Behind the trees, out of sight, like a silver streak, a comet, the airplane fell. Three hearts went cold as the ship was lost to view behind the foliage. While they could not see the craft strike, any spot in Rocky Lake Park was bad for a landing: dense trees, whole groves, alternated with stands, pavilions, and the deep, boulder-studded water of Rocky Lake and the rivulet which fed it.
Three minds worked as one, three pairs of legs tumbled their owners over the stile, onto the roadside turf, up to the bicycles.
Pedaling like madmen they made short time of the trip to the edge of the amusement spot.
“I think it was directly over Rocky Lake!” Curt, in the lead, called over his shoulder.
Dropping their wheels by the roadside they ran, winded but determined, towards the picnic grounds.
“There—there—in the lake!” gasped Bob.
“It crashed, all right!” panted Curt.
“It’s half buried in the water.” Al puffed along a little to the rear. “I hope the pilot——”
“It wasn’t Lang, was it?”
“No!” Bob responded to Curt’s question. “It must have been some other pilot—I can’t think who, though.”