CHAPTER III

The Wounded Aviator

The man's words died off into silence, and the black sea of unconsciousness again surged up to meet him.

"Can it be that he's dead?" asked Rooster Long in an agitated voice, as he and his companions stared down upon the white, set face of the pilot.

"Chafe his hands and wrists," directed Garry, and he himself set the example.

There in the pouring rain, themselves aching because of their bruises, the boys worked over the stranger until they were finally rewarded by signs of returning consciousness. Ted, having regained some of his own strength, now joined his companions in doing what they could for the aviator.

The man opened his eyes and a glimmer of understanding came into them. He tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan.

"Who are you?" he asked the boys.

"We were in the hut when your airplane landed on it," Nick Danter replied. "There isn't much left now of hut or airplane either," he added.

The aviator pressed a hand to his aching head.

"Was any one badly hurt?" he asked.

"Only yourself, except for a few bruises we got," replied Garry. "You certainly got the worst of it."

The stranger nodded and smiled with an air of relief.

"I'm lucky to be alive at all after that nose dive," he said, his face clouding as he looked toward the wrecked plane.

"How did it happen?" asked Rooster eagerly.

"If you will prop me up against that tree--thanks, that's much better. Why," turning to Rooster, "I hardly know how it happened myself, young fellow. I had been having engine trouble for some time, then two of the wire struts broke. That's about all I remember just now."

"You flew over here just a little while ago, didn't you? Isn't yours a mail plane?" asked Ted.

The aviator nodded.

"Yes, to both questions," he replied. "I turned back finally, intending to land at the airdrome over in Wimbledon and overhaul the engine. Then the storm caught me, there was too much strain on the gear, some of the wires gave way, and--here I am. Sorry I had to involve you in my misfortunes, though," he added, looking more closely at the boys. "Are you sure you're not badly hurt?"

"We're all here and can speak for ourselves," replied Garry. "We're none the worse except for bruises. Do you feel better now?" he asked anxiously, as the spasm of pain crossed the face of the aviator.

"The trees broke my fall. I guess I'm all right except my legs. One of them hurts pretty badly. If you will help me get up--"

The boys sprang to him. Garry and Bill between them helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily upon his young assistants, and a groan forced its way between his clenched teeth.

"My left leg is useless, I'm afraid," he said. "I can't bear my weight upon it."

"We'll have to get a car to take you into town," said Garry. "I'll go to the nearest farmhouse and telephone for a doctor."

"Wait a minute," called the aviator, as Garry turned away. "My boy is staying with friends not far from here. If you will call up the house of these people, my son will come for me with his car."

"Good!" replied Garry. "And now what's the number?"

"Milford 7085. Ask for Cal Yates. I'm Ross Yates," he added, with a faint smile, as the boys gently lowered him to the ground again, "World War aviator, at your service."

Rooster went with Garry, the two plodding through the driving rain to the nearest house, which was fully half a mile away. There they got permission to use the phone, called the number given by the aviator, and were lucky enough to find Cal Yates in.

The latter was frankly alarmed, even when Garry assured him that there did not seem to be anything serious the matter with his father.

"Tell dad I'll step on the gas and get there in breakneck time," said young Yates. "Thank you for calling me. See you later. S'long."

The receiver slammed up on the hook. Garry grinned at Rooster.

"Cal Yates is on his way. A speed boy, or I miss my guess," he hazarded.

"He can't be too speedy, either for his father's sake or ours," returned Rooster.

Cal Yates justified Garry's opinion of his speediness by appearing at the scene of the accident in an incredibly short time after receiving the telephone message.

He arrived in a low-slung racing car, painted a light blue and adorned with a gold stripe. The seat and steering wheel were so low that the driver had fairly to lie on his back as he guided the car along.

Despite the gaudiness of the car and the boy's own air of sophistication, Cal seemed to be a likable young fellow and the boys took to him at once.

He brought his car to a sudden standstill as the boys hailed him from the side of the road. He wriggled clear of the imprisoning steering wheel and approached them eagerly.

"I say, dad isn't badly hurt, is he?" he asked with great anxiety. "You weren't trying just to let me down easy?"

"Not a bit of it," Garry assured him. "Come along and see for yourself."

Cal Yates followed, and they led him to the spot where his father lay. The latter was much stronger now and greeted his son jovially.

"Ahoy there, shipmate!" he called. "The old ship ran afoul of a rock, but the captain's far from being a dead one yet. Don't look so stirred up, son," as he saw tears mist the lad's eyes. "Except for something the matter with my left leg, I'm as good as ever."

"Say, Pater, but you gave me a scare!" The young fellow knelt beside his father, feeling him over to see that no bones were broken. "What ever made you do a nose dive, anyway? Didn't know you went in for such things.

"Dad was an ace in the World War, you know," Cal went on, turning to the boys, "and what he did to the enemy was a sin and a shame! Shot down about thirty planes--didn't you, Pater?--to say nothing of those that fell in the enemy's lines. As a matter of fact," he added with a quizzical smile, "dad won the war, though he's so modest he doesn't want to tell people about it."

Mr. Yates laughed, inadvertently moved his leg and groaned. Instantly his son was all penitent concern.

"Here I go, blabbing my fool head off when I ought to have you in the car by this time. Where do we go from here, Dad? To the doctor's? There's a good one near where I'm staying."

"There's a fine hospital in Lenox, if you want to take him there," suggested Garry.

"Thanks. But I guess I'd better go right to the house where Cal's staying," replied the aviator. "They're relatives of mine, and I can have the doctor see me there. I imagine it wouldn't do any harm for you boys to have the doctor look you over, too."

"Oh, we're all right," Bill Sherwood hastened to assure him.

"A good night's rest, and we'll be as fine as silk to-morrow morning," added Nick.

Up to this time Cal Yates had appeared to have eyes only for his father. Now he regarded the boys with interest.

"Were you in the big smash-up too?" he asked.

For answer the boys led him to the plane atop the ruined hut, and told him briefly what had happened.

"Wriggling snakes! It's a wonder you weren't all squashed to a jelly," cried Cal. "You came within an ace of going into kingdom come, I'll tell the world!"

Although the boy was eager to get his father away and under the doctor's care, Mr. Yates insisted that they should give him some description of the injuries to the plane. They looked over it carefully.

"How about it?" called Mr. Yates. "Does it seem as though there were any use in salvaging it? Or is it ready for the junk heap?"

"Of course it's pretty badly battered, but it looks to me as though it were worth repairing," stated Garry.

"Sure thing, Dad," said Cal Yates airily. "With a new body, a couple of wings and a patch or two on the engine, the old boat ought to be almost as good as ever. And the mail bags are safe, all right. But you're the one to be salvaged first. Hold hard, and we'll have you in the car in a jiffy."

So saying, he and Bill Sherwood crossed hands to form a seat, and the other boys helped the injured man into this improvised litter.

But the journey to the road and the car was a slow and painful one. When finally Mr. Yates, pale-faced and grim-lipped, was placed in the seat beside his son, the latter turned to the boys.

"Cram yourselves on the old bus some way," he said. "The place I'm staying is between here and the town, and I can give you a lift that far, anyway. I'll have to drive slowly on account of poor dad, so there won't be any danger of your getting jolted off. All ready? All right. Let's go!"

With the boys on the running boards, Cal started the motor of his flashy car, swung it in the right direction, and drove carefully along the road toward town.

On the way he kept up a running fire of light chatter, more, as the boys thought, to distract his father's attention from the pain he suffered than from a desire for conversation.

"Had a sort of smash-up myself this morning," he volunteered. "A guy with sandy hair and the meanest eyes I ever saw ran into me full tilt and then had the nerve to say I did it. His name I found out is Sandy Podder. Know him?"

"Do we?" chuckled Ted. "I'll say we do!"

"Well, I was going along nice and easy--no more than fifty-five or sixty, I should say," resumed Cal, "when this guy came dashing around a curve of the road right at me. We both swerved and turned quickly so that only our mudguards were bent. But it was a close call, and I have it in for that Podder chap, believe me!"

The Lenox boys exchanged glances.

"Any time you need any help, let us know," Garry suggested, and Cal Yates laughed.

"You're on," he said. "I only wish I'd had you along this morning for witnesses. I could prove that Podder was on the wrong side of the road anyway and make him pay for a new mudguard. As it is," gloomily, "it's only my word against his, and that wouldn't go far in a court of law."

By this time they had almost reached the house that was Cal's destination. Rooster suddenly tapped Cal on the shoulder and pointed toward a car that had just turned a corner and was sweeping down toward them.

"Speaking of skunks," he grinned, "there's Sandy Podder now!"