Once more they taxied down the denuded corn field, turned and ascended buoyantly, boring into the hot breeze that rose as the shadows lengthened into late afternoon.  They circled, climbing steadily.  Then pop—­pop-pop-pop—­pop, the motor began to stutter.  The earth lifted to them as if pulled up by a string.  They could see more huts and tiny figures running like disturbed ants.  The field where they had spent most of the day broadened beneath them, like a brown blanket spread to receive them.

They came down with a jolt that bent the axle of the landing gear, sent them bounding into the air, and all but wrecked them.  They went ducking and wobbling up to the willow fringe and swung off just in time to escape plunging into a deep little creek.  As they stopped they heard a great crackling of brush and glimpsed many forms fleeing wildly, but they were too engrossed in their own trouble to be greatly impressed.  One wing had barely escaped damage with the tilting of the machine, and the near-catastrophe chilled them both with the memory of a certain other forced landing which had not ended so harmlessly.  They climbed down soberly and inspected the landing gear.

“Well, that can be fixed,” Bland stated in the tone of one who is grateful that worse has not befallen.  “I’ll say it was a close shave, though, bo.”

“I’ll try and straighten the axle, while you see what ails that cussed motor.  Good golly!  We’ll be here all night at this rate.  And if we keep on hopping over this field like a lame crow, we’ll be plumb outa gas.  For a mechanic that can make a motor, Bland, you sure ain’t making much of a showing!”

“Aw, f’r cat’s sake, lay off the crabbing!  Gimme the tools and I’ll rip your damn motor apart so quick it’ll make your head swim!  I’ll say I’ve tied into a sweet mess of trouble when I tied up with you.  I mighta knowed I’d git the worst of it.  Look at what I was handed the other time I throwed in with you!  Got stuck in a cave and had to live like a darned animal, and double-crossed when I’d helped you outa the hole you was in.  And now you wish this job on to me and begin to lay the blame on me when this mess of junk fails to act like a motor.  Come off down here with a monkey wrench and a can opener and expect me to rebuild a motor that oughta been junked ten year ago!”

“Aw, shut up!” snapped Johnny, and stalked off to find something they could eat.  “Monkey wrench and can opener are about as many tools as you know how to use—­unless maybe it’s a corkscrew.”

He went on, muttering because he had ever let himself be imposed upon by Bland Halliday.  Muttering too because he had started out that morning to do stunts, instead of trying to find a buyer for the machine as he had first planned.  Now the prospect of getting back to Tucson that night looked very remote indeed.  And the winning of a fortune doing exhibition work looked even more remote.  “Unless we take up a collection amongst the Injuns cached out in the brush,” he grinned ruefully to himself.  “We’re liable to take up a collection all right, if we have to sleep here—­but it won’t be money.”