“Two of them, Mr. Davis.”
“Get them both, and start up to the Dart quarters without a minute’s delay. Don’t keep your eye off the machine a single minute until I relieve you at daylight. If any skulker comes within ten feet of the place, pepper him. You, Ben Hardy, come along with me.”
The old aviator spoke like some commanding general. There was a sternness to his expression that was significant. As he entered the door of the quarters he cast a backward glance at the smouldering wreck of the Flyer and sighed. Then his face became set and grim.
“My lads here will attend to me, friends,” he spoke to the two men who had helped him.
“Can’t we be of some use to you, Mr. Davis?” inquired one of them.
“Why, yes, come to think of it. I wish one of you would tell Mr. Bridges I want to see him, the quicker the better.”
“He may be in bed, if the fire hasn’t routed him out.”
“Then wake him up—it’s very important.”
The men departed. The aviator planted himself in an armchair and gave his orders to Ben and Bob. Very soon they had the sleeves of his coat cut off at the elbow. Without a wince or a groan Mr. Davis directed them like a skilled surgeon. Liniment was applied to his burns, cotton and bandages set in place, and finally the old aviator sank back in real or affected comfort, with the words:
“That’s fine. It doesn’t bring back the Flyer, poor old friend, but it mends me up for the tussle.”