“There’s a puncture in the port radiator. Hole right through it.”
“How do you account for that?” asked Tom, quickly.
“Looks like a bullet hole,” said the machinist, while the Yellow Gypsies, their number now greatly increased, crowded closer in on the disabled ship.
“Must have come from one of the bullets fired by the Turks,” said Tom. “Probably it caused a slow leak, and that’s why it didn’t develop until just now.”
“But what about these chaps?” asked Ned. “They evidently mean business!”
There could be little doubt of this, for, with savage cries, many of the yellow-faced men were swarming over the craft. Their complexions were of a peculiar hue of yellow, somewhat like Chinese, yet they did not have the cast of features of the Celestials.
“They’ve got their knives out!” cried Ned. “They’ll slit the wing fabric, Tom, and then we shall be in bad.”
“They won’t slit my wing fabric!” the young inventor said, with a chuckle. “It’s aluminum. They can’t cut it, but they might bend it. Get off there, you yellow beggars!” he yelled at the Gypsies, but they did not seem at all impressed and only laughed sneeringly.
“Let me try to talk to them,” suggested Peltok.
“Do you speak their lingo?” asked Hartman.