At Frank’s breathless approach Phil scarcely looked up. Much less did he ask for food. The trousers of each boy were encased in black mud to the knees. Phil had discarded his shoes and having fallen on the oozy ground, he had an individual coating of mud.
“Gimme a hand here,” he ordered. “If we can get this thing to the road, we’ll get home for breakfast.”
“Isn’t that landing wheel bent?” asked Frank.
“I’ve fixed her,” grunted Phil. “Get busy.”
The small addition of Frank’s energy seemed all that was needed, and the Loon was slowly forced toward the edge of the field.
“How you goin’ to get her over the fence?” panted Frank.
“It’s a stone fence,” was Phil’s answer. “The Loon stands four feet above the ground. All we got to do is to make two openin’s through the fence—it ain’t four feet high—one for each wheel and run her through. We can lift the tail over.”
At twenty-five minutes past five o’clock two bedraggled boys were returning the last of the rocks to close up the openings in the fence. The Loon, also bespattered, stood in the middle of the deserted highway.
Phil took his turn at the wheel, and lowering the plane, started on half speed with Frank crouching at his side. As the monoplane gave no signs of weakness the pilot advanced his engine to full speed. There was a bound or two on the smooth roadway and the Loon began to lift.