“Yes, he must have been good,” agreed Al. “And it proves that he was forced down. Any sane pilot would have gone on to a better spot.”
They reached the airplane, a two-winged model with a radial motor and small wings; it was a speed ship, trim and mystifying with its dark, brown body and airfoils freshly done.
Curtis, whose age was midway between Al’s thirteen and Bob’s sixteen, clambered onto a landing wheel and observed the instruments on the dash. “Plenty of gas, and oil,” he remarked. Then his companions saw his face change.
“Look!” As he called he leaped from his perch so that Bob could occupy it; Al was up on the other side, and it took no explaining to show what had caused Curt’s exclamation. Both youths saw the small square of paper pinned to the folded parachute on the seat.
“Dare we look?” questioned Bob.
“‘I can read it from here,” Al said, and reported. “It says, ‘Everything O.K.’”
“Crickety Christmas!” Curt resorted to his favorite expression. “‘Everything O.K.’ Then it wasn’t a forced landing.”
“No,” agreed Bob. “It didn’t seem like one, somehow. The ship is too carefully tucked away. And, now—this note. Who is it to? Who put it there? Does it mean the ship is all right—or something else? I was right when I said—‘there’s our mystery.’”
“You were!” admitted Curt.
“But what can we do about it?” objected Al. “Take turns watching? Wait to see who comes back, and what he does?”