“It is, indeed,” said Mr. McArthur. “We were doing so well, too.”
“If you will let us I think we can help you out,” volunteered Frank.
“If you only could,” exclaimed the other eagerly.
“We’ve got a spare propeller in the auto. If you like, I can let you have it till you reach Pittsburg or some town where you can get a new one fitted.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of depriving you.”
“Not at all. I don’t think there is a chance of our having any accident to our propellers. You are welcome to it.”
Mr. McArthur, with profuse expressions of thanks, thereupon gratefully accepted the propeller which the boys unpacked from its place in the big tonneau of their car. It was not long before it was bolted in place, and the dirigible ready to start. The new propeller was a trifle smaller than the old one, but the driver of the dirigible was confident he could get good results with it. Before he started, however, he had to drop three of his men, with instructions to them to walk to the nearest town and then take the train for Pittsburg, at which city he could get fresh supplies of hydrogen gas. In the meantime McArthur and one man were to handle the dirigible, and almost every bit of ballast she carried was sacrificed.
Amid a perfect tornado of thanks, which they would have been glad to dodge, the boys hurried back to the Golden Eagle, and were soon once more in the air. Daybreak found them flying about nine hundred feet above a hilly, sparsely settled country.
As the light grew brighter, which it did slowly, with a promise of rain, they gazed eagerly about them in every direction. Far behind them they could see the tiny speck of the dirigible, laboring along with her small propeller, but of the Slade machine there was not a sign.
“Well, he has got a start of us this time, for fair,” exclaimed Harry, as the boys looked blankly at each other, following the result of their scrutiny.