"Aber, I didn't come, der Grasshobber bring me--" expostulated
Schmidt, "I vould much rather have been somevere else. I don't like
pork except mit sauerkraut."

"Well, you've scared my prize sow out of a year's growth, smashed two
rails of my pig-pen and brought a lot of folks, who ought to be at
home instead of fooling around a lot of crazy flyers, traipsing all
over my young turnips. Now, the question is-how much do you owe me?"

"How much do I owe you?" spluttered the German. "Ach, ve are quits, I
dink. I spoil your pig-pen, but your pig-pen spoil my suit and your
sow scare me oud of TWO years' growth."

"Now, don't get funny. Fork over fifty dollars or you go to the
constable."

Old Schmidt's face was a study. Finally, however, he produced a fat
wallet, and peeling off two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, he handed
them over with a sigh.

"Ach, you leedle Grasshobber, fifty dollars for your trip, and then
you don't fly excepd in mit der hogs," he exclaimed, shaking his fist
at the inanimate wreck of his craft.

A loud report of a gun brought the crowd's attention from this scene,
which they had watched from a respectful distance, back to the
aviation grounds.

It was the warning gun.