“Why,” said Dave to himself in a startled way, “it’s Mr. Worthington.”
Dave had been able to peer through the crowd. He made out the monoplane, safe and trim, at rest. Some men were lifting the operator out of it. Dave recognized him as one of the professional aviators of the meet.
“Here, young fellow, don’t crowd so,” remonstrated a gaping spectator, as Dave tried to press through the throng.
“I know that man,” explained Dave. “Please let me get to him.”
Dave cleared the crowd and hurried over to where they had placed Mr. Worthington on the grass. The latter looked white and exhausted. He held a handkerchief to his lips, and Dave noticed that it was red stained.
“Oh, Mr. Worthington,” spoke Dave, kneeling at the side of the prostrate man. “Don’t you know me?”
“Why, Dashaway!” replied the aviator, trying to smile. “You here?”
“Are you injured?”
“Hemorrhage, Doctor told me my lungs couldn’t stand the upper currents. Too strong for me. Fainted away. Caught myself just in time.”
“Get a doctor,” spoke Dave to the men.