“And I got a whiff of the coffee from the edge of the Devil’s Punch Bowl,” laughed Jack.
Then Jimmie caught sight of Ned’s disheveled appearance and began a critical examination of the tears in his garments and his wounds.
“You look,” the boy laughed, “like you’d been in a rough house at Coney Island. Where did you get it?”
Mr. Bosworth now came up, and, with all present, the story of the battle in the air was again told.
“And you left your gun and your searchlight and your coat up in the blue sky, did you?” demanded Jimmie.
“I certainly did,” replied Ned. “But you step over to the barrier and see what I brought back to represent them.”
Jimmie did as requested and soon came back into the firelight, dragging the dead eagle.
“That’s some bird!” he chuckled. “Say, Ned,” he went on in a moment. “I know where you can get all kinds of money for that. The Sioux Indians will give a dollar apiece for the feathers for their hair.”
“This bird goes to the Eagle Patrol, New York,” Ned declared.
“Good for you!” shouted Jimmie. “We’ll hang it up in the club room and give you a seat of honor directly under it.”