“Not in the cabin—only thing I can think of is—if he tried to jump and got under the thing.”
Very soberly the youths helped him back into the boat.
People were arriving on the bank, shouting to one another, calling for information, shipping oars in boats. Al, having met several motorists, had spread the alarm, and then had ridden on to telephone the police and to report the crash.
Al, having returned, was in the second boat to arrive by the slowly sinking craft.
Bob gave him a concise report while they pushed away from the place to enable a deputy sheriff to take command and to jot down the stranger’s explanation and their own, from Curt.
“I wish you boys would row me across the little bayou, here,” the man said. Al had transferred to their boat by that time.
“Take me to that point, over there,” the man added. “It’s closest to where I dropped my motorcycle when I saw the thing happen.”
Bob nodded. The presence of the motorcycle beyond the lake, where it was nearest to the road, explained why they had seen the man swimming toward them. He must have heard and seen the airplane, watched its descent, and then rushed to see what he could do.
“But won’t the police want you to testify, or whatever it is?” asked Al.
The man shook his head.