CHAPTER XXXI
As A Crow Flies
ALAN had plenty of time for thought. Speech was impossible while the biplane was in motion, and it was seldom otherwise, but only infrequently at pause when the necessity for replenishing its store of oil and gasoline would force it to descend.
Between whiles the plane flew fast and high, as the crow flies, athwart the Eastern and Middle Western States.
Chicago they saw as a smudge on the northern horizon about one o'clock in the afternoon; thereafter some little time was lost in descents to ascertain the identity of the many railroad lines.
And it was some hours later, though still daylight, when they picked up the special flying like a hunted thing across the levels, on the line of the Santa Fé.
Alan contrived to focus his binoculars upon the rear platform of the car and saw a white-coated figure with a black face that was watching the biplane in the same manner—that is, with glasses. It was the right train then!
And the man in the white coat was Barcus.
166
