Two things helped to end this abusive debate. One was the action of Sam and Orkney, each of whom shook his captive, not too gently. The other was the appearance of adult investigators of the disaster to the Saracen. A runabout came to a stop in the road, and two men, leaving the car, crossed to the group.
“Whew! This looks like the end of a real joy ride!” said the leader of the pair. “Smashed, and smashed for fair! But what kind of a——Say, Zorn!” he turned to his companion, a stout, middle-aged man. “By the great horn spoon, but here’s what’s left of a make of machine that beats my time!”
Mr. Zorn ran his eye over the tangle of planes and machinery.
“For a guess it’s a flyer of some sort. But where’s the aeronaut?”
Poke, released by Sam, stepped forward. “I—well, I was running it, or trying to run it, sir. And—and—well, things miscued, somehow.”
“But did it fly?”
“Yes, sir, it did—once. And it moved a whole lot.”
From the other side of the wreck Lon contributed his bit: “Speakin’ o’ movin’, this affair made me think of a canal boat—’twas so different.”
Mr. Zorn smiled. “Well, there’s evidence enough here that it didn’t precisely crawl through the bushes. But nobody’s killed, I infer.”
“Not permanently,” chuckled Lon. “Still, clothes suffered—yes, clothes and feelin’s. Pretty solid bump at the last, you see.”