Dick's uncle lay at some little distance from the broken craft.
"He's alive," said his nephew, feeling of the old man's heart.
"He's still breathing."
Lieutenant Wilson, as the name of the army officer on the Larabee
was learned later to be, seemed quite badly injured. He was tangled
up in the wreckage, and it took some work to extricate him. Larson
was the most severely hurt. He was tenderly placed to one side.
Fortunately the wreck had not caught fire.
"Let's see if we can revive them," suggested Lieutenant McBride,
nodding toward Uncle Ezra and his fellow soldiers. "Then we will
consider what is best to do."
Simple restoratives were carried aboard Dick's airship, and these
were given to Uncle Ezra, who revived first. He opened his eyes
and sat up.
"Where--where am I?" he stammered. "Did I win the race?"
"No, Uncle Ezra, I'm sorry to say you didn't," answered Dick,
gently. "There was an accident, and your airship is smashed."
The old man slowly looked over to the crumpled mass of planes and
machinery, and then, slowly and painfully, for he was much bruised,
he pulled a note-book from his pocket. Leafing over the pages he
announced:
"Busted to smithereens, and she cost me exactly eleven thousand five
hundred and thirty-three dollars and nineteen cents! Oh, what a lot
of money!" And the expression on his face was so painful that Dick
felt inclined to laugh, solemn as the occasion was. But he
restrained himself.
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