"Yes, sir—cylinder misfiring?"
"We shall have to come down. What's that ahead?"
"Looks like another railway line, sir; and there is a town there, too—I can make out houses with the glasses."
"That must be Chard. I shall come down when I see a good field."
The monoplane began to drop. Fields and hedges were plainly visible.
"Just put your glasses on to that big, green patch away to the right."
"Racecourse, sir. First-class landing by the looks of it."
The aeroplane banked steeply as Jim swung round to the right and commenced to descend. He stopped the engine and the machine dived down steeply, only to be checked as it neared the ground by a sudden rush of the propeller again, which stopped when it had given the necessary momentum. Now the wheels touched the turf as lightly as a bird, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it stopped nearly opposite the grand stand. Already people were running towards the racecourse from every direction, and Jim realised that the chance of his servant getting away unreported would be small.
"Look here, Jackson, you must go by the South Western to Exeter, then change to the Great Western and book to Millbay station, Plymouth. When I order you to meet me at Exeter, remember that is only a 'blind' for any reporters who may see you go, so you must stick to the story that you are meeting me there with more petrol. Understand?"
"All right, sir."