Now that the Comet had both a shifting weight and wing manipulations to keep her steady, she was not steady at all—one balance seeming to counteract the other. In spite of the terrific dipping and plunging, however, Matt succeeded in getting to the shore.
The moment the man on the rope found himself over solid ground, he let go his hold and dropped five or six feet to the bank.
Instantly the Comet came fairly well under control again, and would have been entirely so but for the weight of the rope.
Matt selected a cleared spot in which to alight, shut off the power, and glided to the earth easily and safely.
Stepping out of the aëroplane, he hurried to the spot where the rescued man was lying.
"How are you?" asked Matt, kneeling beside him.
"I'm about fagged," he answered. "There's a cabin, about a rod up the creek on this side. Go there and get the bottle of whisky you'll find on the table. A pull at that bottle will put some ginger into me."
"You don't need that kind of ginger," replied Matt. "I'll help you to the cabin, and when we get there you can get into some dry clothes. That will do you more good than all the fire-water that ever came out of a still."
The man hoisted up on one elbow and peered at Matt with weak curiosity.
"That's your brand, is it?" he asked, with as much contempt as he was able to put into the words.