"There's an army post not far from here," spoke Wilson. "If you could make a trip there—"
"We'd have to land again, to summon aid, and this is the last stop we are allowed in the race," said Mr. Vardon. "I don't see how—"
"Your wireless!" interrupted Lieutenant McBride. "We can send out a call to the army post by that—if they have a wireless station."
"They have," answered Lieutenant Wilson, as his fellow officer looked at him. "If you will summon aid from there, we will be well taken care of."
"Good!" cried Dick. "That problem is solved."
The wireless apparatus was brought out, the small balloon inflated, and it carried aloft the aerials. Then, while the call for aid was being sent out, Lieutenants Wilson and Larson were made as comfortable as possible, and some of Uncle Ezra's scratches and bruises were looked after.
"No more airships for me," he said bitterly, though with a chastened spirit. "I'm going to stick to farming, and my woolen mill. Just think of it—over eleven thousand dollars in that pile of—junk!" and he shook his head sadly at the wreck of his airship.
"We'll take you on to San Francisco with us, if you like," said Dick. "You can see us win the race—if we can," he added.
"You still have an excellent chance," said Lieutenant McBride. "My advice to you would be to remain here a few days to rest up and make sure all your machinery is in good order. The time will not count against you. By that time the injured ones will be cared for. Then you can go on again and complete the course. You have enough oil and gasolene, have you not?"
"We could ask that some be brought from the army post, if we have not," Dick answered. "I think we will adopt that plan.''