“Ben, Ben, wake up!”
“What is the matter—what has happened?”
“The very worst—the Davis quarters is on fire and the Flyer is burning up.”
Ben bounded from the mattress on which he lay. He did not have to grope to find his clothes. A great glare shone into the little shed which he and Bob had occupied since the Dart had arrived on the field. It was some distance from the Davis place, and had a canvas extension which housed the Woodville machine.
Bob was getting into his clothes, uttering excited disjointed sentences, meanwhile keeping his eyes fixed on the center of the fiery glare.
“It is certainly in the direction of the Davis quarters,” said Ben hurriedly, “but it may not be his place.”
“But it is. Can’t you see—the exact location, and two men rushing by shouted that it was.”
Fleet-footed and breathless, the two youths dashed across the patch of sward between their new quarters and the blazing pile. Half the distance accomplished, their worst fears were verified.
“It’s the Flyer,” panted Bob.
The roaring flames and excited shouts kept up a wild uproar about a vivid midnight picture. There was no water supply on the field. Before the Blairville fire department could be summoned the aerodrome would be in ashes. The only thing that helpers could do was to get long poles and pull the blazing canvas off the shelter tent away from the frame extension of the Davis living quarters.