“Scary Hen!” Zorn repeated, and laughed jeeringly. Nobody, however, paid any attention to him. Poke, closely observed by the pitying Hagle, inspected his scratched hands and rent garments. Lon made the circuit of the wrecked flying machine, uttering an exclamation now and then as he came upon fresh evidence of the completeness of its ruin. And while these things were doing, Sam and the rest of the club, panting from their long run in pursuit of the Saracen, came up.
Broken and hurried queries rained upon Poke, but resulted in slight increase in the general stock of knowledge.
“I don’t know what was the matter; I guess everything was,” he declared. “Nothing worked right. The controls wouldn’t control, and the rudder wouldn’t steer, and the safety things weren’t safe. So I——”
“Hold on there!” Step broke in. He strode up to Poke and shook a finger in his face. “Don’t you go to blaming the apparatus! It was you—you did it all!”
“Eh? I—I did it? Why, I——”
“Yes you did!” cried Step, hotly. “You ought to have known that none of the rigging was really ready, and the safety device was disconnected, and——”
“You didn’t tell me that, and you let me risk my life!” shouted Poke in a rage.
“How’d I know you’d gone crazy?”
“Me crazy!”
“Huh! You look it.”