A WOODLAND EXPERT.
The aeroplane was caught in a furious snow squall. While descending it
ran into the swirling tumult which in an instant enveloped it like a
blanket, the myriads of particles filling the air so thickly that the
terrified Bohunkus could not see the ailerons and even the aviator was
partly shrouded from sight. Harvey Hamilton was faintly visible as he
leaned over and manipulated the levers. Not only was the snow
everywhere, but the machine itself was rocking like a ship laboring in a
storm. It tipped so fearfully that the negro believed it was about to
capsize and tumble them out. He shrieked in his terror, and held fast
for life.
Harvey paid no heed to him. He had enough to engage his skill and wits.
He recalled that Professor Sperbeck had told him what to do when caught
in one of those elemental outbursts. Instead of running away from it, he
headed for its center, so far as he could locate it, as the navigator
does when gripped by the typhoon of the Indian Ocean.
Within five minutes of the aerial explosion, as it may be called, the
biplane was sailing in the same calm as before. The sun was shining low
in the sky and all was as serene as the mildest summer day that ever
soothed earth and heavens. The gust had come and gone so quickly that it
seemed like some frightful nightmare. The youths might have doubted the
evidence of their senses, but for the reminder of the snowflakes on the
wings, different parts of the machine and their clothing. They had
entered so balmy a temperature, however, that the particles soon
dissolved and left only a slight moisture behind them.
“Wal, if dat don’t beat all creation,” mused Bohunkus; “de fust ting I
knowed I didn’t know anyting and de next dat I knowed wasn’t anyting.
Wonder if Harv seed dat yell I let out when dat rumpus hit me on de side
ob my head.”
The aviator acted as if unaware of the dusky youth’s presence. Knowing
the gasoline was nearly gone, he centered his thoughts upon making a
landing. To his astonishment he saw an immense forest below him, many
miles in extent. This seemed remarkable in view of the fact that only a
short time before he had sailed over a large city, which could not be
far to the south. He would have turned about and made for it, knowing he
could renew his supply of fuel there, and find accommodations for
himself and companion. But the fluid was lower than he had supposed. It
would not carry him thither and he must volplane, or glide to earth, the
best he could.
It need not be said that a stretch of woods is the worst place in the
world for an aeroplane to descend to the earth. In fact it is impossible
to land without wrecking the apparatus and endangering the lives of
those it is carrying.
The keen eyes of the youth were scanning the ground below when to his
surprise he caught sight of a village of considerable size to the
westward. Why he had not observed it before passed his comprehension. It
was barely two miles distant and he was wondering whether he had enough
gasoline left to carry him over the woods to the broken country beyond
when he made a second and pleasing discovery. A short distance ahead an
open space in the forest showed,—one of those natural breaks that are
occasionally seen in wide stretches of wilderness. It was several acres
in extent and seemed at that altitude to be free of stumps and covered
with a sparse growth of dry grass, so level that it formed an ideal
landing place. He did not hesitate to make use of it.
Now when an aeroplane comes down to earth, the greatest care is
necessary to avoid descending too suddenly. A violent bump is likely to
injure the small wheels beneath or the machine itself. The aviator
therefore oscillates downward somewhat after the manner of a pendulum.
When near the ground, he shifts his steering gear so that the machine
glides sideways for a little way. Then he circles about or takes a
zig-zag course, until it is safe to shut off power and alight. As our
old friend Darius Green said, the danger is not so much in rising and
sailing through the sky as it is in ’lighting.
Harvey Hamilton displayed fine skill, seesawing back and forth until at
the right moment the three small wheels touched the ground, the machine
under the slight momentum ran forward for two or three rods, and then
came to a standstill. A perfect landing had been effected.
“Gee, but dat’s what I call splendacious!” exclaimed Bohunkus; “it’s
jest de way I’d done it myself.”
The aviator leaped lightly from his seat, and his companion did so more
deliberately. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. Harvey
gave him no attention until he had examined the different parts of the
machine and found them in order. Then he looked gravely at the African
and asked:
“Didn’t I hear you make some remark at the moment we dived into that
snow squall?”
“P’raps yo’ did, for de weather was so funny dat it war nat’ral dat I
should indulge in some obserwation inasmuch as to de same.”
“But why use so loud tones?”
“Dat was necessumsary on ’count ob de prewailing disturbance ob de
atmospheric air wat was surrounding us.”
“I’m glad to hear your explanation, but it sounded to me as if you were
scared.”
“Me scared! Yo’ hurts my feelings, Harv; but I say, ain’t yo’ gwine to
tie de machine fast?”
“What for?”
“To keep it from running away.”
“It won’t do that unless some one runs away with it; but, Bunk, we can’t
do any more flying till we get some gasoline and oil, and it doesn’t
look to me as if there is much chance of buying any in these parts.”
“Mebbe we can git it ober dere.”
“Where?”
“At dat house jest behind yo’.”
Harvey turned about and met another surprise, for on the farther edge of
the natural clearing stood a dilapidated log dwelling, with portions of
several outbuildings visible around and beyond it.
“I must be going blind!” was his exclamation; “I came near passing this
spot without seeing it and never noticed that house.”
But the young man was hardly just to himself. In his concentration of
attention upon a landing place, he had given heed to nothing else, and
the descent engaged his utmost care until it was finished. It was
different with his companion, who had more freedom of vision. Moreover,
the primitive structure which the aviator now saw for the first time was
so enclosed by trees that it was hardly noticeable from above.
No fence was visible, but a small, tumble-down porch was in front of the
broad door, which was open and showed a short, dumpy woman, slovenly
dressed and filling all of the space except that which was above her
head, because of her short stature. Her husband, scrawny,
stoop-shouldered, without coat, waistcoat or necktie, wearing a straw
hat whose rim pointed straight upward at the back and almost straight
downward in front, with a yellow tuft of whiskers on his receding chin,
and a set of big projecting teeth, was slouching toward the two young
men, as if impelled by a curiosity natural in the circumstances. The
thumb of each hand was thrust behind a suspender button in front, and it
was evident that he felt some distrust until Harvey Hamilton’s genial
“Good afternoon!” greeted him. His trousers were tucked in the tops of
his thick boots, which now moved a little faster, but came to a stop
several paces off, as if the owner was still timid.
“How’r you?” he asked with a nod, in response to Harvey’s salutation;
“what sort of thing might you be calling that? Is it an aeroplane?”
“That’s its name; you have heard of them.”
“I’ve read about them in the newspapers and studied pictures of the
blamed things, but yours is the first one I ever laid eyes on.”
Despite the uncouth manner of the man, it was evident that he possessed
considerable intelligence. He stepped closer and made inquiries about
the machine, its different parts and their functions, and finally
remarked:
“It’s coming, sure.”
“What do you refer to?” asked Harvey.
“The day when those things will be as common as automobiles and
bicycles. If I don’t peg out in the next ten years, I expect to own one
myself.”
“I certainly hope so, for you will get great pleasure from it.”
“Not to mention a broken neck or arm or leg,” he remarked with a
chuckle. “Now I suppose you call this contrivance a biplane because it
has double wings?”
“That is the reason.”
“And it seems to me,” he added, turning his head to one side and
squinting, “the length is a little greater from the nose of the forward
rudder to the end of the tail than between the wing tips?”
“You are correct again; there is a difference of about two feet.”
“The wings are curved a bit; I have read that that shape is better than
the flat form to support you in air.”
“Experiments have proved it so.”
“And this stuff,” he continued, touching his forefinger to the taut
covering of one of the wings, “is rubberized linen?”
“It is with our machine, though some aviators prefer other material.”
“Spruce seems to be the chief wood in your biplane.”
“Because of its lightness and strength.”
“The horizontal rudder in front must be used in ascending and descending
and the two vertical ones at the rear for steering your course. I should
judge,” he said, scrutinizing the motor, “that your engine has about
sixty-horse power.”
“You hit it exactly; I am astonished by your knowledge.”
“It all comes from remembering what I read. And the wing tips are the
ailerons, and the engine weighs about three hundred pounds.”
“A trifle less, the whole weight of the aeroplane being eight hundred
pounds.”
“Your propeller is made of black walnut, and has eight laminations, and
when under full headway revolves more than a thousand times a minute.”
“See here,” said Harvey; “don’t say you haven’t examined aeroplanes
before.”
“As I told you, I never saw one until now, but what’s the use of reading
anything unless you keep it in your memory? That’s my principle.”