something in your possession we want; that tube of reports. Fork ’em over pronto.”

“We haven’t a tube of any kind,” Jim answered.

“No? Search ’em boys.” This was done roughly and thoroughly but not a tube did they find and they scowled when they finally had to admit defeat.

“Go through the plane,” the tall man proposed. At this the pilot and two others raced to the machine, and in a moment it was being subjected to an overhauling that promised to leave it a wreck.

“Can’t find the thing,” the pilot shouted.

“No?” The little man drew his gun. “Now, you know what we mean. Where is that tube?” He pressed the weapon to Jim’s belt and his rat-like eyes blazed with anger. “Where is it?”

“We did have a tube,” Bob answered.

“I know you did and you still have.”

“You are just as much mistaken as if you’d burned your shirt. We had a report tube we were taking home to Jim’s father, but you’re all wet—too late—”

“What do you mean?”

“It has already been stolen,” Bob told him.

“Stolen! Who the—” The men were crowding around now and every face was ugly.

“By a friend of yours, I reckon,” Jim drawled.

“Friend, hey—” The man whirled on the members of his gang.

“Turn that gat, you fool—”

“Who took it?” the little man thundered.

“Gordon, fellow named Arthur Gordon,” answered Bob.

“Gordon, who the blazes is Gordon?” demanded one of the gang.

“I know him,” the tall man answered.

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