“It’s all gone up, tent and machine,” choked out Bob, as they came directly upon the scene.
“Yes, and—oh—Mr. Davis is hurt.”
Ben rushed up to the old aviator as he spoke. Two men were leading Mr. Davis from the smouldering ruins. The way they helped him hold his hands showed that he had met with some accident.
“Oh, Mr. Davis,” cried Ben, “what is it?”
The aviator turned a pale and troubled face on his young assistant.
“Yes, Ben!” he said, forcing a smile, “don’t get scared. Just a singe or two on the hands.”
Ben saw that the sleeves of the coat Mr. Davis wore hung in shriveled threads. His hands were seared and blistered.
“A little liniment will fix me up all right,” said the aviator with affected cheerfulness, as he noticed the deep concern on the face of Bob as well as that of Ben. “Keep your nerve, lads, you may need it to-morrow.”
His helper, as the man was called who had oiled and taken care of the Flyer, came up at that moment.
“Here, Jones,” called the aviator, halting. “Have you got a good revolver?”