The Flying Boys in the Sky

“Being dat am de way things stand, hadn’t we better emigrate, Harv?”

CHAPTER XV

UNCLE TOMMY

Like a sensible young man, Harvey Hamilton had made a study of his itinerary before leaving home. Allowing himself a margin of several days, he expected to rejoin his friends at the end of a fortnight. If all went well he would do so earlier, while there was always the possibility that he might be absent still longer.

He knew that the little town nestling several miles to the left was Darmore. It was at the base of a spur of the Alleghanies toward which he had been working his way from the first. His wish was to pass beyond the thickly settled districts. Nothing palls sooner upon an aviator than the endless succession of towns, villages, cultivated sections and monotonous scenery. While there must be a certain sameness in the expanses of forest there was always the chance of adventure which a normal youngster craves as he does his meals when hungry.

Harvey had meditated going to Darmore to renew his supply of fuel, but recalled that after passing the mountain ridge, another and larger town lay some miles away in the broad forest valley. He had enough gasoline to carry him thither and he decided to make the trip. He followed his general rule of not rising far above the altitude necessary to clear the tallest trees and elevations. Thus, viewed far from the rear, the aeroplane suggested that it was climbing the mountain side by resting upon and sailing over the billowy sea of foliage.

The summit proper was no more than two or three hundred yards in height, and having cleared it the young aviator mounted higher than before in order to secure a comprehensive view of the surrounding country and learn how correct his impressions were.

He was vastly pleased. Almost in a direct line and not far away lay Chesterton, a town of several thousand population and in the midst of a thriving section of the country. He traced the winding highways, the scattered farm houses, the broad, cultivated fields, the signs of busy life everywhere, and the enormous wealth of forest which continued up the farther slope, crowned the top of the ridge and stretched down the incline beyond.

The noisy motor in the sky and the queer looking object which seemed to be advancing sideways and at a rapid pace, drew attention wherever it was seen. Farmers riding over the dusty roads stopped their teams and stared aloft until they got kinks in their necks; men and women climbed to the roofs of their houses, as if the slight decrease of distance would help them, and breathlessly studied the strange sight, some of the spectators with the aid of spy-glasses; groups gathered on lawns, porches and in front of their homes; every window of a passenger train, to say nothing of the platforms, was wedged with curious observers, while several white puffs which shot upward from the steam whistle showed that the engineer was sending out a salutation to the aerial wanderer who could not hear it. Everybody had read of aeroplanes and seen pictures of them, but this was the first time the real thing had sailed into their sea of vision and no picture can stir like the actuality itself.

Two men, one of them carrying a gun, were walking over the high road, a little way to the right, and probably two hundred yards from the aeroplane. They had stopped and were surveying the strange object overhead. One of them abruptly raised his weapon and the little faint blue puff showed he had used the machine as his target. Instead of a shotgun the fellow fired a rifle. It was impossible of course to hear the report, but the sudden appearance of a small white spot on the framework of the upper wing, showed where the bullet had nipped off a splinter. Strange that so many people cannot observe a curious object without yearning to shoot it.

Harvey looked around at Bohunkus, and by a nod and the expression of his face asked whether he wished to be set down that he might properly chastise the scamp. The colored youth shook his head. He had gone through enough in that line to satisfy him. Harvey shied off and speedily passed beyond range. The fellow did not try a second shot.

Thus far the weather had been ideal, but a disagreeable change threatened. The sun was hidden by clouds, which increased in density and number, and the air became so chilly that both shivered. Harvey headed for Chesterton, for it was evident that soon all pleasure in aerial sailing would be ended for the time.

The approach of the aeroplane roused the usual excitement in the little country town, and when Harvey descended in an open space near the collection of houses, half a hundred people rushed thither to greet and give him whatever help he needed. He aimed to make a graceful landing so as properly to impress the spectators, but he got another reminder of the astonishing sensitiveness of the aeroplane, which must be handled far differently from an automobile. He was not quick enough in shifting the lever and hit the ground with so violent a bump that Bohunkus, who was not expecting anything of the kind, was thrown headlong from his perch and landed in a sitting posture with so loud a grunt that the onlookers laughed.

“What’s de matter wid yo’?” he asked angrily; “dat’s de right way to come down in an airyplane. Hab yo’ any ’bjections?”

“It’s the way you land,” replied one of the men, “because you don’t know any better.”

Bohunkus would have been glad to make a scathing retort, but was unable to think of one. So he said in the way of reproof to his companion:

“De next time yo’s gwine to try to knock a hole fru de airth, let me know so I can jump.”

“It will do you as much good to jump afterward as before. It looks to me as if a storm is coming, Bunk, and we must get the machine under shelter.”

The pleasant feature about the situation was that the crowd which had gathered and continued to gather was a friendly one. No one spoke an ill-natured word and all were eager to help in every way possible.

When Harvey stood on the ground, facing the group, he asked:

“Are we going to have a rain?”

“He’s the man that’ll tell you all about the weather for a week to come and hit it every time.”

The one who spoke pointed to an old farmer, without coat or waistcoat, with a ragged straw hat, chin whiskers and bent shoulders, who was chewing tobacco after the manner of a cow masticating her cud.

“How is it, Uncle Tommy?” asked the man who had just spoken.

The old fellow, still chewing, looked up at the sky and then around the heavens, squinting one eye as he carefully studied the signs.

“It’ll rain like all creation inside of a couple of hours; then it’ll hold up a little while and bime by start in agin and drizzle all night.”

“How about to-morrow?” asked Harvey.

“It’ll be bright and clear, but a little cooler than to-day.”

“Tell the young gentleman how the rest of the week will be,” insisted his neighbor.

“The next three days will be clear and rayther warmish; I won’t say anything beyond that this afternoon, but if ye wanter know, I’ll obleege ye to-morrer when I’ve had a snifter and my breakfast.”

“I am much obliged; you have told me what I wanted to know. I shall need shelter for this aeroplane; can any of you gentlemen help me?”

There was less difficulty than Harvey anticipated. Chesterton had a single large hotel or tavern as the townspeople called it, with the usual rows of sheds for the convenience of countrymen when they drove in from the neighborhood. With the help of several bystanders the machine was shoved over the road and through the alley – where much care was necessary to save the wings from injury – to the sheds at the rear. There, after some delicate maneuvering, the machine was worked into the shelter at the corner, where a fair hangar was secured.

“Here we stay till the weather clears,” said Harvey to Bunk, as they strolled into the hotel to get their dinner, for which each had a keen appetite.

Where all showed so hospitable a disposition, Harvey felt little fear of any harm to the aeroplane, though Bohunkus strolled out once or twice to make sure everything was right. After the meal the young aviator seated himself in the utility room, as it may be called. This was connected by a door that was always open with the bar, and was intended for the convenience of those who wished something a little less public. It was provided with several chairs, a round table standing in the middle of the apartment, and had a sanded floor and a few cheap sporting prints on the walls. A half dozen men were seated around, most of them with feet elevated on other chairs or the window sills, while they gossiped of the affairs of the neighborhood. They showed little interest in Harvey and Bunk. The former obtained pen, paper and ink from the landlord and spent a part of the afternoon in writing to his parents and to brother Dick in the Adirondacks. He named a town in advance which he expected to reach at the end of a week, as the proper one to which to address their replies. This duty attended to, Harvey looked at Bunk, whose cap had fallen on the floor as he leaned back in his chair and slept. There was no prejudice so far as yet shown against his race in that section and he was not annoyed by any one.

Recalling the words of the old weather prophet, Harvey went out on the long covered porch in front of the hotel. The two hours had passed and the rain was coming down in torrents. Then, just as the venerable farmer had said would be the case, it slackened, with the promise of renewal before nightfall.

“Some of those old fellows can beat the government every time,” reflected Harvey; “I shall believe Uncle Tommy until I see the proof of his mistake. Well, I declare!”

It happened at that moment that Harvey Hamilton was the only person on the porch, where several wooden chairs awaited occupants. Here and there a man or woman could be seen hurrying along the sloppy street, all eager to reach home or shelter. The youth’s exclamation was caused by sight of an unusually tall man, in a long, flapping linen duster, striding forward on the same side as the tavern, so that he passed within a dozen paces of where the astonished youth stared wonderingly at him, for, without his distinctive attire, the long grizzled beard and glowing black eyes identified him at once.

“How are you, Professor?” called Harvey; “I’m mighty glad to see you again.”

The individual upon being hailed looked at the young man as if he had never seen him before, and then, without the slightest sign of recognition, stalked up the street and out of sight.

CHAPTER XVI

A MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION

Harvey Hamilton stood speechless. When he spoke to Professor Morgan, they were no more than a rod apart, with only the broad open space in front of the hotel between them. Upon hearing himself addressed, the man had looked straight into the face of the lad and then, as already said, passed on without the faintest sign of recognition.

A more direct snub cannot be imagined, and yet it was not in the nature of a snub. Nothing had occurred that could justify so marked a slight. The humiliation which Harvey felt for a few seconds quickly passed away.

“He must have been too absorbed in reverie to see me, and yet that can’t be possible, for he showed that he heard me call him by his title.”

By and by the young aviator reached the only conclusion that seemed reasonable.

“He is a crank in every sense of the word; he is as crazy as a June bug; he was friendly enough last night and this forenoon, and now he is in a different mood. Well, I shall always feel grateful for the good turn he did me. If we meet again, he may be in a more genial frame of mind; at least I hope so.”

The downpour was increasing and the air had become so chilly that Harvey passed inside to the sitting-room. The same number of men were present as before, smoking, chewing and gossiping. He glanced into their countenances, as he moved his chair beside the sleeping Bohunkus Johnson, prepared to pass the dismal hours as best he could without finding any reading matter in the form of books or newspapers. He had registered before dinner and engaged a room for himself and another for his companion. His letters were given to the landlord, who promised to send them to the post office in time for the afternoon’s mail.

Somehow or other, there was one man among the group in whom Harvey felt a slight interest, though he attributed the fact to the lack of anything else to engage his mind. This individual was standing at the desk, when Harvey came from the outside, studying the dog-eared register, as if he too was guided by some idle impulse. He glanced at the newcomer and followed him into the larger room, where he lighted a cigar and took a seat against the other wall.

He was of slight frame, in middle life, dressed in a gray business suit, with clean shaven face, a thin sharp nose, good teeth and keen blue eyes. He was alert of manner, and might well have been a drummer held in town for a brief while against his will. When Harvey glanced at him again he quickly averted his eyes. Apparently he did not wish to be detected in the act and he came within a hair of succeeding in his attempt. He gazed in an absent way through the door leading to the bar-room and smoked his cigar like a man who thoroughly enjoyed the weed.

Being in an idle mood, Harvey twisted the corner of his handkerchief into a tight spiral, making the end quite stiff and pointed, and, leaning forward, began drawing it back and forth against the base of the sleeping Bohunkus Johnson’s nose. Immediately every other person in the room began watching the proceedings.