"Help!" came the cry of the aviator. "Grab the rope—she's getting away. Catch hold, quickly!"
Several of the Crees flung themselves on the rope, and, hauling manfully, brought the big kite to the ground. It was tugging with the strength of several bulls, and it required all their strength to bring it to earth. It was quite a big affair, of weird construction, something along the lines of a box-kite, and Septimus Patch himself was seated in a light saddle in the centre of it.
"Patch!" exclaimed Jack Symonds in astonishment.
"That same, comrade! I fear I startled you somewhat—eh? But the machine would not behave."
His assistant, the boy who had been swinging on the rope in an endeavour to hold the kite down was discovered to be Fane, the shy New Zealander. Evidently he and Patch had struck up a friendship.
"Yes," he said, mopping his forehead, "I had my work cut out to keep her down—I've been dragged over a mile and a half of scrub. The blessed thing rises quicker than the price of eggs. Old Septimus nearly had a wetting—didn't you, Patchie, old boy?"
"It looked like it for quite a while," admitted the inventor modestly. "I must allow that I'd forgotten to provide for coming down again, once I'd got up. In the future, I'll have to have about twenty juniors hanging on to the rope. Or I might remedy that before the next ascent."
The Crees had gathered around the big kite, examining it with evident curiosity.
"I say," said one of them, "she must be pretty strong to lift you up like that."
"Well, she's not badly designed, comrade," said Patch, with lordly condescension. "This is Flying Fox III. Numbers I and II, I regret to state, would not fly. They absolutely refused. Why, I don't know. But they—"