Nothing had been further from Poke’s intention than such a wild ride as
that in which he now found himself engaged.
All he had proposed was a sort of “dock trial”--to use an expression
he had once employed in talking with Sam; but now, to his bewilderment
and alarm, he was going to sea, so to speak. Great pains had been
taken in the adjustment of the bicycle wheels under the plane, and
Master Mechanic Step had been proud of their smooth running on their
ball-bearings. Indeed, so well had friction been reduced that the
Saracen could be wheeled about easily; but now it was all too evident
that the wheeling by engine power was also easily accomplished. The
push of the swiftly-whirling propeller and the slope was producing a
most effective combination. The Saracen shot away from the anchorage as
an arrow shoots from a bow, and then bettered the performance of any
arrow by traveling faster and faster as it advanced.
Poke did his best to stop the machine--and failed signally. Perhaps in
the haste of his surprise he lost his head for a moment, and managed
to do the wrong thing; perhaps--and this is quite as probable--the
fault lay in the mechanism. The devices for controlling the engine and
the wings were still in the experimental stage; and, as it happened,
were really more the products of Step’s ingenuity than of Poke’s.
Unchallenged credit for the basic idea of a flying machine belonged
to the latter, but practical working out of the plans had fallen more
and more to his partner in the enterprise; and Step’s way of doing
things was not likely to be anybody else’s way. Moreover, Step’s
extraordinarily long arms and legs gave him a reach for which pudgy
Poke could not hope; and all the levers and controls were adjusted
to Step’s liking. Sitting in the saddle, Poke was unable to touch
certain cords of high importance in the general scheme of navigation
of the craft; his feet swung clear of pedals, also essential to its
management. As for the levers upon which he laid hold--well, they
wouldn’t work, at least, as he wished them to work. The net result of
his early endeavors seemed to be merely a further quickening of the
already terrifying speed of motor and propeller and of the pace of the
Saracen.
The aircraft dashed down the gentle slope almost as a toboggan might
slip down its chute; though its motion had a curiously buoyant quality
no toboggan could claim. It was riding such as Poke had never before
known. The broad planes seemed to lift it smoothly and lightly over the
irregularities in the turf of the field. It swayed, to be sure, but
there was something easy and graceful in the lateral motion; something
almost birdlike, something which roused Poke’s hope and ambition, once
his first panic passed and he discovered that he was not only still
alive but also unharmed. He hadn’t intended to try to fly that day, but
the feeling of “lift” was undeniably luring. He thought of the doubting
Thomases who were watching his performance. He reached decision. He’d
show ’em, and show ’em then and there!
He bent forward. Again he seized the levers, by which he expected to
shift his planes for the rise clear of earth. He tugged valiantly.
Nothing happened. He threw all his strength into another effort--and
something did happen! Nothing but the back of the seat saved him from
tumbling bodily from the machine, as one of the bars of wood broke
short off under the strain.
Poke recovered his balance by a mighty effort. Also he strove to keep
his wits about him. Plainly, he could not fly. Seemingly, he could not
stop the motor. It was behind him, and placed low down in a peculiarly
inaccessible spot. Even the long-limbed Step, in cranking it, had been
forced almost to crawl under the machine, while as for reaching it from
the seat--that was wholly out of the question. The so-called safety
devices of Step’s contrivance were out of commission. Poke, summarizing
his situation, set his jaw stubbornly. If he couldn’t fly and couldn’t
stop, he might at least be able to steer the Saracen and circle the big
field to the edification of all beholders; and trust to luck to halt
the motor sooner or later.
[Illustration: POKE CLUNG TO HIS SEAT]
Now, the Saracen’s rudder might have been mightily effective in
mid-air--this was a matter fated to be left in uncertainty--but it was
poorly calculated to guide a runaway machine on the ground. It was a
small trailing plane, set vertically. Poke’s attempts to adjust it were
in vain, at least so far as securing the desired effect. The Saracen
merely lurched to one side; then swung back, dipping its wing deeply;
regained an even keel, but began to zigzag in most distressing fashion.
Poke again was almost thrown from his seat, and was glad to cling for
support to the uprights of the framework. The truth burst upon him that
he was purely a passenger on this amazing voyage of his.
Every voyage has to end. Poke began to wonder most apprehensively
how this would end. He had read accounts of tremendous speed made by
ice-sleds equipped with propellers working in air; but, of course, the
big field was not an icy expanse. The pace he was making suggested
ice-records--at least, to his fancy--but so far it had been due in part
to the slope. Just before him was an almost level stretch. Then came
a slight rise, to a low stone wall bordering the road. It occurred to
him that it would be very evil fortune to strike that wall.
It must be understood that things had been happening very rapidly for
Poke, and very little time had elapsed since he shot away from his
friends. It was a mere matter of seconds till he was crossing the
level, and beginning to mount the low ridge. There was a diminution of
speed, but it was not a marked diminution; and he saw with terror that
the Saracen’s momentum would not be checked before the wall was reached.
Then, in hot haste, he did anything and everything he could in a
desperate, last chance effort. But the engine roared as violently and
rapidly as ever; indeed, he seemed to have contrived to rouse the
ancient mechanism to a frenzy of energy. The planes dipped and rose
with the swaying of the monster. There was a queer, sidewise lunge;
then, swiftly, a bewildering change. A thrill ran through Poke. Of a
sudden, the motion of the craft had become smooth, buoyant, marvelously
exhilarating. The vibration of the motor remained, but there was no
longer the jar of wheels on uneven ground. He could still see the
threatening wall, but it was no longer before him, barring the way.
It was beneath him. He was vaulting it with a dozen feet to spare. The
Saracen was flying!
That second was like no other Poke had known.
Wonderful elation filled him. Forgotten in the glorious instant were
his past labors and the uncertainties of his immediate future. Where
were the doubters and scoffers now? What wouldn’t the most cynical and
pessimistic among them give to be able to share that triumph of flight
achieved! His faith was justified; Step’s ingenuity was confirmed by
practical performance. The Saracen was in flight!
No dream of Poke’s had ever been more delightful--and no dream could
end more speedily than this fleeting jubilation.
The Saracen had risen; now the Saracen fell. In truth, the machine’s
performance suggested a tremendous bound rather than soaring; and
Poke hardly had grasped the amazing fact that he was going up before
the equally important circumstance was impressed upon him that he
was coming down. There was nothing for him to do. He was merely
a passenger. He was aware of a sharp swerve of course to the
left. Instead of a high barrier of trees before him, there was an
opening--and the opening was the highway. By sheer good fortune the
change of direction in mid-air had saved him from crashing into the
further bank, and had brought him into the road leading toward the
lake. He felt the jar as the wheels again touched the ground, and came
to understanding of what was happening, even if he had no clear notion
of how it had been brought about. As by a miracle he was in the road,
and traveling at a great pace, the gentle slope of the country lakeward
doing its part in promoting his sensational progress.
And what a startling performance it was! Picture a quiet country road,
of a sudden invaded by a fiercely panting monster, a sort of winged
dragon, rushing along in a tumult of uproar and stirring dense clouds
of dust in its passage; the tips of its wings brushing the trees on
either hand. Poke, deafened by the whir of the propeller and the savage
detonations of the motor, clung to his seat and closed his eyes that
he might not behold the perils lurking in his path. What would happen
if he met a heavily loaded wagon, or overtook one of the big trucks
carrying lumber to the new settlement? Or suppose some rash motorist
was speeding toward him! Suppose----
But there was no need to worry himself with conjectures. The real thing
impended. Something made him open his eyes. A big touring car was
turning a bend in the road just ahead of him. In a flash he recognized
the man at the wheel--Lon Gates. In another, he was aware that by some
marvel of dextrous steering Lon had shot his car into the ditch, that
the Saracen’s wing was grazing his head, that by a miracle a collision
had been avoided. Poke couldn’t have seen it, but, somehow, he knew
that Lon, wide-eyed with amazement, was staring after the swirl of dust
in which the strange chariot was roaring along.
What Lon said Poke couldn’t know. But the words were these:
“Jee-whillikens and Jupiter crickets! Talk about a Scary Hen! A million
old biddies cacklin’ and runnin’ from a hen hawk wouldn’t be a marker
to that there crazy road rioter! But what’s Poke thinkin’ he’s tryin’
to do? And where’s he supposed to be headin’ for? Way he’s takin’ up
the whole road and then a leetle more he’s bound to have trouble and a
heap of it mighty quick and enthusiastic! Guess I’d better be follerin’
along, so’s to be able to help pick up the pieces.”
And with that Lon threw on his power, turned the big car about, and
hurried in the hazy wake of the Saracen.
Poke, meanwhile, was continuing his wild ride, keeping the road by
some freak of fortune. The slight but steady fall in the grade was
making amends for any eccentricities of conduct on the part of the
ancient motor, which, it must be confessed, was beginning to betray
some of its weaknesses. It was missing fire now and then; but,
curiously, the breaks seemed to make the uproar all the greater and
more ear-splitting. It sufficed, at any rate, to give warning of his
approach to a woman, who had been driving tranquilly toward town. Poke,
sweeping along, had a glimpse of a frightened horse plunging through
a wayside thicket, of a white-faced driver plying a whip frantically,
of a buggy careening dizzily. Then his second escape from collision
had been made and he was dashing through woods, and praying that the
sidewise plunge he believed to be inevitable would not come until he
was again in open country.
The snorting of his motor was more irregular--and a bit more
terrifying. The whir of the propeller appeared to grow shriller. The
“lift” of the machine was less noticeable. One wing, indeed, had
suffered much damage at its tip by contact with branches, and on the
other side there was an observable sag of the planes. Something had
gone wrong astern--just what the trouble was he could not discover. Not
that it mattered, though. By this time he was ready enough to let the
Saracen go to the scrap-heap, if only he could escape with his life.
He was coming, now, to the border of the wooded tract. Through the
trees to the left he had brief sight of the gleaming blue water of an
arm of the lake. At that his courage rose a bit. He could swim. If the
machine ended its runaway career in the depths, he would fare well
enough, if he could avoid going down with the ship. It behooved him to
make sure that he would not be caught by parts of the machine if he
tried to jump. He bent forward, he strove for firmer footing on the
cross braces. And then----
The ending of the Saracen’s dash was as sudden as its beginning. A
lurch to the right was not followed by recovery. Instead, the machine
held its new course, left the beaten track of the road, plunged into
a tangle of undergrowth, which served as an efficient, if painful,
brake. Thorns raked Poke’s arms and tore his clothes, just as branches
ripped the planes to ribbons and saplings, bending before the machine’s
charge, yet contrived to check it. The broken roar of the motor ceased;
the whir of the propeller died away. In a second or two the monster of
the road was stripped of all terrors, and lay in the midst of a tangled
heap of debris, half contributed by its own parts and half by the brush
and vines it had uprooted.
Poke had pitched forward from his saddle. Indeed, it was as if a giant
arm had picked him up and tossed him bodily through another clump of
dense undergrowth--and thereby supplied him with a sort of natural
shock absorber. There was a tremendous cracking and crashing of small
branches and twigs; and from the farther side of the thicket Poke
rolled out upon the ground, shaken from head to foot, bleeding from a
score of scratches, his garments fit only for the rag-bag. Yet almost
miraculously he had escaped serious harm. Not a bone was broken. He
might be sore and aching from forehead to toe, but all his wounds were
superficial. He could raise himself on hands and knees, and this he
did. Instead, though, of attempting to get upon his feet, he remained
as he was for a moment, staring in amazement at the sight which met his
eyes.
Poke, as it happened, had been catapulted into a tableau, so to speak,
in which Zorn and Hagle figured. Apparently, the noisy approach of the
Saracen had interrupted Zorn in the process of disciplining the smaller
boy; for he still held Hagle by the collar, while with his victim he
gazed spellbound at the picture presented by Poke in the rôle of the
human projectile.