“Get that collapsible boat on the back of the tank, there!” urged Jeff, “and come back for me.”
It took inexperienced Larry some time to open and inflate the tubular rubber device used for supporting survivors of any accident to the seaplane while afloat.
“He’s—I think he’s alive,” Jeff declared fifteen minutes later. “That’s a bad slam he’s had on the forehead, though.” He lifted the silent pilot’s bruised head, put a hand on his heart, nodded hopefully and bade Larry dash water in the man’s face.
The cold, salty liquid seemed at first to have no effect.
“He must have hit himself trying to get out,” Larry surmised.
Jeff shook his head.
“His parachute isn’t loosened or unfolded,” he responded, working to get the spark of life to awaken in the man he bent over. “No, Larry, from the looks of things—somebody hit him, while they were away up in the air, and jumped—with that life preserver.”
“Where is he now? If only I could get my hands on him. I wonder who it was?”
Jeff paid no attention to Larry’s natural anger and wonder.
“He’s coming around—fella—who did this-here to you?”