His nephew was still wearing his flying-coat and helmet, which he had put on merely for the sake of warmth. The coat was rent in half a dozen places, while the left side of his face was red with blood welling from a cut on the forehead.
Peter's period of insensibility had been of short duration, Thrown clear of the wreckage after his impact with the instrument-board, he had got off with a nasty bruise on the forehead. The padded helmet had saved his skull from being fractured, but the blow had been sufficient to cause the blood to flow freely. His head was whirling, he felt horribly sick and as weak as a kitten, yet he could not repress a facetious remark upon seeing his relative so absorbed in his precious invention.
"We're here," continued Peter. "But where, goodness only knows. What's your damage, Uncle Brian? Wasn't it a jolly old crash? It reminds me of a song we used to yell in the gun-room of the old Baffin: 'She bumped as she'd never bumped before.'"
"And never will again," added Uncle Brian with emphasis. "What's to be done now?"
"Sleep till the morning," replied the practical Peter. "My head's buzzing like a top. There's a chunk of the old 'bus that will make quite a decent bunk. I vote we turn in."
Eight hours later Peter awoke to find the sun shining brightly. His headache had vanished and—good sign—he felt ravenously and healthily hungry.
Uncle Brian was still sleeping soundly. Peter let him sleep. It would give him an opportunity to take stock of the locality.
Throwing off his blankets and greatcoat, for the heat of the sun was oppressive, Peter emerged from his retreat and stood blinking in amazement in the dazzling light—sheer amazement at their marvellous escape.
The wrecked flying-boat was practically in the centre of a circular patch of sand and gravel about three-quarters of a mile in diameter. On all sides rose rugged mountains with precipitous faces in places rising sheer to a height of at least two thousand feet.
The plain was almost dead level and absolutely destitute of verdure. No sign of life was visible. The flying-boat had struck a snag in the form of a mass of rock about four feet in height and less than a couple of yards in circumference. Otherwise, the sandy waste was free from irregularities. It would have been an ideal landing-ground, for the sand was fairly hard; and it was certainly a case of sheer hard luck that the machine should have wrecked herself on the only dangerous bit of ground in the extensive circle.