Shutting off the governing valve, Jeff began unscrewing the pipe lines, rejoining lengths of piping until, with a section from the carburetor to give the needed length, he passed over a makeshift path for the wing-tank gas to flow by gravity into their own craft.
“All ready!” called Larry, bending the end of the line so its flow went into the central tank of the amphibian.
Jeff opened the gas valve under the wing-tank.
“Here she comes!” Larry was exultant.
“We’ll get enough to hop down the shore to a fuel supply, anyhow,” Jeff said.
The gauges were out of commission and they had to figure the amount they secured from the size of the pipe and time that the gas flowed.
“I guess that’s all—about seven gallons,” said Jeff as the last drops fell into their tank. Larry threw aside the useless pipe, sent home the tank cap and dropped down into the after seat to be sure the ignition was off before Jeff swung the propeller sturdily to suck the gas into the cylinders.
So intent had they been on the business of the gas transfer that as Jeff swung the “prop” both were taken by surprise when a curt voice came from close under the amphibian’s tail assembly.
“Put your hands up—both of you! Quick!”
A man, coming silently from some concealment, in a dory, undetected in their busy absorption, held something menacingly businesslike and sending sun glints from its blue steel. Its hollow nose covered both at the range he had.