He made fast progress toward the edge of the trees. There, hidden behind a large trunk of pine, he could see the dim road, the dull outline of the truck, and the moving forms of men lifting things out and piling them by the road.
“They’re unloading the truck!” Curt was amazed. Was this some bold banditry, some open theft?
To his further astonishment and mystification the other truck came along and stopped. There was an exchange of low, but jovial banter between the rough drivers and their helpers, but no allusion was made to their task. Instead, the men on the truck just arrived began also to unload bolts, cases, boxes, sacks, from their vehicle.
Curt could not figure the problem to a satisfactory decision. Were they substituting one load for the other? Why?
At any rate, they would be occupied for several hours, Curt thought. He made his way quietly back into the wood and hurried toward his bicycle.
“I’ll ride to the plant, get the watchman to telephone for the police, and round up those fellows.”
Every ounce of his reserve energy Curt put into his pedals as he bumped along the byroad and then raced down the main highway.
When he came within sight of the aircraft plant he was surprised at the activity displayed. The flood lights were on. Far up overhead he heard the sound of an airplane engine.
“Oh!” Curt was reassured. “It must be Bob and Al coming in. They will be glad to hear I put the books away safely, and then we can all ride back to the truck—no, we can’t!” He recalled that his own wheel was parked at The Windsock—if no one had taken it.
There was no one in the watchman’s place by the main gate, which was open. Curt decided that the man was at the flying field to give assistance to the airplane as it landed.