When he again revived, the sun was high, and there was a murmur of life from far off in the direction of Camp Traquair. He lay on his back, his face upward, and he could see the high bluffs of the lake, over toward the post. They were covered with people.
What was the matter? he asked himself. How had he come there? Why was he bound, and why was the cloth tied between his jaws?
In a flash, his bewildered mind remembered all that had happened.
He heard again the rasp of the file biting into steel; he recalled his suspicions, his attempt to cry out to the soldiers, the blow that had felled him; then, too, the moment of consciousness in the woods came back to him, bringing the raucous voice and ill-omened face of Siwash Charley.
The aëroplane had been tampered with by Motor Matt's enemies! And this was Tuesday, the day of the trials!
If Matt attempted to fly in the June Bug, there would be an accident, and he would be killed!
Like a demon, the boy fought to free himself. He must get to Camp Traquair and tell what he had seen and heard. If he did not, the fiendish work of Siwash Charley would spell destruction for Motor Matt and the joss of the clouds.
What passed in that little heathen's mind will never be known. He was a Chinaman, and the workings of a Chinaman's mind, while following the same lines as the workings of a Caucasian's, are yet never quite the same.
Ping's fight with the cords that bound his wrists and ankles brought pain and drew blood, and his tongue, from a frenzied gnawing of the gag, was sore and swollen; but he could not free himself. Siwash Charley and his mates had performed their work only too well.
In sheer desperation, Ping attempted to roll in the direction of Camp Traquair.