Triumph was there, but it was not so joyously sure of itself.

Bland glided, cocking an anxious ear to listen while he slowed the motor.

It was there, the stutter--more pronounced than before; and once that pulsing power begins to flag a little and grow uncertain, there is but one thing to do.
They glided another ten miles or so before Bland picked a spot that looked safe for landing.

They had one ill-chosen landing still vivid in their memory, and Johnny carried a long, white scar along the side of his head and a tenderness of the scalp to assist him in remembering.
Wherefore they came down circumspectly in a flat little field beside a flat little stream, with a huddle of flat dwellings drawn back shyly behind a thin group of willows.

They came down gently, bouncing toward the willows as though they meant to drive up to the very doorway of the nearest hut.