They looked at the invention with dismay, both silent for a time.
“Of course,” said Steve, struggling to restrain his disappointment, “we couldn’t expect it to be perfect at the first trial.”
“No,” agreed Orissa, faintly.
“But it ought to fly, you know.”
“Being a flying machine, it ought to,” she said. “Can you mend it, Steve?”
“To be sure; but it will take me a little time. To-morrow morning we will try again.”
With grave faces they wheeled it back into the garden and the boy replaced the fence. Then back to the hangar, where Steve put the Kane Aircraft in its old place and drew the curtains—much as one does at a funeral.
“I’m sure to discover what’s wrong,” he told Orissa, regaining courage as they walked toward the house. “And, if I’ve made a blunder, this is the time to rectify it. To-morrow it will be sure to fly. Have faith in me, Ris.”
“I have,” she replied simply. “I’ll go in and get breakfast now.”