THE PROFESSOR LEADS THE WAY.
Harvey Hamilton was making his way toward the aeroplane, when his right
hand touched a big lump at his hip. Reaching down to learn what it was,
he drew forth his six-shooter.
“Well, I’ll be hanged! I’m the champion idiot of the twentieth
century!” he exclaimed, with a pang of self-disgust as he looked at the
small weapon. “Every chamber is loaded, and I have a lot of cartridges
in my pocket, but I forgot all about them until this minute! While I
was chafing my legs on that limb I might have filled the bear with
lead. His snout wasn’t a dozen feet from me, and though I didn’t see
clearly I couldn’t have missed him if I had tried.”
He certainly had cause for exasperation. While a Colt’s revolver isn’t
a very formidable weapon, and hunters as a rule do not seek big game
with small arms, yet the modern make possesses great penetrative powers
and it is quite likely that, counting Harvey’s reserve ammunition, he
might have given the bear his quietus. Strange that our young friend
never realized he was armed until the necessity for it had passed.
“I wish he would show up again,” he added, peering around in the gloom;
“I should like to square matters with him for what he made me go
through.”
But the brute was not seen or heard again, and perhaps it was as
well for the young aviator, who might have been disappointed in the
effectiveness of his weapon.
A pleasing fact became manifest. Night was ended and moonlight was
giving place to the increasing glow in the eastern sky that showed day
was breaking. The hours of trouble, annoyance, vexation and danger
were over and he must gather up the threads of life again. He was
hungry, but no food was within immediate reach, and he could afford to
wait until the situation cleared before seeking nourishment. He was
within easy reach of thriving settlements, towns, and even cities of
considerable size. To the north stretched the picturesque Adirondacks,
with their wealth of streams, rivers and lakes, their vast areas
of wilderness and many recesses where only the solitary hunter had
as yet forced his way. Hundreds of people in quest of health and
recreation were roaming through the wilds, living in log cabins or
tents, or sleeping in blankets by wood fires, kindled in the depth of
the solitude. They spent the glorious days in fishing, tramping and
breathing the life-giving ozone, which sent them back to their duties
invigorated, strengthened and renewed in body and spirit. It was a
famous clergyman who, a half century before, published a book of his
experiences in the Adirondacks, insisting that the mountains would cure
men who had almost reached the last stages of consumption. The tonic
properties of the region are extraordinary and the entrancing story
sent droves thither. The majority were disappointed by his glowing
pictures and when they emerged and registered their names at the
primitive hotels on the outskirts, they added, “Murray’s Fools.” None
the less, unnumbered invalids have found the section a veritable land
of hope.
There was no thought of anything of this nature in the mind of Harvey
Hamilton when he stood beside his aeroplane, after an inspection had
shown him it was in perfect condition and ready for whatever service he
required of it. As is often the case with the brain which is perplexed
at night, it was clarified in the morning. He was confronted by a
formidable task, but his policy was settled.
He fully believed that Professor Morgan after studying his invention
in his workshop, subjected it to the decisive test in the open air,
by sailing well to the northward and returning to his retreat when
he discovered any defect. The distance passed might be ten, fifteen,
twenty or a greater number of miles. He had not yet perfected his
invention, but expected to do so quite soon. He was resolute in his
purpose to carry Bohunkus Johnson across the ocean to Africa, and would
fight to prevent any one taking the negro from him. With the whimsical
persistence of an unbalanced brain he grew to distrust Bunk himself.
The dusky youth had asked that he might be a passenger on the wonderful
journey, and having received permission, would be held to the agreement.
It was this state of mind that led the inventor to transport his
assistant, as he may be considered, to the northern terminus of those
experimental flights, and there leave him until the time should come
to start on the aerial voyage to the other side of the world. As has
been said, it was an easy matter to take such food as he required,
and Bohunkus having no weapons and being in the heart of an unknown
wilderness, would be terrified by the thought of trying to make his way
out without some one to guide him.
Such in brief was the theory that Harvey had formed and upon which he
decided to work until its error appeared. As he figured matters, the
great problem to solve was the location of the spot where Bohunkus was
held a virtual prisoner, for the young aviator put from him the fear
that the crazy Professor had made way with Bunk.
If Harvey was right in his surmises, the monoplane would soon wing its
way northward, passing not far from the spot where the other machine
was partially hidden on the edge of the small meadow. Harvey must learn
so far as he could where the Professor’s destination lay. It would be
easy to do this, provided he could pursue without danger of discovery,
but that was impossible: some other method must be followed.
Harvey decided to wait where he was until the monoplane sailed past and
then watch its course through his field glass. If he failed to locate
the precise spot, he would approximate it and narrow the area of search.
The aeroplane rested on the northern side of the clearing, from
which position it was impossible, because of the intervening trees,
to see the country lying in that direction. It was so early in the
morning that Harvey felt safe in walking to the other side, where his
observation would be clear. Prudence suggested that he should not
expose himself to the risk of detection, and it would have been easy
to skirt the open, thus keeping out of sight for the whole distance,
but the danger was seemingly so slight, that he did not hesitate to
move out from the margin of the wood toward the opposite limit of the
unfenced meadow.
Straightway he received a lesson which he could never forget and which
came within a hair of upsetting all his carefully laid plans. He was
in the middle of the space when there was a whirring rush overhead as
of the wings of a mighty bird, and Professor Morgan in his monoplane
shot past directly above the youth, at a height of not more than two
hundred feet. Harvey stood still, dumfounded and scared, for he was
sure he was or would be discovered in the next instant. Staring upward,
he saw the well-remembered machine and read the ominous name painted
on the under side of the immense wings: “The Dragon of the Skies.” The
gaunt, long-limbed Professor sat upright, staring ahead with his hands
grasping the levers, while he watched every movement of his car. So
absorbed was he in this task that he did not glance downward at the
form standing like a statue and gazing up at him.
It was the narrowest escape conceivable for Harvey Hamilton. He
waited until the monoplane in its arrowy flight was several hundred
yards away, and still going with the speed of the wind. Even then if
the Professor should look behind him, he could not fail to see the
spectator on the ground. In a panic, the latter broke into a run, not
pausing until under the shadow of the protecting limbs of the trees.
There he waited, glass in hand, and raised it to his eyes when the
gigantic bird was a long way off.
“He did not wait for breakfast,” was the conclusion of Harvey; “which
may mean that he intends soon to return, or will eat his morning meal
somewhere else, or will go without it altogether.”
The sky was as clear and radiant as before, and stepping into the
open, the young aviator leveled his binoculars at the inventor and his
machine. They seemed to be aiming for the mountainous ridge ten or
twelve miles away.
“If he stops on this side,” thought Harry, “it will mean that Bunk is
there awaiting him; if he goes over the summit, it will signify that
beyond it is the place.”
For the twentieth time, the youth blessed the makers of the admirable
field glass which adds so markedly to the power of the natural eye. The
whole expanse of romantic country, with its masses of rocks, belts of
forest, wild, uncultivated land, broad fields, small, winding streams,
scattered dwellings, three villages at varying distances, rough surface
of hill, valley and precipitous elevations, some of which deserved the
name of mountains, was spread before him. The ridge, like a mighty
wall, shut in this impressive prospect on the north. The side of the
ridge was covered with a growth of exuberant though somewhat stunted
trees, gray towering masses of rocks showing at intervals; a couple of
tumbling waterfalls, whose bases looked like rumpled snow, could also
be seen.
Harvey Hamilton, however, had no eye for any of these: his interest lay
in that object which was coursing through space at tremendous speed,
as if it meant to dive into the forest which blocked its course. He
kept gently shifting the focal distance of the glasses so as to hold
the monoplane in distinct view, though the edges of the wings showed at
times a fringe of prismatic hues that did not interfere, however, with
his vision.
Professor Morgan was flying low, but at the base of the ridge, when
Harvey expected to see him make a landing, he used his elevating
rudder and skimmed upward toward the summit. The picture was that of
an enormous bird which with its vast wings outspread was scaling the
mountainside by stepping lightly on the treetops and lofty rocks. Up,
up, he climbed with dizzying swiftness, was silhouetted for a moment
against the clear sky, and then shot out of the watcher’s field of
vision.
“Bohunkus is on the other side,” was Harvey’s conclusion, as he screwed
up the glasses and shut them in their leathern case, which he slipped
over his shoulder.
It was guesswork as to when the Professor would come back. He might
make a brief circuit in the sky beyond and return in a few minutes to
his workshop, or be out of sight for hours. It might occur to him that
it was wise to eat breakfast and to get food for his dusky assistant.
Be all this as it may, Harvey decided to act at once, since nothing was
to be gained otherwise.
He ran across the open to his machine, pulled it clear of the
undergrowth and limbs, pointed it toward the western limit of the
clearing, spun the propeller round, and sprang into his accustomed seat
in time to direct the fast rising speed. He had a good supply of fuel
and the biplane worked smoothly. Swerving to the north, he “put on
steam” and was off.
His plan was to spin ahead until he reached the base of the ridge, or
perhaps passed a part of the way up its side. He would be on the watch
for a good landing place, hide the aeroplane as before, and then press
his investigations on foot.
Before he had gone half the distance, he abandoned the plan of flying
part way up the ridge. A dread of the Professor’s return grew, and
his eyes began roaming over the surface in quest of a safe place to
descend. He regretted having come thus far, and resolved to take the
first chance that offered. It appeared on a slight swell near the base
of the ridge, but somewhat to the right of the course he was following.
It was not the spot he would have selected had he not been pressed for
time, but such as it was he had to accept it and he believed it would
answer.
He was not in a settled section, though one of the villages could not
have been more than two miles to the eastward. The ground upon which he
rested his hopes could not have contained more than a couple of acres
and the upper end was shut in by a lot of boulders which threatened to
play havoc with his machine. Both on the left and right, however, were
undergrowth and stunted pines that promised to be a good hiding place
for the aeroplane. Accordingly, he dropped as low as was safe, shut off
his motor and dipped to the rough ground. He landed with a bump that
came near unseating him, and would have shattered his front rudder
against the boulders had he not managed to veer his course so as to
avoid them in time.
“I don’t fancy this business,” he muttered, as he stepped to the ground
and looked the machine over; “the folks at Garden City know how to
construct these things, for this one has stood a good deal of jarring
without harm so far as I can see.”
It was a work of considerable difficulty to work the biplane among the
trees where it was not likely to be seen by any one passing overhead,
though in plain sight of a person on the ground. Some five or six
hundred feet had to be climbed to reach the summit. The surface was of
the roughest character, his way leading around piles of stone, through
thick woods, which fortunately were not cluttered with undergrowth,
across deep gullies, and so steep in some places that it was trying
even to a professional guide or hunter.
Standing thus and debating the situation, Harvey caught the murmur of
the waterfall on his right. He recalled that it was near, and would
have paid it a visit had not more important matters demanded attention.