"That's what I call a low-down, scurvy trick."
"Blamed if it ain't," panted Jimmy, who had used up all his wind in his effort to keep on the heels of the flying Cat.
The latter now made a still more strenuous spurt, but, despite the utmost exertion of both the lads, they struggled up, breathless and panting, to Turner's side, only to see the aircraft a hundred feet above their reach and mounting every second.
A wave of the hand from the triumphant passenger added to their cup of bitterness, as did also a playful grin with which the Tarheel greeted them.
"Grab 'em, boys, grab 'em," Turner joked grimly. "How 'bout some salt to sprinkle on the bird's tail?"
"What's this mean?" demanded Cat as soon as he could get his wind, keeping his eye glued fast on the ever-mounting flyer.
Along with a choice spice of kidding from the solemn-looking Turner, the reason for the abrupt departure came out bit by bit.
"I don't see what he took Legs for," snarled Jimmy. "Might have given us a show."
