We dived and then climbed, but the confounded thing kept sputtering.

Archie passed back a slip of paper on which he had scribbled: 'Engine conked.

Must land at Micklegill.

Very sorry.' So we dropped to a lower elevation where we could see clearly the houses and roads and the long swelling ridges of a moorland country.

I could never have found my way about, but Archie's practised eye knew every landmark.