EBEN JOYCE APPEARS.
Hardly had the automobile containing the old man and the machinist
vanished down the road in a cloud of dust before a shout from the
crowd proclaimed that the Golden Eagle was once more in sight. At
first a mere speck against the blue, she rapidly assumed shape and was
soon circling above the heads of the onlookers, her engine droning
steadily, as if she had been some gigantic beetle.
"I say, Frank, this is glorious. How much better she flies than when
she was laden down with her cabin and fittings."
Billy shouted this comment at the top of his voice, so as to be heard
by the others above the roar of the engine.
Far below them--spread out like the figures on a carpet--they could
see the plain; with its big crowd massed in one corner and dozens of
tiny figures scuttling about so as to get a better view of the
air-craft by getting right underneath it.
"Watch, I'm going to give them a scare."
It was Frank who spoke, and, as he did so, he shoved forward his
control-wheel post till the front elevating planes were dropped at an
acute angle. There was a sharp snap as he opened the circuit and the
roar of the propellers came to a sudden stop.
"Good Lord, Frank, what are you going to do?" gasped Billy, to whom
floating in the air with the engine cut out was a new and somewhat
terrifying sensation.
"Glide," was the reply.
"Hold on tight now!"
Suddenly the great craft began to descend in a quick dropping rush
that sent the air tingling against Billy's cheeks as though they had
been plunging through a hailstorm. There was a mighty buzzing in his
ears, and every stay and wire on the big craft sang its own song, as
the wind rushed through them as if the Golden Eagle had been converted
into a monster Aeolian harp.
Down and down they dropped.
A sudden fear shot into Billy's mind.
What if Frank couldn't start the engine again?
They would be dashed to death to a certainty.
And now it seemed that instead of the aeroplane gliding down on the
earth that the earth was rushing upward with terrific velocity to meet
them.
Just as Billy was about to shout aloud in actual terror at the
disaster that seemed unavoidable, there was a sharp "click" as Frank
closed the circuit with his emergency foot pedal and the engine began
to revolve once more.
Her two propellers shoving her ahead with a mighty push, the big
aeroplane began to shoot upwards again in a long swinging arc. She had
dropped to within twenty feet of the ground.
It was a hair-raising feat and the crowd that had scattered in terror,
as the monster craft bore down on them, quickly reassembled and sent
up a cheer.
There was an even heavier scowl than his habitual frown on the face of
Malvoise as, having completed his repairs on the engine that had
caused him to make such an abrupt descent, he prepared to go up once
more.
"Sacre!" he muttered, "those pigs of American boys would certainly get
the cup if it wasn't for my foresight in providing against such an
emergency."
The crowd scampered across the field to the Frenchman's side as it was
seen he was about to take the air again, and a dozen volunteers laid
on to the rear frames of his craft and held her back while he started
the engine. The Frenchman took his seat with deliberation and adjusted
his gloves with care. It was easy to see that he fairly reveled in the
admiration he excited.
Just as the Frenchman was about to start his engine, preparatory to
giving the word to let go, there was a shout from the crowd and cries
of:
"Let him through."
"No, keep him out."
"Who is he, anyhow?"
"Aw, he's an old man; let him get through."
"He's crazy."
"No, he isn't."
"I am not crazy," came in a shrill, cracked voice, "unless it is with
my wrongs."
Malvoise looked up quickly.
He saw an old man with long, flowing gray hair and clothes of the
shabbiest making his way toward him. Close behind followed a young
woman of unusual beauty, who seemed to be endeavoring to stop the aged
man from going further. But he was not to be restrained. In a few
strides he was at the side of the Buzzard, and gazing with piercing
eyes into the French aviator's face.
"Well, what do you want, old man?" asked Malvoise sharply.
"I want the world to know that the Buzzard is my invention, my design,
the child of my brain from her top-plane to her landing wheels;"
shrilled the old man, who seemed beside himself with excitement.
"Father, do be calm, I beg of you," entreated the young woman.
"Calm, child! how can I be calm when I realize that I have been robbed
of the work of years by the craftiness of this old man, Barr?"
"Hush!" exclaimed the Frenchman, as the old man voiced the name of his
employer, "don't talk so loud. I know who you are now. You are Eben
Joyce, the inventor."
"Yes, I am," replied the old man in a lower voice, for he too saw that
the more curious members of the crowd were pressing so close to them
that every word of their conversation must have been audible. "I am
indeed Eben Joyce, the unfortunate inventor from whom Luther Barr by
trickery secured my working drawings and specifications for the
Buzzard. For a paltry five hundred I sold them all to him on the
understanding that I was to have a share in the business. There will
be millions in it--millions in it for him, but not a cent for me; for
the agreement that I foolishly signed contains a clause that resigns
all my interest in the Buzzards. Fool that I was, in my lack of
knowledge of business trickery, I did not realize what the
cunningly-worded sentence meant till it was too late. The five hundred
went to pay my debts, and my daughter and I now face starvation."
"Well, that's none of my business," was the brutal reply. "I simply am
here to drive the Buzzards, not to talk about them."
"What!" stammered the old man, "will you have no pity on us nor even
direct where we may find Luther Barr if he is on the grounds?"
"I can't waste any time on you, I tell you," cried the Frenchman, his
eye scanning the sky, where the Golden Eagle was maneuvering in
circles and swoops.
"Moreover," went on Malvoise, "I should not advise you to mention
Barr's name as the manufacturer of the Buzzards. He has a business
deal on in which it is important he should not be known as an
aeroplane speculator. If he learns that you are giving his secrets
away, he will make it hot for you, I can tell you. You were sent to
Bellevue yesterday, were you not?"
"I was--yes," pitifully cried the old man, "but I was at once
released, and it was with money given me by one of the doctors who
heard my story and pitied me that I came down here to-day to find
Luther Barr and see whether--although in law he owes me
nothing--whether I could not persuade him to at least give me
something to keep the wolf from the door till I have perfected my new
automatic balancing device for air-craft."
As he spoke, the old man's eyes kindled with pride at the achievement
he hoped to accomplish. He shook off the touch of his daughter's hand
on his ragged coat-sleeve. In his kindling enthusiasm he seemed to
have forgotten his cares and anxieties.
"Oh, sir," he went on eagerly, "it would take very little money now
before the invention is ready and if Mr. Barr could find it in his
heart to help me I would gladly share the proceeds with him. It is the
most needed improvement of the age for air-craft and--"
"Oh, you are like all crazy inventors," brutally blurted out Malvoise,
"every idea that enters your cracked brain you think is the greatest
improvement of the age, as you say. What good would your inventions be
anyway without money to back them up--they'd only be junk for the
scrap pile."
The old man's eyes filled with tears as the Frenchman began his rough
speech, but the look in them changed rapidly to one of amazed anger as
the aviator continued. Drawing himself up to his full height the old
man seemed about to launch a terrific denunciation at the other when
his daughter once more intervened.
"Come, father," she said gently, "we shall gain nothing by remaining
here. You have been robbed of your invention and it is evident that
Mr. Barr means to adhere closely to what he and his like call business
methods. Come, let us get back to the city and--"
Her words were cut short by a shout from Malvoise. He started up his
engine suddenly and before the old man could step back out of the way,
the helpers, taken by surprise, let go of the rear structure to which
they had been clinging.
"Out of my way!" yelled Malvoise, as like some huge juggernaut the
black aeroplane bore down on old Eben Joyce. But the warning came too
late.
A horrified cry of:
"He's killed!" went up from the crowd, as the end of one of the planes
struck the old man and knocked him on to the grass with crashing
force.
His daughter shrieked aloud as she saw the accident and rushed to her
father's side as the Buzzard swept on.
Old Mr. Joyce lay very still. There was a deep gash in his head where
the aeroplane had struck him.
In the midst of the excitement there fell over the crowd a dark
shadow. Everybody looked up to see what had caused it, and there,
right above them, was the Golden Eagle. Frank had seen the crowd and
driven the aeroplane above it to see what was the matter.
The next minute the great aeroplane glided groundward and landed
within a few feet of the crowd. The press made way as the Eagle's
occupants hastened to the side of the wounded man.
"Here, Harry, here, Billy, carry him to our shed and lay him on one of
the cots," commanded Frank. "I'll tell Le Blanc to get on his motor
cycle and hurry back with a doctor."
The boys picked the unconscious man up and carried him to the Golden
Eagle's shed. His pitiful emaciation made their task an easy one. The
unfortunate old man was reduced almost to a skeleton.
"Oh, thank you so much, sir," exclaimed Eben Joyce's daughter,
clasping her hands gratefully, you--you don't think that he is badly
hurt, do you?"
"Why, he has a nasty cut," replied Frank, who had hastily examined it,
"but I think it is only a flesh wound. He'll pull through, never fear.
You are a relative of his, miss?"
"I am his daughter," exclaimed the girl.
At this moment, Malvoise, who had checked the Buzzard and dismounted,
hastened up. His face was livid and his hands shook as though with
palsy.
"It was an accident--it was all an accident," he cried. "I didn't mean
to. Is--is he dead?"
"He is not,--and he is not likely to die," sternly replied Frank,
looking full into the Frenchman's cringing face, "do you know who he
is?"
"Do I know who he is?" repeated the Frenchman slowly, "why, no,
monsieur, I never saw him before in my life."