“Hurry!” urged Al. “Hello—hello!” he called, passing the pavilions. “Is anybody around! Wake up—somebody! Help! Help! A ’plane has cracked up in Rocky Lake!”
“See anything of the pilot?” Bob turned to Curt. Gasping for breath they had reached the shore of the lake, by a small wharf where rowboats were hired during the day.
Curt scanned the surface of the lake.
Quite near the shore, and on the rocks, with one crumpled wing, and with her nose and cabin buried in soft, oozey mud, the smashed monoplane lay with its pitifully useless tail assembly sticking up into the air. The “flippers” had carried way with the impact and hung by the control cables.
Bob turned a serious face toward his companion.
“I hope—I wonder”— He could not finish. The thought flitted through his mind that unless the pilot had been extremely quick and very clever, he could not have gotten out of the cabin—in time. The falling craft had been close enough so that had any figure leaped, especially with a parachute, they should have seen it clearly.
No such figure had leaped—in time.
“Maybe he—crawled out when it struck,” said Curt, hopefully.
“Anyhow, let’s get a boat, and try to get to it.”
“Al,” called Curt, “stop calling for help! There isn’t anybody here. Run to the farmhouse across the road—no, that’s empty. Ride back down the road, till you see an automobile and send it to town for help. If you don’t meet one, stop at the first house and telephone.”