It stayed level; apparently it could adjust its legs, like the fabulous hillside snee.
When Hank came to the ice flow we had crossed on the way up to the notch, he stopped it and gave me a fresh ice pack. Apparently it did not object to ice in itself, but simply refused to go through holes, for when we started up again, it crossed the little glacier, slowly and cautiously, but steadily.
We headed on toward camp. “This,” Hank announced happily, “is the greatest cross-country, rough-terrain vehicle ever built. I wish I knew what makes it go. If I had the patent on this thing, I’d be rich.”
“It’s yours; you found it.”
“It doesn’t really belong to me.”
“Hank,” I answered, “you don’t really think the owner is going to come back looking for it, do you?”
He got a very odd look. “No, I don’t, Bill. Say, Bill, uh, how long ago do you think this thing was put in there?”
“I wouldn’t even want to guess.”
There was only one tent at the camp site. As we came up to it, somebody came out and waited for us. It was Sergei.
“Where have you guys been?” he asked. “And where in Kingdom Come did you steal that?
“And what is it?” he added.
We did our best to bring him up to date, and presently he did the same for us. They had searched for us as long as they could, then Paul had been forced to move back to camp number one to keep the date with the Jitterbug. He had left Sergei behind to fetch us when we showed up. “He left a note for you,” Sergei added, digging it out
It read:
“Dear Pen Pals,
“I am sorry to go off and leave you crazy galoots but you know the schedule as well as I do. I would stay behind myself to herd you home, but your pal Sergei insists that it is his privilege. Every time I try to reason with him he crawls further back into his hole, bares his teeth, and growls.
“As soon as you get this, get your chubby little legs to moving in the direction of camp number one. Run, do not walk. We’ll hold the Jitterbug, but you know how dear old Aunt Hattie feels about keeping her schedule. She isn’t going to like it if you are late.
“When I see you, I intend to beat your ears down around your shoulders.
“Good luck,
“P. du M.
“P.S. to Doctor Slop: I took care of your accordion.”
When we had finished reading it Sergei said, “I want to hear more about what you found—about eight times more. But not now; we’ve got to tear over to camp number one. Hank, you think Bill can’t walk it?”
I answered for myself, an emphatic “no.” The excitement was wearing off and I was feeling worse again.
“Hmm—Hank, do you think that mobile junk yard will carry us over there?”
“I think it will carry us any place.” Hank patted it.
“How fast? The Jitterbug has already grounded.”
“Are you sure?” asked Hank.
“I saw its trail in the sky at least three hours ago.”
“Let’s get going!”
I don’t remember much about the trip. They stopped once in the pass, and packed me with ice again. The next thing I knew I was awakened by hearing Sergei shout, “There’s the Jitterbug! I can see it.”
“Jitterbug, here we come,” answered Hank. I sat up and looked, too.
We were coming down the slope, not five miles from it, when flame burst from its tail and it climbed for the sky.
Hank groaned. I lay back down and closed my eyes.
I woke up again when the contraption stopped. Paul was there, hands on his hips, staring at us. “About time you birds got home,” he announced. “But where did you find that?”
“Paul,” Hank said urgently, “Bill is very sick.”
“Oh, oh!” Paul swung up and into the walker and made no more questions then. A moment later he had my belly bared and was shoving a thumb into that spot between the belly button and the hip bone. “Does that hurt?” he asked.