The Flying Boys in the Sky

Several idlers were gaping at the fractured aeroplane huddled in the wagon sheds of the hotel. Mitchell quickly finished his examination.

“The man or men who did that,” he said in a low voice to Harvey, “showed the devil’s own spite. It looks as if the scoundrel was crazy.”

Harvey glanced at his companion. Did he suspect the truth? His looks and manner, however, showed that he was not thinking of Professor Morgan. The remark was a natural one, under the circumstances. Harvey was not disposed to reveal anything, since he saw no good to be accomplished thereby, while an unpleasant situation might develop.

“You can save something out of the wreck?” remarked the owner inquiringly.

“Considerable; I shall ship what’s worth while to the factory at Garden City, and in a few weeks you will have a new machine as good as ever.”

“The greater part of it will have to be new,” commented Harvey.

“That being so, you can return this one in exchange, if you wish.”

“Is there any way, Mitchell, in which I can serve you?”

“None; I shall have what is left of the machine gathered up, as I said, and sent to the factory; that will take the remainder of the day, when I shall follow in the train. Meanwhile you are not called upon to lose any part of your vacation. There is no perceptible difference between the two biplanes, so you don’t need any help from me.”

The youths walked back to where a small group remained staring at the biplane in which Bohunkus Johnson was still seated, as alert as a watch dog. As the couple approached, the negro crooked his stubby forefinger to his friend, who went forward.

“What is it, Bunk?”

“Yo’s forgot something.”

“What is that?”

“It’s ’bout dinner time.”

The colored youth meant to whisper, but his husky aspiration carried as far as if he had spoken in a loud tone.

“He is right,” remarked Mitchell; “let us have dinner together.”

The old fellow who served the hotel as hostler was hired to stay by the machine and to keep every other person at a distance, while the three went in to their meal.

During these minutes, Harvey was on the watch for a sight of Detective Pendar. He much wanted to have a few words with him, but was puzzled how to bring it about. Harvey had given up his room, so he could not signal to the officer to follow him thither and there was no understanding as to how they should otherwise meet.

Pendar, however, remained invisible until Bohunkus had perched himself in the seat in front of the tank, and Harvey had his hands on the levers. Mitchell stepped to the rear to give a swing to the propeller blades. The machine was pointed to the left, where the highway showed quite a sharp slope downward, of which the young aviator meant to take advantage.

At this crisis, when twenty pairs of eyes were upon the party, Harvey heard an odd sounding cough. He looked around and saw a man standing on the porch above the other spectators. It was Detective Pendar, who was looking keenly at Harvey. As their eyes met the former rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully and winked once, but made no other sign that he recognized the youth.

“Now what does he mean by that?” Harvey asked himself; “a wink may signify one of a score of things.” As the only reply he could make, he winked in return. A dozen of the group might have accepted it as meant for him, but, if so, he must have been equally puzzled with the author of the signal, who a minute later was scooting through the air and steadily rising.

Harvey had decided to carry out so far as he could the programme agreed upon the day before by him and Pendar. The only change was that caused by the enforced delay. Instead of making his search in the forenoon, it now would have to be done in the afternoon. He shot upward, until barely five hundred feet above the earth, and then headed westward over the long stretch of forest of which mention has been made. It was advisable that he should keep as near the ground as practical, since his view would thereby be improved.

Bohunkus Johnson was still in the dark on two points: he had no conception of the serious business upon which his companion was engaged, knowing nothing of the kidnapped child, and, though certain in his own mind that Professor Morgan was the man who had wrecked the aeroplane, he had never suspected that he was insane. Ignorance on the former point was a good thing, but as regards the latter it proved a serious mistake, as has been intimated in another place.

It need not be said that a heavier-than-air machine must progress rapidly in order to sustain itself aloft. When such motion stops, through breakage, accident or the will of the aviator, an aeroplane obeys the law of gravity and comes to the ground. It does not fall, as is the case with a balloon.

It would never do to withdraw care from the machine, which worked with perfect smoothness, but having headed westward and struck as moderate a gait as was practical, Harvey Hamilton gave all the attention possible to the country under his feet. He noted the wide expanse of forest in its exuberant foliage, a flashing stream of water and the foam of a tumbling cascade on the slope of the farther ridge. In the other direction wound the railway line over which he and Bunk had ridden earlier in the day. The sky was clear and sunshiny with a rift of fleecy clouds in advance, but at so great an elevation that no inconvenience was to be feared from them. The town of Groveton was so distinctly seen that he recognized several of the buildings, including the hotel, which he had observed on his brief visit. Far away in the radiant horizon the steeples and tall buildings of a city showed, but it was all strange to him. He could identify nothing beyond that which has been named.

Harvey had sailed probably three or four miles from Chesterton when he was thrilled by a sight that roused instant hope. In the midst of the wood, an open space several acres in extent was crossed by a stream of considerable size, on its winding way to the distant Delaware. In the center of this clearing stood a log cabin, which recalled that of Abisha Wharton where Harvey and Bunk had spent a night after leaving home on their outing. The land showed slight signs of cultivation, but from the stone chimney running up the outside of the decayed structure, he traced a faint blue spiral of smoke.

“That shows somebody lives there,” was Harvey’s thought; “from what Pendar told me I believe it’s the very place where the kidnappers are holding the child a prisoner.”

He leaned far over and scrutinized the picture as he swept over it. What he longed to see was the little girl running about or playing in front of the cabin, or one or more of her captors. It would seem that the loud throbbing of his motor ought to have attracted the attention of the occupants, but it did not do so, and the spot speedily glided from sight. When Harvey twisted his neck, however, in the effort to see more, he noticed that Bunk had also turned and was attentively studying the picture. Conversation in such circumstances was impossible, but Harvey hoped his companion had discovered something – a supposition which he was certain to remember when the time came for a halt in their flight.

Had our young friend followed his inclination, he would have circled around and returned over the cabin, in order to inspect it further, but that most likely would have roused the suspicion of the abductors, and the moment they believed an aeroplane had been impressed into the service against them, that moment the usefulness of the contrivance would be ended. He could remember the location clearly, and would give the detective all the directions he needed.

“I didn’t see any wagon road or trails, but there must be one path at least which connects the house with the outer world. Those men have a source of supplies and they can’t help leaving footprints.”

As Harvey reasoned out the problem, the solution was simplified. Simmons Pendar was confident that the hiding place was somewhere in the stretch of wilderness, but to search for it would prove fatal. The effort was certain of discovery by the watchful guards. Now, however, since the exact location of the cabin seemed to have been found, a speedy approach ought to be within the detective’s power. The near future must answer the question.

CHAPTER XXII

IN DANGER OF COLLISION

The cabin in the clearing being no longer in Harvey Hamilton’s field of vision, he gave his attention to the management of his aeroplane. In order to avoid so far as possible arousing suspicion, he made a sweeping bend to the northward, with a view of passing over the ridge and then returning to Chesterton from the east. By following this course, he would make it impossible for the tenants of the log cabin to see him, and thus render distrust on their part out of the question.

It was important that he should remain over night in Chesterton, in order to report to Detective Pendar and receive instructions from him. The youth was morbidly sensitive about offending the gentleman, or doing anything that could interfere with the success of the extraordinary enterprise in which he was engaged.

Harvey had changed the course of the machine and lifted the edge of his front rudder in order to make sure of clearing the top of the ridge, when Bohunkus touched him smartly with the toe of his shoe. The aviator turned his head to learn the cause, and the dusky youth with staring eyes pointed to the northwest, that is somewhat to the left of the course they were following. Looking in that direction, Harvey to his astonishment saw an aeroplane no more than a mile distant. With a minute or two at his disposal, he brought his binoculars into play.

The first glance told him an amazing fact.

“As sure as I’m alive, it’s the Dragon of the Skies! Professor Morgan is coming this way too! I’ll be neighborly and meet him.”

The vertical rudder at the rear was shifted, and the two machines the next moment were so headed that a collision threatened unless one changed its course.

Bohunkus kicked the shoulder of his friend again. His dark face revealed his terror.

“He’s gwine to smash dis locumotive! What’ll ’come ob us?”

Of course not a syllable of these words could be heard in the thunderous throbbing of the motor, but the expression of Bunk’s face and the vigorous contortions of his lips made his meaning clear. It occurred to Harvey that there might be cause for his companion’s alarm. There is no accounting for the whimsies of a crank, and, having destroyed one aeroplane, what more likely than that he should wreak his fury upon another, particularly when it was handled by the owner of the former?

Harvey’s first inclination was to shift his course again and run away from the Professor, but he reflected that if he did so, he would invite pursuit, and speedy as was the new machine it was certain the Dragon of the Skies was speedier. An inventor who was able to construct an “uplifter” that would hold his monoplane as stationary as a bird waiting for sight of the fish far below before making its dive, or could muffle his motor into noiselessness without lessening its power, was sure, beside doing all this, to acquire a speed that no rival could equal.

It was better to put a bold face on the situation, and paying no heed, therefore, to the gestures and mute shouts of his companion, Harvey headed for the monoplane, which approached with the speed and accuracy of an arrow.

Less than two hundred yards separated the two when Professor Morgan veered to the right, curving so far that his course shifted to a right angle of the other machine, toward which he turned broadside.

There sat the strange man in plain view, his feet on the cross-piece below, his hands resting on the upright levers, between which he sat bolt upright, with his linen duster buttoned from chin to ankles, his cap drawn low, while those blazing black eyes above his grizzled beard suggested an owl peering through a thicket and were turned full upon the two youths in the biplane.

Harvey waved his hand in salutation, but the Professor did not seem to see him or Bunk. He glided past, and when he had shot beyond a point opposite, turned his head so as to look directly in front. Harvey gave him no further notice, for he was now so near the ridge that all his skill was needed to direct his aeroplane.

Bohunkus was not yet free from his shivering fear, and kept his eye upon the dreaded Professor.

“I know what de willain am up to,” he reflected; “he’s only makin’ b’lieve dat he’s gwine to lebe us. He’ll snoke round behind and de fust thing we know will be when dat rudder out in front jams into us, slides under me, lifts me out ob dis seat and pitches me head fust down among dem treetops.”

But the form of the Dragon of the Skies grew smaller and fainter until the aching eyes of the negro could see it no longer. By that time the watcher concluded that nothing for the present was to be feared from the eccentric individual.