The camp at the lake very quickly proved its value to Sam and his
friends. It gave them a place of resort, an occupation. Poke and Step
continued to be absorbed in the construction of their aeroplane, but
the others were glad to have an excuse for a hike, or an overnight stay
under canvas, or a week-end outing. Gradually they were adding to the
equipment; and were making a comfortable nest in the woods. Possibly
their zeal was increased by the fact that their relations with the rest
of the class showed no improvement.
Privately, Sam speculated a good deal about this. In his experience
school disputes had a way of wearing themselves out, so to speak. It
was quite true that the Safety First Club was not making overtures to
the others; but ordinarily in the boy-world, as he knew it, something
would happen to make everybody forget temporarily causes of offense and
leave feuds a little dulled. In this instance, though, there were no
amicable interludes. What might be called a state of armed neutrality
continued. Sam, meditating, reached the conclusion that Zorn was still
taking the trouble to circulate his stories to the discredit of the
club.
In one way or another, Sam chanced to see little of Zorn for a week or
two after their roadside interview. He was still urging his chums to
keep a close watch upon the doings of the enemy, but none of them made
discoveries throwing light upon the problem Zorn offered.
The Trojan continued to demand Sam’s vigilance. He had reached a sort
of acceptance of the situation, and with the coaching of his friends
in Latin was keeping up his classwork, after a fashion; but there was
no heart in his performance. The sense of suffering from injustice
rankled, and whatever he did was because of his promise to Sam rather
than because of desire to hold his place in the school.
Lon, in these days, was a tower of strength to Sam. He was shrewd and
observant, and really understood the position of the club and its
difficulties.
“Keep at it; play the game!” was his advice. “I don’t go to say it’s
the best game you could have picked out; but then, again, I ain’t
sayin’ it’s the wust. And with any game I ever see or heard tell on,
the only thing to do was to play it honest and play it through, and
keep your eyes open and learn what the game’ll teach you. The one thing
that sure ain’t got no use or profit in it is wobblin’, and shiftin’,
and changin’ your mind back and forth like a feller experimentin’ with
his fust pair o’ shoes that’s rights and lefts. That’s what I says
to Poke the other day, when he had me over to take a squint at that
blessed Scary Hen o’ his.”
“‘Scary Hen?’” Sam repeated dubiously.
“Yep! That bird contrivance he’s putting together.”
“Oh, you mean his Saracen,” said Sam, enlightened.
Lon nodded. “I’m callin’ it the Scary Hen--I do love a name that fits!
You see, he had me in, sort o’ consultin’ engineer-like, to paw over
that old motor he acquired from Philanthropist Haskins. It’s sure some
engine!”
“But it never will work, will it--for Poke’s purposes, I mean?”
Lon rubbed his chin. “Well, I dunno. Somehow, way I’m built in mind
and body, I kinder fancy having a foot or a wheel touchin’ ground. I
never was intended to scoot round, bumpin’ the birds. So mebbe I’m
prejudiced, when it comes to flyin’ machines. But that old motor--well,
it’s an antique, all right, and it’s got trimmin’s I hain’t seen in
years, and I reckon it’s a gasoline hog for keeps, but ’tis high speed,
sure enough. Likely’s not ’twas made for some old-time racin’ car. And
I will say Poke or Step, one of ’em, has got a knack with machinery;
for they’ve got Methusaleh to workin’ so well that I wouldn’t trust
myself behind him, if he was rigged in a road roller. But as for what
they will do with the power they’re generatin’, and the schemes they’ve
figgered out to twirl the propeller--say, that sort o’ stuff is all
off my beat. I did give ’em a hint or two about changin’ wirin’, but
there I stopped. And as for the name of the contraption--say, now, Sam!
if those boys don’t scare the feathers off every hen in ten mile, I’m
missin’ my guess. That motor’ll work fast enough, but it coughs like a
million chokin’ dogs, and the way it misses fire now and then--whew!
but it’s enough to make a man or a rooster jump out of his skin! But
Poke says mufflers are barred on flyin’ machines, and so there you
are! You’ve got to be in the fashion if you bust all the neighbors’
ear-drums.”
Sam, who had no confidence in Poke’s great experiment, next consulted
the Shark, whom he found to be pessimistic, but guarded in statement.
“I haven’t got it worked out yet for Poke,” he said, “and until I
finish the calculation, I’m not going to open my head, except to remark
that I guess most flyers have to make a lot of tests and take some
tumbles before they soar. Just now, though, I’m trying to find out just
what will happen when a given propeller turns a given number of times
in a second and there’s a given area of plane. I don’t know yet, but
I’m going to know.”
Well as he knew the Shark and highly as he respected his mathematical
talents, Sam was impressed.
“Geeminy! But that’s a stunt you’ve set yourself!”
“Certainly it is,” said the Shark calmly. “If it wasn’t one, I wouldn’t
bother with it. I’d never dabbled in aeronautics, you know, and it’s
more or less of a job to look up the formulæ. No; if it wasn’t for the
sport of calculating----”
“Sport!” Sam interrupted, incredulously.
“Best ever!”
“Well, it’s all in the way you look at it. And--er--er--one man’s meat
is another man’s poison.”
“Course!” the Shark shrugged. “And if I didn’t find the game worth the
candle, you don’t think, do you, that I’d be fussing with this scheme
of Poke’s? There’d be a deal easier way to answer the question whether
or not his machine would fly--the empirical way.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“Let him try to fly and see what happens.”
“But he might break his neck.”
“Well, he’d have the answer then, wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe--but it wouldn’t do him much good.”
“True--but the question would be answered,” observed the Shark,
unemotionally. “That’s the main point of interest.”
Sam did not think it worth while to dispute the assertion. Instead, he
left the Shark to his calculations, and hied him to Poke’s barn.
There a glance revealed much apparent progress. Motor and plane had
been brought together--assembled, as Poke hastened to explain.
“If this were a boat, we’d be ready for dock trials,” said he. “That’ll
show you how far we’ve got along.”
“Why don’t you make it one of the boat kind--hydro-aeroplanes, aren’t
they?” Sam asked. “Then, if you fell into the water----”
“Shucks! I don’t intend to fall,” Poke put in hastily. “And there’d
be no use in pontoon attachments. I’m going to do my flying at fairs
mostly, where there wouldn’t be any ponds handy; for fairs are where
the money will be, and I’m out for the cash.”
“Oh! I remember,” said Sam, and drew closer to inspect the machine.
The contrivance was supported on bicycle wheels. The use of these and
of the planes--Poke appeared to have decided on a biplane model--Sam
understood in a general way, but he was all at sea about the functions
of various levers and cords grouped about the operator’s seat, a
bicycle saddle fitted with a back and perched not too securely, by his
notion, on the framework. It occurred to the visitor that the spread of
wing was not so great as he had supposed it would have to be; and he
ventured a remark to this effect.
Poke waved a careless hand. “Oh, that’s all right--increased speed of
motor has ’tended to that difficulty. Don’t you worry, Sam!”
Sam said nothing, but moved slowly around the machine, eyeing it
closely.
“I’d give you a demonstration--kind of a drill, that is,” said Poke,
“if all the rigging were complete. But it isn’t, quite. Step, you see,
is working out the details--he’s a crackerjack of a mechanic--regular
genius. Just now some of his ideas are sort of--well, sort of in
embryo--and things aren’t fixed just the way they’ll be when we’re
ready to give an exhibition. That’ll be before very long, though.”
“So?”
“Yes; Step and I have figured out just what to do. When we’re ready for
practice flights, we’ll take the Saracen out to the lake, where there’s
elbow-room in the big field, and where we won’t be bothered by crowds.
There’s an old shed in which we can keep the machine at night, and
we’ll take care to lug it out to the lake without attracting attention.
This is a private affair till we get ready for public exhibitions, you
know.”
“But lots of people must have been getting some sort of an idea about
it--an idea, anyway, that you’re up to something.”
“Well, the motor does make a racket when we give it a test whirl. Then
some fellows have come rubbering around--that’s true. But Step and I
haven’t peeped. Why, the other day, Jack Hagle----” There Poke paused,
a line of perplexity showing, of a sudden, in his forehead. “I say,
Sam! there was something funny about Hagle’s actions. You know what a
queer way he has sometimes--almost hang-dog, it’s so cringing? Well, he
was fair ready to fawn all over us, but the funny part was, he wanted
to talk about the Trojan. It was as if he made our scheme an excuse for
asking about our gang, first in general and then in particular about
the Trojan. And he said he was sorry for him--he said it twice. He
didn’t explain, though.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“N-no. You see, we wanted to get rid of him, so we didn’t make any more
talk than we had to. After he’d gone we happened to think of the queer
side of his performance.”
“Umph!” said Sam, non-committally. He regretted that Poke had not
encouraged Hagle to talk, but understood that at present the Saracen
represented almost everything the builder deemed worth a thought. Jack
Hagle, shuffling, vacillating, a weakling, counted for little in the
opinion of the boys of the town; it was not cause for wonder that Poke
had been glad to be rid of him. But Sam was beginning to suspect that
in some way or other, at present beyond his knowledge, Hagle might
be able to throw light on the mystery which lay at the bottom of the
troubles of the club.
About this time, too, Herman Boyd made a discovery, which caused
Sam some uneasiness. There had been a sale of land near the lake,
the purchase being made by a syndicate in which Zorn’s father was
interested.
“I couldn’t find out just the boundaries,” Herman reported, “but I was
told that the tract is across the lake from the pavilion. That’d put it
somewhere in our district.”
Sam nodded. “It might, certainly.... If it does, I reckon we may have
to move--if Ed Zorn can stir up his father to evict us.”
“Well, the Zorns have taken one of the new cottages. I hear quite a
number of families are going to be in the lake colony this summer.”
“Umph! If they don’t bother us, we’ll agree not to bother them,” Sam
remarked. “We are managing to flock by ourselves pretty successfully.”
“Oh, that’s our game, all right,” declared Herman.
“And we’ll play it through,” Sam insisted.
“Sure! Only--only,”--Herman hesitated--“only it’s curious, Sam, how
long this row with the rest of the class keeps up.”
“Well, we didn’t start it, but we can stand it as long as the other
fellows can. They can let us alone, and we can let them alone--and
that’s all there is to it.”
But “letting alone” is not always an easy course, in affairs either
great or small. So Sam was convinced when he heard of the battle
between Tom Orkney and Scrub Payne, who, it will be recalled, had
blacked Poke’s eye in the early stages of the feud. Orkney had vowed
to avenge his friend, and had not forgotten his pledge. Accordingly,
when he came upon Poke and Payne in the middle of an excited group, and
heard loud sounds of dispute, he shouldered a way through the press and
was just in time to see Scrub cuff the smaller boy.
Orkney caught Scrub’s arm and half turned him in his tracks.
“Take somebody of your size!” he challenged. “Cut out this hazing the
kids!”
At that Poke flamed in wrath against his ally. “Kid yourself, Orkney!”
he roared. “Say, you keep out of this! I can do my own fighting.”
“All right, fight me--afterward,” said Orkney coolly. “Don’t bother me
now, though. I’ve had a date with this fellow for a good while, and I’m
going to keep it.”
Payne did not shun combat. Indeed, he hastened it; for he struck Orkney
sharply in the chest. Tom, who had been vigilantly watching for just
such an overture, countered heavily on Scrub’s forehead. The crowd fell
back at once, leaving space for the opponents; and in another instant
the fight was in full progress.
In weight there was little advantage on either side, though Payne had
greater height and longer reach. Neither was a highly skilled boxer.
The one great point in Orkney’s favor was a certain grim determination
which counted amazingly in helping him endure punishment, of which, it
must be confessed, he took a deal, largely because he was so bent on
inflicting it. It was, in short, a “hammer and tongs” affair, as Poke
subsequently described it to Sam, with Orkney playing for the other’s
head and bent on repaying Poke’s blackened eye in kind; with no rounds,
with scant thought of the rules. Long the issue hung in the balance. So
well matched were the two, in fact, that many of the onlookers supposed
Payne was at least holding his own, when, suddenly, he threw an arm
over his sorely battered face, whipped about, and took to his heels,
leaving Tom an undisputed victor, but one who manifestly had had to pay
for his victory.
Poke escorted Orkney home; then hastened to Sam, to whom he told his
tale of battle.
“Say, but it was a ripping old fight!” was his conclusion. “And we
were on top! Sam, it’s the turn in the luck for the Safety First Club!”
“I hope it is,” Sam answered gravely. At the moment he was sharply
reminded by Orkney’s achievement of his own yet to be settled account
with Zorn.