His eyes rested for a moment on the upthrust wing of the submerged seaplane. His face changed expression. An idea flashed across his mind.
“Jeff,” he cried, “do you suppose we could make a gas line from the brass tubing on the seaplane?”
“What for?”
“See that wing?” he pointed. “It sticks up, and it’s higher than our own tank—and if there’s a wing-tank, and I think a seaplane would have them——”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” grinned Jeff. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that-there is right.”
He carefully climbed out onto the amphibian’s lower wing till he could grip a guy wire on the seaplane. By agility and a good deal of scuffling with some damage to the doped fabric of the seaplane, he got into the partly sunken pilot’s seat and from that, climbing up, sent a quick glance over the cockpit, tracing the fuel lines.
“Right as can be!” he called. “Now if I can find a wrench and get loose some brass tubing——”
“Can I help?”
Jeff, bent down in the pilot’s seat, lifted his head, shaking it.
“Stay where you are,” he called. “Two might push the crate down into the mud too fast for safety. She’s half a foot deeper in than when we were here before. I’ll manage.”