the limits of the Indian reservation, but to no purpose. They heard no throbbing motor, no whizz of great propellers, and saw no white, canvas wings against the dark background of the sky, as Tom's craft made her way noiselessly along.
"I guess we've frightened them away," said Mr. Whitford dubiously, as it came near morning, and nothing suspicious had been seen or heard. They're holding back their goods, Tom until they think they can take us unawares. Then they'll rush a big shipment over."
"Then's the time we must catch them," declared the young inventor. "We may as well go back now."
"And not a picture!" exclaimed Mr. Period tragically. "Well, be sure to get good ones when you do make a capture, Tom."
"I will," promised the young inventor. Then, with a last sweep along the border he turned the nose of his craft toward Logansville. He had almost reached the place, and was flying rather low over the country roads, when Ned called:
"Hark! I hear something!"
The unmistakable noise of a gasolene motor in operation could be distinguished.
"There they are!" cried Mr. Period.
"Bless my honeysuckle vine!" gasped Mr. Damon.
