“Maybe he’ll give us a little more than those manufacturers offer,” said Sam, hopefully.

The letter was answered, and the young aviator came on the next day, going first to inspect the remains of the Dartaway and then coming up to the college.

“Pretty well smashed,” said he, to the Rover boys.  “About all that is good is the motor and fittings.”

“But that engine is a dandy,” said Tom.

“How much do you want for the outfit as it stands?”

“I don’t know,” answered Dick.  “The biplane cost us about three thousand dollars.”

“Yes, but she’s a complete wreck.  All I can use is the engine—­ and maybe a few other things.”

“Well, make an offer,” put in Tom.

“I might pay three hundred dollars.”

“Make it double that and the machine is yours,” returned Dick.

No, it wouldn’t be worth six hundred dollars to me,” answered the young aviator.

A discussion lasting the best part of half an hour ensued.  The aviator went up to four hundred dollars and then to four hundred and fifty.  Finally, Dick said he would accept five hundred dollars cash; and the bargain was concluded at that figure.  The money was paid over, and the Rover boys gave the purchaser a bill of sale, and he departed without delay, stating he wished to make arrangements for shipping the wrecked biplane away.

“Not so bad, after all,” declared Dick, when the brothers were alone.

“It’s very good,” put in Tom.

“That’s the end of the Dartaway,” came from Sam, mournfully.  “Well, we had some pretty good times in her while she lasted.”

CHAPTER VIII

 A box of candy

“Say, I’ve got to have some fun or bust!”

It was Tom who uttered the words.  For over a week everything had run along smoothly at Brill College.  The boys had settled down to their studies.  They had sent letters home, and to the girls, and had received several communications in return.  They had been congratulated on their escape from the wrecking of the biplane, and Dora had written to Dick urging him to give up flying.

“I’m going to give it up for a while, at least,” Dick had answered.  During those days the search had been kept up for Josiah Crabtree, but so far nothing had been heard of the fugitive from justice.  That the man had left the neighborhood was quite probable.

“What sort of fun do you want, Tom?” asked Sam, throwing down the book he had been studying.

“Oh, anything,” was the answer.  “I feel as if I was getting musty and rusty, and I’ve simply got to do something.  Wish there was a hazing on, or something like that,” and the fun-loving Rover gazed moodily out of the window.

“Now don’t you get yourself into trouble, Tom,” warned Dick.  “Better get at that theme you’ve got to write on ’Educational Institutions of the Revolutionary Period’.”