As the Comet settled downward over the surface of the river, the man in the skiff redoubled his efforts with the oars. He seemed to be seized with an unreasoning panic.
"Hello, below there!" shouted Matt.
To slow the aëroplane too much would mean a drop into the water, for a certain rate of flight was necessary in order to keep the machine aloft.
As Matt called, he passed on beyond the boat, described a turn over the middle of the river, and came back toward the eastern bank.
The man made no response.
"Are you Newt Prebbles?" yelled Matt.
The other shouted something, in an angry tone, the exact import of which the young motorist could not catch. Taking his right hand from the oar, the man jerked a revolver from his belt.
"Don't shoot!" cried Matt. "I'm a friend of yours."
The last word was snipped off in the incisive crack of the weapon. The bit of lead zipped past Matt's head and bored a hole through the upper wing of the air ship.