“What’s the matter?”
“Call me a tenderfoot if I didn’t think it was Pain’s fireworks.”
The exclamations and questions came in a perfect volley.
“One at a time, one at a time,” laughed Frank; “we’re not phonographs.”
“You scared the life out of us,” interjected Billy Barnes.
“Well, you needn’t worry about the Golden Eagle; with the exception of the time we are losing, she is as sound as a bell, but the dirigible over yonder is in some distress. We had better hop in the auto and drive in that direction.”
Luckily the road went in the direction in which the dirigible had last been seen, and a short distance down the main track the boys found a field path leading off into an enclosure in which they could see men scurrying round the big dirigible with lanterns in their hands. They seemed much perturbed, and the boys could hear their loud expressions of disgust at their sudden stoppage.
“Dirigible ahoy!” hailed Frank, as the auto rolled up; “what’s the trouble?”
“Oh, hello—are you the Boy Aviators?” said a pleasant-faced man, whom the boys recognized as James McArthur, the driver and owner of the craft. “It’s mighty good of you to come to our aid. Yes, we’ve cracked a propeller blade, and are in a bad fix. You see, we lost a lot of gas in dropping, and that means we’ll have to lighten the ship.”
“I hope it doesn’t put you out of the race,” sympathized Frank; “it’s too bad such an accident should have occurred.”