By the time Curt and Al got their bicycles and pedaled to the vicinity of Rocky Lake, Bob’s flare was out and they had no means of ending their suspense until they had looked around in the picnic grove and assured themselves that there was no burning airplane in sight.
They rode along the highway.
“Isn’t that a flashlight, in the old field?”
“It looks like one, Al.”
“It is!”
They pedaled faster. Presently the pair reached the field; soon Bob, using a small pocket flashlamp, was telling his brother and his best friend how the electric spark had worried him.
“I knew the brown airplane was gone,” he continued his explanation, “the only thing left for me to do was to head back to the plant. But I saw that quick little flicker close to the gas line and cut off the ignition switch.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Tracing the wiring,” Bob told his brother. “And here is a wire! It ought not to be run so close to the gas line! And here is another, away back under the dash instrument board. They cross!”
“Crossed wires!” gasped Curt. “That isn’t right!”