In and out among the mechanism he fumbled, turned, twisted,
adjusted, until from a distance came the sound of hoofs -- galloping
hoofs.
"Good Heavens! The Boches! They're coming? What will I do?"
As he asked this question his eyes, wildly distorted, roamed round the
open space now lighted up for a hundred yards or more by the burning
airplane.
Just then he happened to look upward, and all at once saw the cause of
his present trouble. One of the longer limbs of an old, battle-scarred
poplar, partly broken and hanging lower than usual, had caught in one
of the top wings, thus halting him as he was about to rise.
"What a fool I am!" This while wrenching loose the ragged wing-end.
"Let me get out of this somehow!"
Already he was again in his seat, turning on the power, swiftly yet
surely manipulating the controls. The high-powered scout and battle
plane rose with a rush and almost immediately began to climb, spiraling
in long acute sweeps and turns.
"There they come!" breathed Lafe, venturing a last look around down
below.
A field battery of horse artillery was emerging from the torn timber
into the open space, which the burning plane had already showed Blaine
to be a beet or turnip field of considerable extent. The constant
roaring of artillery and a continuous red glow on the western horizon
made known the cause of the uproar that had been growing for some time
back.
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