There was only one thing to do to avoid injuring someone and that was to attempt to land at the further end of the field where there were some trees. This meant a risk of smashing the Golden Eagle or at least damaging her, but if loss of life was to be avoided it was the only course to pursue.
With a ripping, rending sound, as the twigs and branches grazed her, the big plane dropped to earth.
There was a sharp, snapping sound, as her landing wheels struck the ground. A branch had caught one of the rudder-guide wires and torn it out, breaking a pulley wire. Worse still, one of the wheels was badly damaged. But the crowd minded none of this. They rushed in and began handling the aeroplane, pulling wires and twisting wheels and levers, till the boys began to despair of ever getting their craft away from Remson intact.
All at once, however, a big red-faced man appeared and began angrily driving the people back. He was the owner of the field, it seemed, and was dressed like a farmer. When by dint of threatening them with the constable he had succeeded in getting the crowd to fall back to a respectful distance, he began to ply the boys with questions.
They were too busy examining the damage done to their craft to answer many of them, and the man doubtless thought them a very surly pair of youths.
In a few minutes the auto drove up and there was more excitement.
“What’s happened?” asked Billy, as soon as the three occupants of the car reached the boys’ side.
“A bit of bad luck,” said Frank, straightening up from his scrutiny of the damage.
“Let me look at it, boys,” said old Mr. Joyce, who had spent the whole trip over his beloved calculations.
He crawled in under the plane, and soon emerged again, shaking his head.