At eleven forty-five the young man moved his plane from its hiding place, and mounted into the air. He chuckled as he took the air. His sister, Joan, was the only living person who knew where this plane had been hidden and he felt certain that it could not have been “doctored,” although he had been late in getting to it.
Unfortunately for his purpose the night was dark and a heavy fog had come up from the ocean about ten o’clock, and for ten minutes he feared that the fog banking against the windows of his cockpits would prevent observation. With a snort of dismay he threw open the window, and leaned out. The great City of Los Angeles, with its myriads of beautiful lights spread beneath, and he lost three minutes locating the five-pointed lights that marked the Atlantic-Pacific airport. He was flying low, circling like an eagle, and he lost several seconds more getting to the airport.
Had he arrived too late?
He anathematized himself, and snarled at the darkness that had caused him to be late in getting to his plane. Billy, by this time, was probably on his way.
He searched the sky with his binoculars. The three red lights the Greyhound was to display were not visible. Was it possible that his secret plans had already come to naught? Would Billy fly out over the ocean and rush into the hands of the pirates without accomplishing any good?
For a moment he had a spell of very bad humor; then he whirled the nose of his plane out toward the Pacific Ocean. He knew the course the Greyhound would travel. He had been careful with his instructions to Billy about getting into the air and these instructions conveyed to Billy the idea that he was to give no heed to the little plane that followed him. This meant that Billy would take a direct bee line out over the ocean, and expect him to follow as if there was to be an ordinary oceanic flight.
Rising two thousand feet, he shot forward with all the speed his wonderfully fast little bird could travel—three hundred miles an hour. In a brief slip of time he was over San Pedro, and could hear the roar of the ocean sweeping against the rocks north of Point Firmin. Bearing N by W he flashed over the extreme end of Catalina Island on the north. Still the dense fog rolled against his windows and into the cabin; and the three red Greyhound lights were not visible.
He groaned in an agony of spirit. What would his Uncle William say to this terrible waste of money and inefficiency?
“And what will Joan say?” he asked himself aloud in a strained hurt way. “She also will think that I’m a slip-up.”
“She will say that you have a very fast little airplane, that you can fly circles around the Greyhound, and that now is the time to fly them.” A soft, mellow voice answered his query from the rear end of the cabin. “Fly low, say one thousand feet above the water, and keep your eyes glued to your field glasses. Joan will watch for you while you manipulate the controls.”