Within a mile of the first slope the pilot knew that the jig was up with the motors. Over his shoulder, he called to the observer:
"This is no Zeppelin with a gas range, and it's the turf for us now."
The motors clanked and ceased to hum. The aëroplane took the downshoot and skated to a standstill on the slippery soil.
"Stranded but not wrecked."
Roque accepted the inevitable with fairly good grace for him.
"What's the next move?"
Billy was curious to know what the chief had in stock for the emergency.
The boy was not immediately enlightened, for Roque evidently proposed to reach speech through meditation. The secret agent with his long coat-tail dusted the powdery snow from a flat stone and calmly took his ease behind the glowing tip of a long cigar.
"He must have wireless communication with a tobacco shop," thought Billy, "for he never fails to find one of those black rolls when he reaches for it."
The young pilot, muffled in a blanket, stuck to his seat in the biplane. It was his fortune, however, to see the first rift in their clouded luck.