to his puzzle as Jeff cleverly side-slipped to lose momentum, and to get over the neglected, turf-grown runway down which, a little bumpily but right side up, he taxied to a standstill.
“Well,” Jeff said, with a grin, swinging around in his seat and drawing off his helmet, “here we are!”
“If I ever get the money to take flying lessons,” Larry said, “I know the pilot I’m going to ask to give me instruction! When I can make a forced landing like that one, Jeff, I’ll think I’m getting to be a pilot.”
“If ever I get taken into my uncle’s airplane passenger line,” Dick spoke up, “I know who’ll be Chief Pilot—until Larry gets the experience to crowd Jeff out.”
Sandy, his face moody, said nothing.
The tall, slim pilot, grinned at the compliments and then went on working his jaws on the gum he habitually chewed.