“Mr. Camp,” laughed Bud, approvingly, “if it wasn’t for gettin’ the aeroplane over the marsh and on the hill, I’d try it to-day. That’s a bird of a way.”
“Oh, I’m purty handy that away,” remarked the mill owner in a satisfied tone.
Mr. Camp and one of the men climbed into the boats to balance the long frame, while the other man and Bud, keeping within wading distance of the shore, began the task of pushing the boats the quarter of a mile or more to the dam. Before they reached the lower end of the pond, Josh could be seen making his way laboriously up the plank walk along the flume, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with the wood-encased can of gasoline.
It was nearly noon, and, by the time the aeroplane had been lifted from its floating foundation and deposited safely upon the clay dam or levee, the distant but welcome sound of Mr. Camp’s dinner bell could be heard.
“There don’t seem to be any risk in leaving it here,” suggested Bud. “There isn’t a living thing in sight except birds. And, anyway, I’ve got to get my clothes, to say nothing of that chicken potpie.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Josh doubtfully. “Mebbe I better stay. They been a telephonin’ ever’ where ’bout a lost flyin’ machine. Somebody called up the store in Little Town this mornin’ while I was there, astin’ ef any one had heerd o’ a lost flyin’ machine.”
Bud showed some alarm.
“Don’t be skeered, son,” exclaimed Mr. Camp. “Thet ain’t because they think it’s up this way. They probable been telephonin’ all over the county.”