He got perhaps twenty feet over the sharp stones and rough tree-roots, and then his mind faded into an oblivion—quite as much the result of his own horrifying thoughts as of his physical pain and weakness.
He awoke to hear cheers, and to piece together, once more, his battered notions of the trend of events.
As he lay staring dumbly upward, he saw the cloud joss winging across the woods like a huge bird, high, very high in the air.
Motor Matt was there, guiding the joss, and making it do his will; and beside Motor Matt was Lieutenant Cameron. Only a moment did the aëroplane show itself to Ping's restricted vision, and then the tops of the trees shut it from his sight.
Far away somewhere the helpless boy could hear wild cheering.
What good were choice prayers, painted on rice paper, and burned to the heathen deities?
This is what Ping's bruised and quivering mind asked itself.
By every means in his power, Ping had tried to avert disaster.
One prayer had been for a calm day. This seemed to have been answered, for there was hardly a breath stirring the tree tops.