"Did he? Well, I guess! The day before he got killed he was in the air as much as two hours, twistin' an' turnin' an' floppin' ev'ry which way, jest like a big chicken hawk. The' wasn't much wind, that time, an' people say that's how he was able to keep right side up. The day he dropped, the wind was purty middlin' strong from the west."
"How did the accident happen?"
"That's more'n anybody knows. Traquair was skimmin' over the tops o' the trees, an' a big crowd was down on the ground lookin' at him; then, all to oncet the' was a snap, like somethin' had busted. The wind grabbed holt o' them canvas wings an' slammed it plumb over, the hull bizness droppin' so quick we hadn't much more'n time to git out o' the way."
By this time Matt and the boy had reached a cleared space among the trees. In the middle of it was a level, grassless stretch, almost as hard as a board floor.
"There, mister," said the boy, pointing, "is where Traquair used to start. He'd git his bicycle wheels to whirlin' at one end o' that tennis ground, an' when he reached t'other end o' it he was in the air. He was comin' back to the startin' place when he dropped. Here's the place."
The boy stepped off to the left and pointed to a spot where the earth was grewsomely gouged and torn.
"Traquair was crazy," observed the boy, as Matt stepped toward the bruised turf, and stood there reflectively. "Ev'rybody says his flyin' machine was a fool killer."
"Traquair was a great man, my lad," answered Matt, "and a martyr to science. He gave up his life trying to help the human race conquer the air. Don't call him crazy."
"Gee, mister," scoffed the boy, "he'd better have helped his folks 'stead o' givin' so much time to the human race. Mrs. Traquair had to take in washin' to keep the fambly in grub."
Matt kicked up a twisted bolt.