They went back to the car and Dick drove slowly on along Bonnet Trail. For perhaps a mile nothing favorable appeared, then his quick eye discerned the almost obliterated signs of where a path had once wound among the rocks up the steep slope. Drawing the car in to the side of the road, they stepped out and started their climb.
The path was rough and winding. Once or twice they lost it, but, after a little searching, struck it again farther up. The general direction it took was southeast, and Dick noticed with satisfaction that it seemed to lead with more or less directness, toward the heights surrounding the stone house. On the side of the mountains was a fair amount of vegetation—small pine trees and some underbrush. Presently, emerging upon a wide, fairly level spot surrounded by the higher reaches of mountain, they stopped stock-still in astonishment.
Quite near them was a small cabin, ruined and decayed. It had evidently been long deserted, and what its former use had been it was impossible to determine.
It was not upon the cabin, however, that their eyes were fixed in gaping amazement. It was a question whether they even saw it at first, so engrossed were they in the intricate mass of rods and metal, burnished copper and great, wide-spreading planes which lay on the ground near them, stretched out like an enormous, uncouth bird at rest.
“By George!” the Texan exclaimed. “It’s the flying machine, or I’ll eat my hat!”
“It certainly looks like it,” Dick returned with much satisfaction.
Then a strange voice sounded from the cabin, and the two Yale men whirled around instantly in surprise.
“Guessed right the first crack, gents. It sure is a flying machine.”