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 did a bungling bit of work, and the cylinders have
overheated."
"Can we leave a message for you at your shops, or would you like a lift
home with us?" asked Roy, who felt a kind of pity for the angry and
stranded man.
"You can't do anything for me except leave me alone," snapped out
Mortlake; "you cubs are altogether too inquisitive. You're too nosy."
"But not to the extent of making sketches and notes, Mr. Mortlake?"
inquired Peggy sweetly--"cattily," she said it was, afterward.
Mortlake started and paled. Then, without vouchsafing a reply, he strode
off in the direction of the farm house to get the water he needed.
"Now, Mr. Bradbury," said Roy, extending a hand.
The young officer leaped nimbly into the chassis, and presently a buzzing
whir told that the faithful _Golden Butterfly_ was taking the air once
more.
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