own square and was
banqueted by the Mayor, although he had nearly run him down a few
hours earlier, and had ruined forever his reputation as a man of
dignified bearing. But the Mayor was not alone in his forced display
of unseemly haste. Many other townspeople, long past the nimbleness of
youth, rushed for shelter; and pride goeth before a collision with a
wayward aeroplane. Jackson said the sky rained hats, market baskets,
and wooden shoes for five minutes after his Bleriot had come to rest
on the steps of the _bureau de poste_. And no one was hurt.

Murphy's defective motor provided him with the names and addresses of
every possible and impossible _marraine_ in the town of Y----, near
which he was compelled to land. While waiting for the arrival of his
mechanician with a new supply of spark-plugs, he left his monoplane in
a field close by. A path to the place was worn by the feet of the
young women of the town, whose dearest wish appeared to be to have an
aviator as a _filleul_. They covered the wings of his _avion_ with
messages in pencil. The least pointed of these hints were, "Ecrivez le
plus tot possible"; and, "Je voudrais bien un filleul americain, tres
gentil, comme vous."

Matthews' biplane crashed through the roof of a camp bakery. If he had
practiced this unusual _atterrissage_ a thousand times he could not
have done it so neatly as at the first attempt. He followed the motor
through to the kitchen and finally hung suspended a few feet from the
ceiling. The army bread-bakers stared up at him with faces as white as
fear and flour could make them. The commandant of the camp rushed in.
He asked, "What have you done with the corpse?" The bread-bakers
pointed to Matthews, who apologized for his bad choice of
landing-ground. He was hardly scratched.

Mac lost his way in the clouds and landed near a small village for
gasoline and information. The information he had easily, but gasoline
was scarce. After laborious search through several neighboring
villages he found a supply and had it carried to the field where his
machine was waiting. Some farmer lads agreed to hold on to the tail
while Mac started the engine. At the first roar of the rotary motor
they all let loose. The Bleriot pushed Mac contemptuously aside,
lifted its tail and rushed away. He followed it over a level tract of
country miles in extent, and found it at last in a ditch, nose down,
tail in air, like a duck hunting bugs in the mud. This story los