Leaning against the side of the opening, Whipple rested his elbows on the roof and took careful aim at Motor Matt with his revolver. Others were flocking toward the roof on the stairway below Whipple, but he blocked the way.
Matt and Helen were in the car, and it seemed certain that Whipple's shot was to be effective, he was taking so much care to get a good aim.
But the shot was not fired, principally because Ferral became suddenly active.
Seizing a loosened brick from the top of the chimney, the young sailor hurled it with all his force. Whipple was struck in the shoulder, and the impact of the missile hurled him from his foothold and down upon those under him. As he vanished from the skylight, a clamor of startled voices came back through the opening, accompanied by a clatter of men falling down the stairs.
"That's something I owe you, Dick," remarked Matt, settling into his chair among the levers.
"You don't owe me anything, old ship," answered Ferral. "I'll have to do something like that several times before you and I come on anything like an easy bow-line. But take care of the ship, or she'll founder."
In order to grab the brick from the chimney, and throw it, Ferral, had to let go of the rope by means of which he was holding the Hawk against the wind. With the rope loosened, the uncontrolled air ship drifted off the roof and was bobbing around, some fifty feet above ground, the sport of the breeze. There was imminent danger of her coming to grief, either against the cupola of the stable, or in the tops of the trees.
Swiftly Matt got the motor to going, and as the Hawk took the push of the propeller, she once more became manageable. This was in the nick of time, too, for as the craft glided upward the bottom of the car rustled through the branches of one of the trees.
"Hurrah!" cheered Harris, from below. "Well done, Motor Matt!"
"Bully boy!" applauded Sanders.