The crowd stared at the leader. Hike walked up and cried, “What is the matter?” Turning to the other moonshiners, he cried, “Help me. Your leader has been overcome by bedingulus bubulus.” They looked with suspicious wonder at him. But a boy who could run a thing like this “flyin’ machine,” and could use such long words must know something about it; and this sudden disease was certainly mysterious. They helped the paralyzed leader into the tetrahedral. Their rifles were laid aside, and they were much impressed at the manner in which Hike and Poodle stirred strange liquids in a cup and poured the mixture down the paralyzed leader’s throat.... If they had known that the mixture was of lubricating oil and liquid wing-sheathing (for repairs), they would not have been so respectful. While apparently working over the leader, Hike suddenly started the engine, and before the mountaineers could more than reach their rifles, the great tetrahedral had rushed down the slope, and was off, sailing through the air, carrying away the insensible leader. The moonshiners began to fire. Bullets, shot true, pierced the planes. Hike was protected by the motor, but Poodle, behind him, suddenly squeaked, as a .44-40 bullet struck his left shoulder, tore through; and the shoulder smarted as though a terrible red-hot iron had been bored into it. Hike had not heard him, did not know he was struck. Turning his back, Poodle pulled off his coat, and wrapped a handkerchief about the shoulder, using his teeth and right hand. The wound was not deep, though it was bleeding, and Poodle was glad that he had not been “killt entirely.” He pulled on his coat again, and tried to look as though he had not been hurt at all, watching the stupefied leader, still lying motionless on the freight-platform. Hike took the _Hustle_ over the next range of mountains, turned her somewhat northward, through a broad valley where the air-currents were safe, and beckoned to Poodle. “Here—take her through this valley. About time for Mr. Man to wake up, and there’ll be a fight. Be ready to switch the motor off when I kick you in the back. (No, I won’t kick hard!) Then take her on as long a glide as you can—keep her up for quite a while.” Poodle felt the sting of his arm, and the sickening sensation of loss of blood, too much to make one of his customary answers. He took the driver’s seat, keeping the injured shoulder away from Hike. Though it seemed as though he was wrenching his injured left arm out, every time he moved it, he forced himself to handle the levers and keep the _Hustle_ at ninety miles an hour. Hike climbed back to where the leader lay. The man was just stirring, opening his eyes dully. Hike covered him with the revolver of the _Hustle’s_ warlike crew, and peacefully waited.