THE FIRST LEG.
The country now began to be more thickly settled. In fact, the boys
passed a constant series of surprised villages and frightened farms.
While they were passing above one hillside farm, in fact, they were
received with a demonstration of more than surprise. A man in blue jeans
came running out into his barnyard with a shot-gun, and fired the
contents of both barrels upward at the young navigators. At the height
they were flying, however, a shot-gun could not harm them.
A short time later Harry lay down for a nap, after both boys had eaten
some of the cold lunch they had packed at Remson. He slept under
protest, but Frank insisted that after their harrying night trip they
both needed sleep. He agreed to take his turn later. In the meantime, in
the auto, Billy Barnes and Witherbee dozed off and shared watches with
Lathrop and old Mr. Joyce. Neither the miner nor the inventor could
drive an auto, so it was necessary to divide up the hours of sleep in
this way.
While the lads are taking a rest, it may be as well to turn back to the
lone farm at which the _Despatch_ party had decided to stop for
breakfast. So engrossed had they been over the meal, and so busy had the
farm folks been serving them, that none of the party had noticed the
boys’ aeroplane fly over, and they made very merry at the thought that
they were miles ahead of them. Fred Reade was sure they had broken down,
and his confidence that they had met with an accident was shared by
Luther Barr, Slade and the red-bearded man, whose name was Ethan Aram,
and who was Slade’s substitute driver.
“I feel like lying down for a nap,” said Luther Barr, after breakfast,
but his desire was overruled by the others. It was pointed out that he
could take a nap in his auto just as well.
“We want to beat those cubs good while we are at it,” said Reade, and
this stroke of diplomacy won over old Barr. Taking turns at snoozing,
therefore, the party pressed on at a leisurely rate, little dreaming
that the Boy Aviators were far ahead and nearing Pittsburg. There was
another reason for their decreased speed, also. They wished to take
advantage of what they considered a great stroke of good luck to let
their engine cool off thoroughly.
As the aeroplane flashed above Lockhaven, Pa., the wires began to get
red-hot with news of their close approach to Pittsburg. In the Smoky
City huge crowds gathered and awaited patiently for hours the coming of
the air racers. Every park and open space held its quota of excited
people, and flags were run up on every building.
Frank and Harry had both had a sleep before. Pointing to the southwest
of their course Harry indicated a heavy dark pall that hung against the
sky.
“That must be the Smoky City,” he exclaimed, and, sure enough it was.
Soon the junction of the Alleghany, Monongahela and Ohio rivers in their
Y-shaped formation became visible. Then the dark factory buildings,
belching out their clouds of black smoke to make perpetual the city’s
inky pall. Then the occasional gushes of flame from foundry chimneys,
and the long processions of funereal ore and coal barges on the gloomy
rivers.
The boys landed in Schenley Park, a fine expanse of wooded and lawned
landscape, one of the few beauty spots in the city of gloom. Here it
seemed as if at least a quarter of Pittsburg’s population was out to
greet them. The police had formed hasty lines as soon as it became
evident that the boys meant to land on an open stretch of grass, but
they had a hard struggle to keep back the crowds. They were speedily
re-enforced by reserves from all parts of the city, however, and soon
had the crowd in order.
It had been arranged by telegraph that in case of the contestants
landing in a public park that the city would allow them to keep the
machine there as long as they wanted, so that after the boys had
arranged for a guard to be kept over the _Golden Eagle_ and the shelter
tent carried in the auto—which came chug-chugging up half an hour after
the boys had landed—had been rigged, there was nothing to do but to go
to the hotel for a wash-up and what Billy Barnes called “a real feed.”
Of course the first question the boys had asked when they landed was:
“Anything been seen of the other racers?”
They were delighted to learn that there had not, although they were
pretty sure, anyhow, that they were the first to arrive. At the hotel,
as the party entered it, having distanced the crowd by speeding through
side streets, the manager bustled up and asked for Mr. William Barnes.
Billy replied that he was the person sought.
“Then, there’s been a wire here for you more than a day,” said the
manager. “It has been chasing you around every hotel in the city, I
guess.”
He produced a yellow envelope. Billy opened it eagerly, and then gave a
wide grin.
“Whoop-ee, look here,” he cried, extending the message to the boys to
read.
“Will you accept position special correspondent with aeroplanes
for _Planet_? Owe you an apology for unfortunate mistake.
Reade’s treachery discovered.
“Stowe,
“Managing Editor _Planet_.”
Of course Billy Barnes accepted the commission, although for a time he
had a struggle with his pride to do so. However, as Frank demonstrated
to him, Mr. Stowe had acknowledged his mistake, and he would only have
presented himself in the light of a stubborn, obstinate youth if he had
refused to accept his offer.
The young reporter was in the Western Union office that night filing a
long account of the incidents of the trip, not forgetting the accident
to the dirigible and its subsequent safe arrival at Pittsburg—though
several hours late—when Fred Reade entered. The Slade aeroplane had
descended in Highland Park about three hours after the arrival of the
boys, and the chagrin of the _Despatch_ people and of Luther Barr and
his crowd may be imagined when they learned that they had been badly
beaten on the first leg of the trip.
There was a scowl on Reade’s face as he sat down and began to write. His
anger deepened as he saw that Billy Barnes paid not the slightest
attention to him. Finally he said sneeringly:
“What are you writing for now, anyhow? I thought you were out of a job.”
“So I was till a short time ago,” flashed back Billy, “when the _Planet_
seems to have found out something about a young man named Reade.”
“What do you mean?” asked Reade in a voice he tried to render
blustering, but which shook in spite of himself.
“I’m not going into details; you know well enough,” said Billy in a
quiet, meaning tone, looking Reade straight in the eye.
The other pretended to get very busy with his writing, but as Billy was
leaving the office, he looked up and exclaimed:
“You and your friends think you are mighty smart, but we’ll trim you
yet, you see if we don’t.”
“Well, you’ll have to wake up, then,” laughed Billy, “you didn’t do much
trimming to-day.”
Franke Reade cast a furious glance after the young reporter as he left
the telegraph office.
“I’ll make you pay for that when we get out in the wild country,” he
said furiously.
At the hotel Billy found the boys in conversation with McArthur. He had
made arrangements to have his ship reinflated that night, he told them,
and in future meant to carry with him several cylinders of hydrogen gas.
He had telegraphed ahead to Nashville and several other towns on the
route to San Francisco to have supplies ready for him, and anticipated
no further trouble on that score. He had also been lucky enough to get a
propeller from a man who had been making dirigible ascensions at a
Pittsburg park, but who had been injured a few days before in an
accident.
The boys and their party turned in early and slept like tops. They were
up betimes, and after a hasty breakfast motored out to the park. They
found the aeroplane in perfect trim, and after replenishing the gasolene
and water tanks and thoroughly oiling every part of the engine, they
were once more ready to start. A big crowd had gathered, early as was
the hour, and gave them a mighty cheer as they swept into the air. The
next minute the auto was off, and it was a light-hearted party that
occupied its tonneau.