"You're lucky you don't have to pay for a funeral," was the lieutenant's grim answer. "You must look to your seat strap better than that."
"Well, I didn't know the blamed thing was going to cut up like this!" returned the crabbed old man. "That's no way to land."
"I know it. But I couldn't help it," was the answer. "I'm glad you're not hurt. But I think we have attracted some attention. Here comes someone."
A man was running through the orchard.
"It's Hank Crittenden, and he hates me like poison!" murmured Uncle Ezra, as he arose from the pile of dirt, and tried to get some of it off his clothes.
"Hi, there! What's this mean?" demanded Hank, as he rushed up, clutching a stout club. "What d'ye mean, comin' down in my orchard, and bustin' up my best Baldwin tree? What d'ye mean?"
"It was an accident—purely an accident," said Lieutenant Larson, suavely. "It could not be helped."
"Accident? You done it on puppose, that's what you did!" cried Hank, glaring at Uncle Ezra. "You done it on puppose, and I'll sue ye for damages, that's what I'll do! That Baldwin apple tree was one of the best in my orchard."
"Well, we didn't mean to do it," declared Mr. Larabee. "And if you sue we can prove in court it was an accident. So you'll have your trouble for your pains."
"I will, hey? Well, I'll show you, Ezra Larabee. I'll teach you to come around here bustin' my things up with your old airship! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a man of your age, trying to fly like a hen or rooster."