"Gasline fouled. I think I can fix it in a few minutes, Mr Weener."
"Not down among those savages. We wouldnt have a chance."
"We wouldnt have a chance over the Channel, sir. I'd rather risk my neck among fellow humans than in the water."
"Maybe you would, but I wouldnt. Straighten out the plane and go on."
"Sorry, Mr Weener; I'm going to have to land here."
And in spite of my protests he did so. I was instantly proved right, for before we came to a stop we were surrounded by an assortment of filthy and emaciated men and women bearing scythes and pitchforks, shouting, yelling and gesticulating, making in fact, such an uproar that no comprehension was possible. However, there was no misunderstanding their brusque motions ordering us away from the plane or the threatening noises which reinforced the command. No sooner had we reluctantly complied than they proceeded methodically to puncture the tires and smash the propellers.
My horror at this marooning among the degenerates was not lessened by their ugly and illdisposed looks and I feared they would not be content with smashing the plane, but would take out their animus against those who had not sunk into their own bestial state by destroying us as well. Since I do not speak much French, I could only say to the man nearest me, a sinister fellow in a blue smock with a brown stockingcap on his head, "C'est un disgrace, ça; je demandez le pourquoi."
He looked at me for a baffled moment before calling, "Jean, Jean!"
Jean was even more illfavored, having a scar across his mouth which gave him an artificial harelip. However, he spoke English of a kind. "Your airship has been confiscated, citizen."
"What the devil do you mean? That plane is my personal property."