“Let’s pull her forward a bit,” suggested Phil. “Maybe she’s worn a rut here.”
The boys got out and pushed the ship forward a few yards. And before doing it they beat down the grass as well as they could into three paths for the wheels.
The Loon this time ran forward a few yards and then, one of the landing wheels sinking in softer ground the monoplane whirled in that direction almost at right angles, Frank stopping his engine just in time to prevent his right plane from turning plowshare.
“That’s the right idea,” insisted Frank, “only we didn’t go far enough. Let’s tramp down a longer road.”
This was done with considerable effort and another trial made after each irregularity had been smoothed to the best of the boys’ ability. The monoplane sprang forward but again it touched in the grass at the end of the improvised roadway and the strain on the plane truss became alarmingly apparent. Twice more the start was attempted on an enlarged runway, and each time the propellers were shut off just in time to prevent an accident. At half past six the two boys, hot and dusty, their shoes and clothing still wet and heavy from crawling on the dusty ground, stopped for rest in half despair.
“I got it,” exclaimed Phil suddenly.
“We’ve both got it where we can’t get it out,” answered Frank, rubbing his stiffened fingers.
“The camp ain’t far from here,” went on Phil. “We know that.”
“Somewhere over that hill,” answered Frank pointing to the western edge of the grass meadow.