WINNING THE PRIZE.—_Conclusion._
It was at four o’clock in the morning by the auto clock affixed to the
chassis that Frank noticed the wind begin to drop. At the same time the
stinging of the sand decreased perceptibly. The storm was waning.
He awakened Harry, who had fallen into a troubled doze, and gave him the
cheering news. But even if the storm had blown itself out with the
coming of daylight there was not much else to cheer the boys’ hearts,
for as it grew lighter and the air cleared and they found themselves
able to make out what was beneath them, Harry uttered an exclamation of
dismay:
“Look there!” he shouted, pointing downward.
The aeroplane was traveling over a gray waste which Frank at once
realized was the sea. The question was: Was it the open ocean or the
Gulf of California? It did not seem possible it could be the Pacific as,
even at the terrific pace they had been carried along in the preceding
twelve hours, it seemed hardly possible that they could have been blown
across the long peninsula of Lower California.
On either hand, they could make out, as the light grew stronger, a thin,
faint line of coast, and therefore Frank’s surmise was proven correct.
The boys decided to make for the land on their left, as Frank had heard
that the natives of the peninsula itself were little better than
savages, and not overpleased to see strangers. The land to the left on
the contrary must be Mexico, where they could probably find a railroad
or at least the means of transportation to one.
It was afternoon when they drew near to the coast. Not far inland they
could see among the barren hills, dotted here and there with cattle, a
small village. It was a mere huddle of roofs, but at least it meant food
and shelter, and the boys relied on being able to find a telegraph
station from which they could send out a message to relieve the anxiety
of the friends they knew must be extremely concerned for their safety by
this time.
Suddenly as the outlines of the melancholy-looking hills grew plainer
and plainer the engine, which had been working badly, gave symptoms of
stopping altogether.
The boys exchanged worried looks. Beneath them was an expanse of water
without a boat on its surface, and though both of them were strong
swimmers, they could not dream of reaching the shore should their
aeroplane plunge downward.
It was a serious situation.
Harry tinkered with the engine, and it began to run a little better for
a short time, but soon began to gasp and cough, as if in mortal
distress.
“What can be the matter with it?” puzzled Harry. “Everything, ignition,
lubrication and all seems to be all right.”
“I have it,” suddenly cried Frank.
“What is it?”
“The gasolene is running out!”
Sure enough there was hardly more than a few spoonfuls of the fuel left.
“There’s some alcohol in the locker. We had it for the stove. Let’s try
that,” suggested Harry.
The alcohol was dumped into the tank and gave them a little more fuel,
but the shore still looked far away.
Lower and lower sagged the aeroplane under her decreased speed, till as
they reached the shore it seemed that she was hardly skimming the waves,
but she bravely struggled on, and as the engine gave a final gasp and
came to an abrupt stop, the _Golden Eagle_ settled down on a sandy
beach.
“Well, here we are,” said Frank, “and none too soon.”
“Now, let’s go and see what sort of folks they are in that village,”
said Harry. “I’m famished, and my mouth is as parched as a bit of dried
orange peel.”
“Same here,” said Frank, as the boys set out for the interior which was
hidden from them by sand dunes, topped with a sort of sharp bladed grass
that cut like a knife.
The village they found to be a mere collection of shacks, with pigs
roaming about its streets, and skinny cattle poking their noses into the
house doors. They were received hospitably enough, however, and although
they could not talk Spanish, managed to make their wants understood,
more especially when they showed some gold.
The wonder of the villagers knew no bounds when, after they had
refreshed themselves, the boys showed them the aeroplane and pointed to
the sky. The Mexicans were too polite to say so, but it was clear that
they thought the boys were fabricators, though how they imagined they
had landed in their village was a matter of speculation.
That night they managed to secure a cart and, having packed the _Golden
Eagle_, set out for the railroad, which the Mexicans assured them was
“far, far away,” as a matter of fact, it was not more than sixty miles,
and the next day, late in the evening, two very dusty, very ragged, very
tired boys got out of the plodding ox cart at Torres, a small town on
the Sonora Railroad, and almost frightened the native operator to death
by their vehement demands to file messages.
“To-morrow, to-morrow,” he kept saying, but the talisman of a good, big
tip kept him at work.
In the meantime the auto had gone as far adrift in the sand storm as the
boys, very nearly, and the state of mind of its occupants can be
imagined when they found after the storm had cleared that they had
traveled miles in the wrong direction and were near to Gila Bend on the
Southern Pacific Railway, with no more idea as to what had become of
their young companions than they had of the direction in which the
aeroplane had been blown.
Telegrams were sent out broadcast by Billy and Lathrop, but no news was
had of the _Golden Eagle_. Lathrop suggested sending word east of the
boys’ plight, but Billy overruled this.
“They may turn up all right,” he said, “and if they do, we shall have
alarmed their parents for nothing.”
The next day, however, while Frank and Harry were plodding across Mexico
in their ox cart, Billy became so anxious that he sent word to the
_Planet_, asking them to notify him at once if word was heard of the
boys, as he knew that they would wire the paper as soon as they landed
anywhere. No word had been received by the paper, however, and it was a
gloomy party that sat on the porch of the little hotel at Gila Bend that
afternoon and evening. After a troubled sleep Billy emerged onto the
street in the early morning and was met by a ragged station agent.
“Be your name Barnes?” he asked.
“That’s me,” said Billy, wondering what the man could want.
“Then I’ve got a message for yer. It come late last night, but I didn’t
want to wake yer.”
“And you’ve been holding it all this time?” indignantly demanded Billy,
guessing at once that it was news.
“Wall, yer wanted yer sleep, didn’t ye?” demanded the man.
Eagerly Billy tore the envelope open. It was from Mr. Stowe.
“Great news. Boys safe. Win the prize for longest flight.
Dirigible smashed in storm near Parkerville, Arizona. McArthur
and crew safe. Congratulations.
Stowe.“
There is little more to tell. My readers can imagine for themselves the
scene when two days later the boys met at Tucson. Over a merry meal they
“fought their battles o’er again,” and discussed every strange adventure
of their record flight a dozen times. Their parents had been notified of
their safety, and were to meet them in Los Angeles.
“Well, this trip certainly has panned out,” said Frank, as the subject
of Bart Witherbee and his mine came up.
“And here we are, all together, safe and sound. At one time I thought we
were goners sure,” remarked Harry.
“_One_ time!” exclaimed Billy with a laugh. “A dozen at least.”
“I’d like to start out on another trip to-morrow,” exclaimed Lathrop
enthusiastically.
“I’d make some new inventions for it,” said Mr. Joyce.
“Here, too,” cried Billy. “Do you think we will have any more
adventures?”
“Sure to,” said Frank.
The boys did, and sooner than they expected to. As they were talking
there came a rap at the door.
“Telegram from Captain Robert Hazzard for Mr. Chester,” said a grinning
bell boy.
“Captain Hazzard?” said Harry, puzzled.
“Oh, I remember now!” exclaimed Frank as he glanced over the message.
“It’s that army officer who was chasing the Indians, and who spoke about
the South Pole. I suppose he got our address from the papers.”
“What does he say?” demanded Billy.
“Look here,” cried Frank enthusiastically. “What do you think of that?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Boy Aviators in Record Flight, by Wilbur Lawton