It readily spat
its answer this time, an instantaneous duplicate of shots.
"I'm here. What do you want?"
In the lightning glare the man ahead made off wildly across the fields.
Running, Johnny cocked his ears for the familiar assurance of one shot.
"All right," it would mean; "I only wanted to know where you are," but
it did not come.
Instead--two shots again in rapid succession--an interval--and then
another.
"I am in serious trouble," barked the signal in the forest. "Come as
fast as you can."
With a groan Johnny abandoned the chase and retraced his steps. Thus a
perverse Fate ever snipped the thread of an embryo adventure.
A light flickered dully among the trees to the east. Johnny cupped his
hands and yodeled. The light moved. A little later as he crashed
hurriedly through the underbrush, Diane called to him. She was holding
a lantern high above something on the ground, her face quite colorless.
"I'm glad you're here!" she said. "It's the aviator, Johnny. He's
hurt--"
The aviator stirred.
"He's comin' 'round," said Johnny peering down into the white face in
the aureole of lantern-light. "The rain in his face likely. . . .
Well, young fellow, what do you think of yourself, eh?"
"Not much," said Philip blankly and stared about him.
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