A TRIAL FLIGHT.
When the boys wheeled the Golden Eagle II out of its shed, the green
plains which stretched in an apparently limitless level on all sides
were flooded with bright sunshine. They had delayed longer than they
had intended to in making their start and already most of the other
prospective contestants had concluded testing their engines or giving
a final look over to brace wires and turn-buckles. A sparse sprinkling
of spectators from the village was already on the grounds, early as
was the hour.
The Golden Eagle's fuel and lubricating tanks were quickly filled, and
every bit of metal about her shone and glistened in the sunlight,
making a score of bright points of light. Her great planes, with their
covering of yellow vulcanized silk, were in marked contrast to the
inky hue of the Buzzard's surfaces, whose driver, Malvoise, was just
settling into his seat, his inevitable cigarette still in his mouth.
The Buzzard was even larger than the Golden Eagle, but her lifting
capacity was a good deal less, as she was not so well designed.
Malvoise, however, was a reckless driver, and had already had several
narrow escapes from upsets.
The other air men bustled about and from their engines came an
occasional gatling-gun-like rattle and roar, as they tried their
motors out. In the air was the raw smell of gasolene and the odor of
trampled grass. Clouds of blue smoke arose from where the proprietor
of a small biplane had drenched his cylinders with too much oil.
Occasionally an auto or a motor cycle chugged up, and the early comers
watched with intense interest the flying men preparing for their trial
flights.
Frank and Harry paid little attention to the others as they drew on
their gloves, and carefully inspected their propellers. A man had been
almost killed on the grounds a few days before, when a propeller blade
had torn loose under the terrific strain of its 1200 revolutions a
minute, and the boys were not anxious for anything like that to happen
to their machine.
At last, everything seemed to be in order and the Chester boys
scrambled into their chassis. The Golden Eagle had been stripped of
all the appliances she usually carried as a passenger craft. Her
searchlight and wireless were missing. Her transom seats were gone.
Several braces had been taken out also, as the removal of her
passenger accommodations had rendered the strain on her framework much
less.
"I'd hardly know her," remarked Billy, watching the boys, as they took
their places on two small seats with slender steel arm rests. Harry's
seat was by the engine and Frank sat at the steering wheel, which
manipulated the dipping and diving rudders as well as the rearward
steering surface. One of his feet was on the brake--an automatic
contrivance that cut off the spark. The other reposed on the foot pump
which was used in case anything went wrong with the force-feed
lubrication.
"All right," said Frank, twisting the valve that sent the gasolene
flowing to the carburetor and adjusting the switch.
Billy could stand it no longer. He had been watching with anxious eyes
the preparations and apparently the boys were going to fly without
him.
"Say, Frank," he began hesitatingly, "I don't suppose you could--"
Frank turned and saw the wistful look in the young reporter's eyes.
"Take you up?" he said, with a laugh at Billy's downcast appearance.
Billy nodded.
"Well, there's not much room for passengers the way she is fixed at
present," laughed Harry catching Frank's mirth, "but if you want to
squeeze in by me here, you can. Here, Le Blanc, bring out that spare
seat."
A few seconds later the delighted reporter was sitting on a small
aluminum seat fitted with clamps to screw to the framework, and
handles to grasp hold of tightly when the craft was in mid-air.
"Let her go," cried Frank, as soon as the delighted Billy had taken
his place.
Sanford and Le Blanc, one at each of the propellers, gave them a few
twists, and after about the third silent revolution there came the
startling roar of the exhaust that told the boys that all the
cylinders were getting down to work. Blue flames and smoke belched out
of the vents and the mechanics sprang back, as the propellers whirled
round at a pace that made them seem blurred shadows.
"Hang on till I get up speed," shouted Frank to the two mechanics,
who, with several volunteer helpers, seized hold of the rear framework
and held the struggling aeroplane back with all their might. Her frame
shook as if it was being swept by some mighty convulsion. The racket
was terrific, ear-splitting. The wind from the propellers blew hats in
every direction and streamed out the hair of the men holding the
aeroplane back, as if they had been poking their faces into an
electric fan.
Faster and faster the propellers revolved, as Frank increased the
power of his mixture and advanced the spark. At last, when the men
holding the craft were shouting that they couldn't hang on much
longer, Frank dropped his hand, the signal that the craft was to be
released.
Like a scared jack-rabbit, the big-winged craft shot forward over the
uneven ground at race-horse speed. Several boys on bicycles, who
started after the air-ship, were speedily distanced.
After a short run, Frank jerked forward his control wheel, and the
Golden Eagle, amid a cheer that was of course inaudible to the boys
above the uproar of the engine, shot upward into the blue.
A few seconds later there was another roar of applause as the black
Buzzard darted forward, and was soon soaring upward in pursuit of the
speedy Golden Eagle. Old Schmidt in his monoplane was the next
off--the crowd howling with mirth as the queer green contrivance
scuttled over the ground in a series of spasmodic hops, just like its
grasshopper namesake. Then came Gladwin, the novice, and a half dozen
others. Presently the air above the plains was full of ambitious air
craft, but with the exception of old Schmidt, who rose to a height of
about a hundred feet and contented himself with circling about the
grounds, none of them made any but the shortest of flights.
The attention of the crowd, therefore, naturally centered on the two
rivals--as they were universally conceded to be--the Golden Eagle and
the Buzzard. There was no difficulty in telling the craft apart, as
they circled about high above the now crowded grounds. The spirit of
emulation seemed to have seized on Malvoise. He followed the boys
closely, and every feat they performed he attempted to imitate.
Frank at first contented himself with practicing swoops and glides,
but after a while, tiring of this, he headed his craft due east and
the Golden Eagle was soon a diminishing speck against the sky. The
crowd watched till the big 'plane became a pin point and then vanished
altogether. The Buzzard was off after them in a flash and the crowd
cheered her just as impartially as they had the boys, as the graceful,
black flyer stopped her soaring and headed off in the direction in
which the Golden Eagle had rapidly vanished.
Before she had gone a mile, though, it was apparent to the watchers
that something was wrong. A cloud of black smoke enveloped her engine
and she wobbled badly. A rush across the field began. Suddenly the
black aeroplane made a dash downward at a speed that seemed as if her
driver had lost control of her altogether.
"He'll be dashed to death," cried the crowd, as they saw the craft
shoot downward.
Indeed it seemed so.
But Malvoise was too experienced an aviator to be caught napping. As
soon as his engine began to miss fire and to smoke, he had set his
guiding planes at a sharp angle and dropped in the manner described.
Had the Buzzard not been fitted with air-cushion buffers on her
landing wheels and steel springs on the skids that supported her
stern, a serious accident must have inevitably occurred. But, as it
was, the Frenchman only received a severe jarring and was scowling
over his engine when the crowd rushed down on him.
As the crowd of curious onlookers swept down on the disabled aeroplane
and her furious driver, a loud "honk-honk" was heard and a big touring
car came dashing across the plain. The people scattered right and left
as soon as it was apparent that the car's destination was the stranded
Buzzard.
Beside its driver, the car had only a single occupant, an old man it
seemed by the tuft of gray hair that was projected from his chin, and
which was all that could be seen of his face. The rest of his features
were covered by a motoring mask with large glass eye-holes that made
him look not unlike a goggle-eyed frog.
"Come here, Malvoise," croaked the newcomer, in a voice strangely like
that of the creature he remotely resembled.
The Frenchman instantly left his engine and hurried to the side of the
automobile. The two conversed in low tones, though it was easy to see
that the old man was in a violent rage.
"I tell you the Buzzard must win," he concluded, after storming at
Malvoise for an accident that had really been no fault of his. "I've
put up a $50,000 plant for the manufacture of aeroplanes of her type
and I've got to have that cup in order to sell them."
"I told you, Mr. Barr," rejoined the Frenchman, "that I had found a
man who would do what we want. I told you that over the 'phone last
night, you recollect."
"Oh, yes, I recollect," croaked the old man impatiently, "but he
doesn't seem to have done much. You are sure we have no other
dangerous rivals?"
"Quite," was the reply. "Old Schmidt's monoplane is the only other one
that comes near us and we can easily outdistance her."
"Good! that only leaves the Golden Eagle to contest for the cup with
us."
"Yes, and she is never going to get it," grinned the Frenchman.
"She must not," said the old man, earnestly, "I owe those boys a
grudge for the way they robbed me of my ivory. I never found the other
tusks they said they had left behind either. I believe that
ill-favored black rascal, Sikaso, got them."
"You leave it to me," was the rejoinder of the Frenchman, to whom the
latter part of this speech had been incomprehensible of course, "the
Buzzard will win the cup, never fear."
At this moment, the heavy-set figure of Sanborn was seen shouldering
its way through the crowd.
"Why here's our man now," whispered Malvoise to old Barr. "This is the
mechanic of the Chester boys of whom I spoke to you."
Old Barr greeted Sanborn graciously, but he seemed somewhat surprised
when the mechanic, after some talk, suddenly said:
"I have something important to tell you, Mr. Barr."
"What is it?" demanded the magnate, not without impatience.
"I cannot tell you here, somebody might overhear us. I'll take a ride
with you in your car."
"But it won't do for the Chester boys to see us together."
"They won't be back for some time. They are off on a long flight. I
can tell you my proposition and be back at the aerodrome by the time
they return."
"Very well, I will hear what you have to say."
As the car moved slowly off, the chauffeur steering it carefully among
the scattered crowd, the two occupants of the tonneau were engaged in
a conversation that must have been deeply interesting, judging from
old Barr's gestures and exclamations. If one could have penetrated
behind his mask they would have seen his thin lips curled in a
delighted smile and his eyes glisten with cupidity at the proposition
Sanborn was craftily unfolding.