“I want him to get the machine away all right!” Carl answered.
“You’re an obstinate little rascal!” replied the man. “Here, Bob,” he added, turning to one of the others, “take this kid down to the camp and keep him there until I return.”
It was at this point that the men came chasing down the slope and Jimmie got away in the machine. Carl saw the aeroplane gliding over the camp with a great deal of satisfaction. He had been forced into one of the tents near the great fire, but could see the airship distinctly through the opening in front. Directly the man he had talked with on the summit entered the tent and sat down by the boy’s side.
“My name is Frank Harris,” he said abruptly, “what’s yours?”
“Carl Nichols,” the boy replied, with a grin which brought a smile to the other’s face. “What do you want to know that for?”
“Where are you from?” was the next question.
“The Big Puddle,” replied Carl.
“Meaning New York?”
“Sure,” answered Carl, “there’s only one big puddle in the world.”
“What became of the flying machine you boys were chasing the other night?” asked Harris after a moment’s reflection.