Smith explained, asking in his turn the name of the place where he had alighted.  Farmer Barton was a good patriot, and the knowledge that the intruder was a navy-man sensibly moderated his truculence.

“Why, this be Firtop Farm, half-a-mile from Mottisfont station, if you know where that is,” he said.  “Daze me if you hain’t been and cut into my hayrick!” He sniffed.  “And what’s this horrible smell?  I do believe you’ve spoilt the whole lot with your stinking oil.”  He was getting angry again.

“Well, I’ve said I’ll pay for it,” said Smith impatiently.  “Get your men, farmer, or I shan’t be home to-night.  I suppose I can get some petrol somewhere about here?”

“You might, or you might not, in the village; I can’t say.  My men are abed and asleep, long ago.  You’ll have to bide till morning.”

“Oh well, if I must, I must.  Roddy, just have a look at the machine and see that she’s safe for the night.  I’ll run down to the station and send a wire home, and then get beds in the village.”

“Better be sharp, then,” said the farmer.  “You can’t send no wire after eight, and it’s pretty near that now.  I’ll show you the way.”

Smith hurried to the station and despatched his telegram; then, learning that there was a train due at 8.2 from Andover, he decided to wait a few minutes and get an evening paper.  An aviation meeting had just been held at Tours, and he was anxious to see how the English competitors had fared.  The train was only a few minutes late.  Smith asked the guard whether he had brought any papers, and to his vexation learnt that, there being no bookstall at Mottisfont, there were none for that station.  However, the guard himself had bought a paper before leaving Waterloo.

“Take it and welcome, sir,” he said.  “I’ve done with it.  You’re Lieutenant Smith, if I’m not mistaken.  Seen your portrait in the papers,’ sir.”

“Thanks, guard,” said Smith, pressing a coin into his reluctant hand.

“Englishmen doing well in France, sir.  Hope to see you a prize-winner one of these days.  Goodnight!”

The train rumbled off, and Smith scanned the columns by the light of a platform lamp.  He read the report of the meeting in which he was interested:  a Frenchman had made a new record in altitude; an Englishman had won a fine race, coming in first of ten competitors; a terrible accident had befallen a well-known airman at the moment of descending.  The most interesting piece of news was that a Frenchman had maintained for three hours an average speed of a hundred and twenty miles.

“I’m only just in time,” said Smith to himself.  He was folding the paper when his eye was caught by a heading that recalled the days of his boyhood, when he had revelled in stories of savages, pirates, and the hundred and one themes that fascinate the ingenuous mind.

Shipwreckedamong cannibals.

Terrible situation of famous scientist.