“If we won’t talk,” Bob commented as the trio walked toward their bicycles. “He’ll write something anyhow.”
“It’s queer that there isn’t any trace of the pilot.” Al’s mind returned to the tragic part of the crash.
“Maybe he jumped clear, got away and went into the water, and then, coming up, got to land. He may be on shore, somewhere, hurt, or too weak to make himself known.”
Curt’s explanation renewed their hope.
“Let’s hope it’s that way,” said Bob. “Well, we’ve got a long road to breakfast. Mother will be just about wild. I left a note, but she will worry about Al and me, just the same. If we go to the ball park and don’t get home within half an hour after the game, she frets.”
“Excuse me, boys.” A pleasant voice behind them caused the three to wheel around. They saw a pleasant-faced man, beside an automobile, parked close to the bicycles they were disentangling. “If you want to get home in a hurry, pile the bicycles in that little comfort station over there, and tell the attendant ‘Barney’ said to look out for them. I’m from the aircraft plant, and as long as I can’t do anything here, if you’ll hop into my car I’ll ride you home while you give me the facts as well as you know them about this smash. It’s a bad thing, and I want to get as straight as I can what happened.”
They were very grateful to Barney, who neglected to furnish any other name. He waited until they had stowed away the bicycles, and while he drove them toward the village he questioned them rapidly.
“I think you are all very brave, and quick, and fine,” he commented, after they had, in turn, recited their adventures. “You acted splendidly and I thank you very much.”
Al looked surprised.
“We did our duty,” he replied. “But why are you thanking us? I know it was one of the Tredway airplanes because we were in it, with Lang, yesterday on check-up. But who was in it, and what do you think happened—really?”