"We were in the hut when your airplane landed on it," Nick Danter replied. "There isn't much left now of hut or airplane either," he added. The aviator pressed a hand to his aching head. "Was any one badly hurt?" he asked. "Only yourself, except for a few bruises we got," replied Garry. "You certainly got the worst of it." The stranger nodded and smiled with an air of relief. "I'm lucky to be alive at all after that nose dive," he said, his face clouding as he looked toward the wrecked plane. "How did it happen?" asked Rooster eagerly. "If you will prop me up against that tree--thanks, that's much better. Why," turning to Rooster, "I hardly know how it happened myself, young fellow. I had been having engine trouble for some time, then two of the wire struts broke. That's about all I remember just now." "You flew over here just a little while ago, didn't you? Isn't yours a mail plane?" asked Ted. The aviator nodded. "Yes, to both questions," he replied. "I turned back finally, intending to land at the airdrome over in Wimbledon and overhaul the engine. Then the storm caught me, there was too much strain on the gear, some of the wires gave way, and--here I am. Sorry I had to involve you in my misfortunes, though," he added, looking more closely at the boys. "Are you sure you're not badly hurt?" "We're all here and can speak for ourselves," replied Garry. "We're none the worse except for bruises. Do you feel better now?" he asked anxiously, as the spasm of pain crossed the face of the aviator. "The trees broke my fall. I guess I'm all right except my legs. One of them hurts pretty badly. If you will help me get up--" The boys sprang to him. Garry and Bill between them helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily upon his young assistants, and a groan forced its way between his clenched teeth. "My left leg is useless, I'm afraid," he said. "I can't bear my weight upon it." "We'll have to get a car to take you into town," said Garry. "I'll go to the nearest farmhouse and telephone for a doctor." "Wait a minute," called the aviator, as Garry turned away. "My boy is staying with friends not far from here. If you will call up the house of these people, my son will come for me with his car." "Good!" replied Garry. "And now what's the number?" "Milford 7085. Ask for Cal Yates. I'm Ross Yates," he added, with a faint smile, as the boys gently lowered him to the ground again, "World War aviator, at your service." Rooster went with Garry, the two plodding through the driving rain to the nearest house, which was fully half a mile away. There they got permission to use the phone, called the number given by the aviator, and were lucky enough to find Cal Yates in. The latter was frankly alarmed, even when Garry assured him that there did not seem to be anything serious the matter with his father. "Tell dad I'll step on the gas and get there in breakneck time," said young Yates. "Thank you for calling me. See you later. S'long."