The one praiseworthy thing he could do he did conscientiously.  He inspected carefully the control wires, went over the motor and filled the radiator and the gas tank, and made sure that he had plenty of oil.  His grumbling did not in the least impair his efficiency.  He replaced the propeller, cursing under his breath because Johnny had taken it off.  He was up in the forward seat testing the control when Johnny called him to come and eat.

In the narrow strip of sky that showed over the niche the stars were paling.  A faint flush tinged the blue as Johnny looked up anxiously.

“We’ll take a little grub and my two canteens full of water,” he said, with a shade of uneasiness in his voice.  “We don’t want to get caught like those poor devils did that lost the plane.  But, of course—­”

“Say, where you going, f’r cat’s sake?” Bland looked over his cup in alarm.  “Not down where them—­”

“We’re going to find out where those horses went.  You needn’t be scared, Bland.  I ain’t organizing any suicide club.  You tend to the flying part, and I’ll tend to my end of the deal.  Air-line, it ain’t so far.  We ought to make there and back easy.”

He bestirred himself, not exultantly as he had done the day before, but with a certain air of determination that impressed Bland more than his old boyish eagerness had done.  This was not to be a joy-ride.  Johnny did not feel in the least godlike.  Indeed, he would like to have been able to take Sandy along as a substantial substitute in case anything went wrong with the plane.  He was taking a risk, and he knew it, and faced it because he had a good deal at stake.  He did not consider, however, that it was necessary to tell Bland just how great a risk he was taking.  He had not even considered it necessary to telephone the Rolling R and tell Sudden what it was he meant to do.  Time enough afterwards—­if he succeeded in doing it.

He was anxious about the gas, and about water, but he did not say anything about his anxiety.  He made sure that the tank would not hold another pint of gas, and he was careful not to forget the canteens.  Then, when he had taken every precaution possible for their welfare, he climbed into his place and told Bland to start the motor.  He was taking precautions with Bland, also.

“We fly south,” he yelled, when Bland climbed into the front seat.  “Make it southeast for ten miles or so—­and then swing south.  I’ll tap you on the shoulder when I want you to turn.  Whichever shoulder I tap, turn that way.  Middle of your back, go straight ahead; two taps will mean fly low; three taps, land.  You got that?”

Bland, pulling down his cap and adjusting his goggles, nodded.  He drew on his gloves and slid down into the seat—­alert, efficient, the Bland Halliday which the general public knew and admired without a thought for his personal traits.

“About how high?” he leaned back to ask.  “High enough so the hum won’t be noticed on the ground?  Or do you want to fly lower?”