His first thought was for the aeroplane. Raising himself, and dashing
the clinging hay wisps from his face, he shouted--

"Is she smashed, Roddy?"

"Ah, no, mister," came the answering cry. "She stick fast, and me
also."

Smith crawled to the edge of the rick and dropped to the ground. Two
or three dogs were barking furiously somewhere in the neighbourhood. A
few steps brought him to the aeroplane, lying in a slanting position
between the hayrick and a fence, over which it projected. Rodier had
clung to his seat, and had suffered nothing worse than a jolting.

"This is a pretty mess," said Smith despairingly, "one end stuck fast
in the hayrick, the other sticking over the fence: they'll have to
pull it down before we can get her out. Get off, you brute!" he
exclaimed, as a dog came yapping at his legs.

"Seize him, Pompey: seize him, good dog!" cried a rough voice.

"Call him off, or I'll break his head," cried Smith in exasperation.

"You will, will you?" roared the farmer. "I'll teach you to come
breaking into my yard: I'll have the law of you."

"Don't be absurd, man," replied Smith, fending off the dog as well as
he could. "Don't you see I've had an accident?"