"It is less than half a mile to the hangars," the young aviator explained. "When we get there we can find an automobile to take you into town."
"It was when my launch struck a rock that I hurt my arm," the man explained.
"Were you on board alone?" asked the curious Hiram.
"Yes. I was driving ahead full speed, to get ashore out of the fog. I heard your machine, and was afraid I'd get run into. My launch ran into a reef with terrific force. I was thrown against it bulkhead, arm sprained or broken, nearly stunned, and then into the water."
"But the launch, Mister?" questioned the interested Hiram anxiously.
"Smashed. I don't know if I could locate it again in the fog. I couldn't use my hurt arm, and I fired my revolver, yelled, and gave up when your machine came along."
"Where did you come from, Mister?" pressed the persistent Hiram.
"Why—well, I came from up north. Own a launch. Had some business this way, and got well on my way till the craft struck."
Dave noticed as the man spoke that it was in a hesitating, evasive way. He seemed anxious to change the conversation, for he said:
"You are taking me to the Columbus aero field?"