"Okay, Murph." They dialed out. He lay in the hay a long time, making his plans. In the morning the women were delighted with him. He bubbled about relics and Indian bones and pranced and paced and kept running to the window to look for Mr. Fobey's copter. When it settled and the port opened he whooped aboard, the first one on, and scrambled into the baggage hold. He slammed the little door and slid a screwdriver between the knob and the door frame. Up forward, he heard the others boarding. I gotta work fast, he told himself. Somebody began to pound on the little door. "Petey's in there!" piped a voice. "He won't let anybody else in!" He could tell it was old blabbermouth Sally Doolittle, that all the kids called a nosey little squirt. "I'm gonna watch through the glass deck!" he yelled. "It's my party, and I'm gonna watch alone." Crouching in the small hold, he began to work at the catches of the unloading hatch. He wasn't sure it opened from the inside--but it had to. He had to drop through before the copter left the ground. The motors started. He heard his mother's voice. "That's not like you, Pete. What are you doing in there? Open this door!" "I'm trying," he called. "The lock's busted." He got the last catch loose and strained up on the hatch. As it opened the copter lifted. He stared downward. They were high and getting higher. He'd better drop quick. Murph wouldn't have been scared he told himself, and plummeted through the opening. He hit on his toes, let his legs buckle, and rolled into a hedge. His feet felt as though bombs had gone off under them. He lay half stunned; waiting for the copter to get well off, then tried to stand up. He was able to. He tried to walk, and was able to. He began to run across the fields, skirting trees and bushes. If the baggage door held shut and they didn't see him above, he had plenty of time to get to Murph and into the Hester. * * * * * He was halfway there when the copter veered and came humming back. It came dropping toward him and he knew he was spotted. He ran stumbling into a stretch of trees and woods, altered course and dropped behind a big rock at the edge of the trees. There were leaves drifted against it and he burrowed under them. Panting, sweaty and itching, with aching legs, he watched and listened as the copter landed. The port opened and they poured out. "He doesn't know what he's doing," said his mother. "We're going to find him." Mr. Fobey drew back a little, his rubbery face pink-creased and nervous. "In there--in all the brush and snakes and swamp?" She set her jaw and touched his arm. "I'm counting on you, Mr. Fobey." They entered the woods, the children ranging ahead like shrill, bloodhungry little pups, poking and peeping and rustling. Pete tried to lie like a stone beneath the leaves.