ter it became apparent that
they had seen the sudden descent of the _Cobweb_, for the aeroplane was
seen to dip and glide lower, much as a mousing hawk can be seen to do.

"Hard luck," murmured the young naval officer, as Mortlake, who had
clambered out of the machine, stamped and fumed by its side. Inwardly
Lieut. Bradbury was thinking how stubborn men invariably meet with some
mishap or accident.

"Yes, beastly hard luck," agreed Mortlake readily. "I see a farm-house
over there, though, the other side of those trees. I guess I can get a
bucket and some water over there. Once I've cooled those cylinders off,
we'll be all right."

"How long will that take, do you think?" inquired the officer, pulling out
his watch and a time-table.

"Not more than half an hour. It shouldn't take that."

"That means I miss my train. If we don't get into Sandy Beach by eleven
o'clock, I can't possibly make it. And there's not another from there for
two hours. That would make me late for my appointment at Mineola."

Mortlake's face fell. Here was a bit of hard luck with a vengeance. It
might cost him a place in the contests.

"We can make up time, once we get under way," he said tentatively.

"That isn't it. I daren't risk it. I wonder if I can get an automobile or
some sort of a conveyance about here."

"Not a chance. I know this neighborhood. It is very sparsely settled."

A sudden whir above them caused them both to look up. It was the _Golden
Butterfly_, swooping and hovering above the disabled _Cobweb_.

"Had an accident?" shouted down Roy.

"What do you think? You can see we're not flying, can't you?" bellowed
Mortlake, his face crimson with anger and mortification.

"Can we do anything to help you?" came from Peggy, ignoring the fellow's
insulting tones.

"No!"

"Yes!"

The first monosyllable came from Mortlake. The second from Lieut.
Bradbury.

"If you don't mind accepting a passenger, I should be glad of a lift to
Sandy Beach. I've got to make a train," explained the young officer.

In five minutes the _Golden Butterfly_ was on the sward beside the
crippled _Cobweb_. Mortlake's face was black as night. He fulminated
maledictions on the young aviators who had appeared at--for him--such an
inopportune moment.

"Can I help you fix the machine?" asked Roy pleasantly. "There's nothing
serious the matter, is there?"

"Not a thing," asserted Mortlake. "It's all the fault of the men who made
the carburetor. They