He waited, haggard and ashamed and desperate and hopeless. But Bell was staring at the motor of the airplane. "Crankcase punctured," he said dully. "Aluminum. The bullet went right through. We can't fly five miles. And Ribiera knows we're here--or will." CHAPTER IX There was the sound of weeping in the house, the gusty and hopeless weeping of women. Bell had been walking around and around the plane, staring at it with his hands clenched. Paula watched him. "I am thinking," she said in an attempt at courage, "that you said I must not despair without your permission. But--" "Hush!" said Bell impatiently. He stared at the engine. "I'd give a lot for a car. Bolts.... How many hours have we?" "Four," said Paula drearily. "Perhaps five. You have smashed the radio in the house?" Bell nodded impatiently. He had smashed the radio, a marvelously compact and foolproof outfit, arbitrarily tuned to a fixed short wave-length. It was almost as simple to operate as a telephone. There had been no opposition to the destruction. Paula's cousin had disabled their plane and reported their presence. He was inside the house now, sick with shame--and yet he would do the same again. In one of the rooms of the house, behind strong bars, a man was kept who had been an object-lesson.... "Is there any machinery?" asked Bell desperately. "Any at all about the place?" Paula shook her head. "It may be that there is a pump." Bell went off savagely, hunting it. He came back and dived into the cockpit of the plane. He came out with a wrench, and his jaws set grimly. He worked desperately at the pump. He came back with two short, thick bolts. He crawled into the plane again, tearing out the fire wall impatiently, getting up under the motor. "We have one chance in five thousand," he said grimly from there, "of getting away from here to crash in the jungle. Personally, I prefer that to falling into Ribiera's hands. If your cousin or anybody else comes near us, out here, call me, and I'll be much obliged." * * * * * There was the sound of scraping, patient, desperate, wholly unpromising scraping. It seemed to go on for hours. "The wrench, please, Paula." She passed it to him. The bullet had entered the aluminum crankcase of the motor and pierced it through. By special providence it had not struck the crankshaft, and had partly penetrated the crankcase on the other side. Bell had cut it out, first of all. He had two holes in the crankcase, then, through which the cylinder oil had drained away. And of all pieces of machinery upon earth, an aircraft motor requires oil. Bell's scraping had been to change the punctured holes of the bullet into cone shaped bores. The aluminum alloy was harder than pure aluminum, of course, but he had managed it with a knife. Now he fitted the short bolts in the bores, forced the threads on them to cut their own grooves, and by main strength screwed them in to a fit. He tightened them.