“Oh, you’ve got a head for business, Dick—­ I can see that,” said the youngest Rover, admiringly.

“I hope so, Sam—­ for I think I’ll need it soon.”

“You mean for helping Dad?”

“Yes,”

“It’s too bad he has these weak spells, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  What he needs, I think, is a good, long rest.”

The others went off in the touring auto, and Dick and Sam made themselves at home on the flat car.  Soon a freight engine backed up, the car was attached; and off they started, in company with the section boss and two track laborers, in the direction of Ashton.

As the Rovers could readily see, the Dartaway was a complete wreck, beyond the possibility of being repaired.  But the motor looked to be in good order, and the stays and turn-buckles would, of course, be worth something.

When Ashton was reached Sam and Dick found that the automobile and its party had gotten there ahead of them.

“I’ve found a place where we can store the biplane—­ or what’s left of it,” said Tom.  “In that barn,” and he pointed to a structure directly beside the tracks.

“Good enough!” cried Dick.  “That will save the trouble and expense of hauling it any distance.”

The flat car was stopped in front of the barn, and after some trouble the remains of the biplane were transferred to the structure.  Then the section boss brought out a receipt which Dick signed.

“Next time I move a flying machine I’ll make sure that orders are O. K.,” he remarked, grimly.

“It might save a lot of trouble,” answered Tom, dryly.

“Tell me—­ didn’t you act on orders from that lawyer, Fogg?” questioned Dick, curiously.

“I did—­ if you want to know.”

“I thought so.  He’s too sharp for his own good.”

“You’re right—­ and maybe he’ll catch it for this,” answered Jimmy Budley; and then he and his men rode away on the flat car, leaving our friends to themselves.

“Well, now you’ve got the wreckage, what are you going to do with it?” questioned Stanley.

“Offer it to the folks who build flying machines,” answered Dick.  “I’ll write the letters to-night.”

With the biplane off their minds, the Rovers rejoined their friends in the automobile, and took a run through the country for fifty miles or more.  They stopped at a country hotel, and there Dick treated to cake, ice cream and other refreshments.

The letters to the flying machine manufacturers brought various replies.  Several did not care to buy the wreckage at all, while others offered a ridiculously low price.

“This doesn’t look encouraging,” was Dick’s comment.  “Boys, I guess we’ll have to pocket our share of the loss.”

The next day, however, came another letter, one from a young aviator of Worcester.  He wrote that he had heard that they had the wreckage for sale and if it was still on the market he would come and look at it.