“Hard luck,” murmured the young naval officer, as Mortlake, who had clambered out of the machine, stamped and fumed by its side.  Inwardly Lieut.  Bradbury was thinking how stubborn men invariably meet with some mishap or accident.

“Yes, beastly hard luck,” agreed Mortlake readily.  “I see a farm-house over there, though, the other side of those trees.  I guess I can get a bucket and some water over there.  Once I’ve cooled those cylinders off, we’ll be all right.”

“How long will that take, do you think?” inquired the officer, pulling out his watch and a time-table.

“Not more than half an hour.  It shouldn’t take that.”

“That means I miss my train.  If we don’t get into Sandy Beach by eleven o’clock, I can’t possibly make it.  And there’s not another from there for two hours.  That would make me late for my appointment at Mineola.”

Mortlake’s face fell.  Here was a bit of hard luck with a vengeance.  It might cost him a place in the contests.

“We can make up time, once we get under way,” he said tentatively.

“That isn’t it.  I daren’t risk it.  I wonder if I can get an automobile or some sort of a conveyance about here.”

“Not a chance.  I know this neighborhood.  It is very sparsely settled.”

A sudden whir above them caused them both to look up.  It was the Golden Butterfly, swooping and hovering above the disabled Cobweb.

“Had an accident?” shouted down Roy.

“What do you think?  You can see we’re not flying, can’t you?” bellowed Mortlake, his face crimson with anger and mortification.

“Can we do anything to help you?” came from Peggy, ignoring the fellow’s insulting tones.

“No!”

“Yes!”

The first monosyllable came from Mortlake.  The second from Lieut.  Bradbury.

“If you don’t mind accepting a passenger, I should be glad of a lift to Sandy Beach.  I’ve got to make a train,” explained the young officer.

In five minutes the Golden Butterfly was on the sward beside the crippled Cobweb.  Mortlake’s face was black as night.  He fulminated maledictions on the young aviators who had appeared at—­for him—­such an inopportune moment.

“Can I help you fix the machine?” asked Roy pleasantly.  “There’s nothing serious the matter, is there?”

“Not a thing,” asserted Mortlake.  “It’s all the fault of the men who made the carburetor.  They did a bungling bit of work, and the cylinders have overheated.”

“Can we leave a message for you at your shops, or would you like a lift home with us?” asked Roy, who felt a kind of pity for the angry and stranded man.

“You can’t do anything for me except leave me alone,” snapped out Mortlake; “you cubs are altogether too inquisitive.  You’re too nosy.”

“But not to the extent of making sketches and notes, Mr. Mortlake?” inquired Peggy sweetly—­“cattily,” she said it was, afterward.