THE GRASSHOPPER'S MISHAP.
The grounds by noon were fairly alive with crowds of curious men,
women and children, and every train brought more. They swarmed about
the aerodromes and almost drove the mechanics and aviators crazy with
the ridiculous questions they asked.
"Oh, mister, what's that flapper for?" inquired a woman with a green
dress and a red parasol of old Schmidt, the owner of the eccentric
Green Grasshopper, indicating that machine's propeller.
"That's to keep the flies off, madam," gravely rejoined Billy Barnes,
who happened to be standing by, assisting Schmidt to adjust his
planes.
In the boys' aerodrome they were hard at work putting the finishing
touches on the Golden Eagle and adjusting the lever.
"I wish I knew where that fellow was. I would certainly have him
arrested and locked where he would be out of further mischief, for the
time being anyway," angrily exclaimed Frank, as they worked.
At last all was ready and the sudden call of a bugle caused the folks
who had brought lunches with them to hastily quit their meals in the
shade of the trees that bordered the road and hurry out on to the
field. They swarmed in such numbers that the judges of the course
found it impossible to keep them back of the rows of red flags, that
had been planted as a boundary mark, and therefore restraining ropes
were stretched on stakes that had been hastily driven into the ground.
This kept the throngs back effectually and gave the aviators clear
space for their starting maneuvers.
"Ta-ra-ta--Ta-ra-ta-tara--ta!"
The bugle rang out once more.
It was the signal for the competitors to make their appearance.
From every shed on the grounds there issued strange birdlike air-craft
of different designs--in fact only a few of the machines were
practicable at all. The others were destined for the scrap-heap. Their
owners, however, all fairly beamed with pride, as their various
masterpieces were trundled forth and took the places assigned them by
the judges of the Aero Club.
The Golden Eagle, of course, received a burst of applause, for the Boy
Aviators were by this time quite well known. The Buzzard, too, as her
inkhued shape loomed up, came in for a buzz of admiration. Malvoise,
in a leathern jacket of black, with black leggings, gauntlets and
goggles, instantly set to work on a final inspection, looking like
some species of sable imp as he dodged in and out among the intricate
wires.
As for Frank, he contented himself with sending the Golden Eagle
engine up and down the speed scale from 100 to 1500 revolutions a
minute. All her cylinders worked perfectly and the steady drone,
rising in intensity as her young owner speeded the mechanism up,
showed that the motor of the big craft meant to get down to work
without a skip or a break.
Inasmuch as most of the other contestants were testing their engines
at the same time the uproar was deafening. The sweep of the propellers
created back draughts that swept off the spectators' hats and gave the
men who were holding on to the struggling machines all they could do
to keep them from getting away. They were like so many restive
race-horses breathing blue flames and spouting smoke.
Suddenly there was a loud shout, half of derision, half of fear, from
the onlookers.
"He's off!" yelled the crowd.
The boys gazed round to ascertain what could have caused the sudden
outcry.
To their amazement they saw the Green Grasshopper leaping and bounding
across the field--scudding along like a scared kangaroo.
On his little seat clung old Schmidt, frantically endeavoring to
manipulate his stopping levers and to cut out his engine. But
something was wrong and he only scudded along faster than ever, for
all his frantic efforts.
What had happened soon became apparent. The men engaged to hold back
the Grasshopper while her engine was being tested had clung on well
enough till old Schmidt insisted on getting on board his queer craft
and speeding the engine to the limit. Then as the propeller reached
its maximum velocity the terrific strain caused the holding-back grips
to part and the machine had instantly darted away. The crowd, shouting
and halloing at Schmidt, broke all bounds and dashed off over the
field after the bounding Grasshopper, but it sped along far in advance
like a wild thing with eager hounds in pursuit.
About half a mile to the right of the aviation grounds was a small
farm occupied by a dealer in hogs. Straight for this little estate the
Grasshopper headed, driven as it seemed by some perverse instinct.
Schmidt, seeing evidently that he couldn't steer his craft, tried to
avoid a collision as he neared the outbuildings by manipulating his
elevating planes.
The move was successful, or at least was so for a brief space of time.
The Grasshopper rose with convulsive leap, like that of a bucking
bronco. She shot into the air to a height of about twenty feet and
then suddenly, without the slightest warning, she gave a crazy swoop
down and caught in some trees, landing her unfortunate navigator full
and fair into a sty occupied by an old sow and her numerous progeny.
Such a chorus of squeals from the pigs and roars of fear and pain from
Schmidt went up that the crowd, among whom were the boys, feared at
first that several persons had been hurt instead of the luckless
aviator. All at once, as they neared the pen, the figure of Schmidt
appeared covered with mud and dirt--a sorry sight indeed.
He attempted to scramble over the fence surrounding the pen and had
just reached the top rail when the old sow, in whom fear at the sudden
appearance of the Grasshopper's owner had given way to wrath at his
invasion, suddenly charged at him. She caught him, just as he was
striving to maintain his balance, and the unlucky inventor for the
second time that day was hurled to the ground.
[Illustration: The Luckless Aviator and the Pig.]
"Are you hurt?" yelled the crowd.
"Am I hurt--aber I am dead, I dink!" shouted back the badly rumpled
Schmidt. "Ach himmel! der Grasshopper is a pig-pen-hopper, ain't it?"
He hastened over to where the Grasshopper, her engine still going and
her propeller still beating the air, lay like a dismal wreck in the
trees on the other side of the pig-pen.
"Donner und blitzen, you Grasshobber, you my neck brek yet, I dink,"
roared Schmidt, gazing at the disaster. "Vos iss los mit you, any
vay, you bad Grasshobber. Himmel! dot propeller almost takes my nose
off. Aber nicht, I am a dunderhead. I forget to turn der switch; dot's
vy I can't stob der Grasshobber ven she hobs avay."
Rapidly muttering these remarks in an undertone the old man finally
turned off the switch and the engine, with a grunt and a sigh, came to
a standstill.
"Vell, I am oud of der race," announced philosophical Schmidt, as the
propeller came to a stop. "Aber maybe dot's chust as vell. If I ged
into der race maybe I be by der cemetery already to-morrow."
As he was consoling himself with this thought a rough-looking man in
overalls hastened up. He carried a shotgun.
"Get off my turnip land," he shouted to the crowd, "or I'll fill some
one full of birdshot."
The crowd scattered, and old Schmidt among them; but the man with the
shotgun was on him in two jumps.
"See here, you bumble-bee," he bellowed; "you and I have got an
account to settle before you get away from me. What do you mean by
coming flopping on to my farm and breaking my pig-pen?"
"Aber, I didn't come, der Grasshobber bring me--" expostulated
Schmidt, "I vould much rather have been somevere else. I don't like
pork except mit sauerkraut."
"Well, you've scared my prize sow out of a year's growth, smashed two
rails of my pig-pen and brought a lot of folks, who ought to be at
home instead of fooling around a lot of crazy flyers, traipsing all
over my young turnips. Now, the question is-how much do you owe me?"
"How much do I owe you?" spluttered the German. "Ach, ve are quits, I
dink. I spoil your pig-pen, but your pig-pen spoil my suit and your
sow scare me oud of TWO years' growth."
"Now, don't get funny. Fork over fifty dollars or you go to the
constable."
Old Schmidt's face was a study. Finally, however, he produced a fat
wallet, and peeling off two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, he handed
them over with a sigh.
"Ach, you leedle Grasshobber, fifty dollars for your trip, and then
you don't fly excepd in mit der hogs," he exclaimed, shaking his fist
at the inanimate wreck of his craft.
A loud report of a gun brought the crowd's attention from this scene,
which they had watched from a respectful distance, back to the
aviation grounds.
It was the warning gun.
In ten minutes the big race would start.