THE END OF THE DRAGON.
“Give me your hand on that!” exclaimed Harvey Hamilton, impulsively,
stepping forward. Professor Morgan met him half way, for he had
been completely won over. The change of mood on his part was almost
incredible. The young aviator had gained a remarkable victory.
“I have been so delayed,” said the elder, “that I’m not willing to lose
another minute.”
“Why should you? I shall give myself the pleasure of seeing you start
and wishing you the best of luck.”
The inventor’s delight was childish. He chuckled and boasted of the
sensation he would cause when, at the end of a week, he returned from
the Pacific coast, and picking up Harvey Hamilton skim away for the
other side of the Atlantic.
“And you will go with me sure, young man?” he asked, after seating
himself in his monoplane, looking wistfully down upon him.
“Just as sure as I secure my father’s consent,--you may depend on
that.”
“I shan’t forget it.”
Seated at the front the Professor glanced sharply around. The package
of supplies which he had gathered at the hotel in Dawson was secured on
the seat behind him, and the controls which governed the uplifter, the
searchlight, the rudders and motor were found in perfect trim. Nothing
remained to be done except to call a cheery good-bye to the friend whom
only a little while before he looked upon as his most execrated enemy.
Harvey swung his cap and never were more hearty good wishes shouted to
a voyager than he sent after the inventor, who turned his monoplane
westward, as if the course was as familiar to him as that between
Purvis and the points immediately surrounding it.
The young aviator stood watching the helicopter as it sped away, until
it became only a flickering speck in the distance and then faded from
sight.
“Poor man!” sighed Harvey, “I wonder if I shall ever see him again.”
He never did. Somewhere in those impressive solitudes, Professor Milo
Morgan and his Dragon of the Skies met their fate. On that summer day
in 1910, when he steered the astonishing product of his brain toward
the setting sun, he passed into the great unknown, from which he will
never return. He was only one of the martyrs whose numbers must be
added to before the problem of successful aviation will be solved.
Now that he had taken himself out of the affairs of Harvey Hamilton the
latter stood for a long time, wondering, speculating, hoping, and yet
fearing what the end of it all was to be. The inventor in his haste had
not even paused to close the door of his workshop. Harvey gently shut
it, but observing no lock, he walked to his biplane and a few minutes
later was at the home of Aunt Hep, where he had dinner with her and
Ann. When he had told his story of the departure of Professor Morgan he
made a proposal.
“I want to surprise your brother, of the Washington Hotel at Dawson, by
taking both of you with me. This you know will be only a call, and I
can bring Ann back to finish her visit.”
“I never can think of it,” protested the elder lady.
“There’s no need of thinking of it; come on.”
The good woman shook her head and remained obdurate, but in the end she
yielded; the two passengers took their seats, and if there was ever an
astounded man it was the landlord, when the aeroplane settled to rest
in front of his hotel, and springing lightly to the ground, the young
aviator helped out the ladies.
Not only was the man amazed, but he was indignant. He declared that
the two had taken their lives in their hands and done the most tomfool
thing ever known. Ann’s declaration that she intended to return with
her aunt by the same vehicle that had brought them thither was met by
an emphatic refusal. The daughter was forbidden ever to repeat the
act, and though she pleaded and whimpered, she was ordered into the
house, there to stay until her “paw” allowed her to step outside.
Harvey had made a mistake in counting upon the consent of the parent.
So, perforce, he bade Ann good-bye and returned with her aunt, who was
safely deposited at her own door.
His next proceeding was to sail to the camp on the shore of the lake,
and rejoin brother Dick, Hunter, Wadsworth and Bohunkus Johnson, who as
may be supposed were consumed with curiosity to learn what the flight
of the monoplane and its owner meant. They had seen it heading to the
westward and could not guess the explanation. They soon had the story
from Harvey, who blushed at the compliments he received.
“I’ll admit that you are ten times wiser than your big brother,” said
Dick; “for you did the only thing that could avert the gravest peril.”
“There can be no question as to that,” assented Hunter; “the Professor
was boiling with rage and revenge and he would have done terrible
things with those torpedoes of his.”
“But he is out of the running now,” commented Wadsworth.
“I wonder,” continued Dick, “that he did not attack you the minute you
came within reach.”
“I think he would have done so had he not seen I was armed. I took care
that he should know that. You had already given him a good scare with
your Winchester and he had no liking for my smaller weapon. I fell in
with his views or seemed to, and he was won over. I gave him my promise
that when he returned from the Pacific coast I should go with him
across the Atlantic, provided father and mother consented.”
“A mighty safe promise to make.”
“Am yo’ gwine to take dat trip to Afriky?” asked the grieved Bunk.
“Yes, when I can gain the permission of my parents.”
“How ’bout _me_?”
“It’s the same with you; if Mr. Hartley says yes, you can go with the
Professor.”
“But yo’ told me he’s crazy; how ’bout _dat_?”
“So he is; do you think my people will allow me to do as you did?”
The truth filtered through the brain of the colored youth. He held his
peace and listened to what the others said.
The most natural sequence of the incidents narrated was that since none
of the three had ever ridden in a monoplane, they should decide to
indulge in the experience. Dick Hamilton, without the least hesitation,
climbed into the rear seat and settling into position with his hands
grasping the supports, called upon his brother:
“Let her went!”
Bunk assisted in starting in the usual fashion by setting the propeller
revolving and holding the machine back until the “auspicious” moment,
while the three who stayed behind watched the flight, which proved more
thrilling than even Harvey expected. When only a few hundred yards away
and before much of a height was reached, the biplane dived into an
aerial pocket or maelstrom, which came within a hair of making it turn
turtle. The young aviator had no thought of anything of the kind, and
for the instant was unprepared. The huge wings flapped like those of a
mortally wounded bird, it reared and then dipped on the right, until in
a twinkling it stood almost vertical. The spectators held their breath,
certain that a frightful tragedy was going on before their eyes. Dick
Hamilton believed the same, and held on as he had done many a time
when executing the giant swing in the gymnasium. Instinctively he
swung as far as he could to the left; Harvey did the same, raising the
right ailerons and lowering the left, and drove ahead. It was the only
thing that could save them. As it was, when the machine shot through
the furious swirl into the calmer stratum beyond, it still wavered,
shook and leaned over so far that several minutes passed before it was
brought back to its horizontal position.
Harvey glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who smiled back, but
his face was as white as a sheet and he decisively shook his head. He
did not like it and longed to be back on firm ground. He did not shout,
but had the good sense to know that Harvey understood the situation
better than he and would meet it as best he could.
In its descent the biplane had hardly touched the earth and was still
running when Dick made a flying leap from his seat.
“Thank the Lord!” he exclaimed; “I’m with ye once again. No more for
me!”
His friends laughed and rallied him. But he was insistent.
“Terra firma is good enough for me; you may try to reach heaven before
your time, but I’m through.”
Then Wadsworth suggested that Hunter should take the next turn. The
Southerner couldn’t rob his friend of the honor; he would wait until
his comrade had enjoyed the treat. In the end, though, Harvey and even
Bunk joined in urging them to accept Harvey’s invitation, they sturdily
refused, because of what they had witnessed a few minutes before.
Harvey stayed through the next day in camp, hoping to overcome the
fears of the two, but did not succeed. Even Dick held out and the young
aviator ceased his urgings. He and Bunk went on several tramps and had
some hours of fine fishing. Then they bade their friends good-bye and
headed southward down the Hudson. They replenished their gasoline and
oil at Albany, again at Poughkeepsie, as Glenn Curtiss had done before
them, and by easy stages finally landed at their home near Mootsport.
Harvey had sent a telegram from Albany to his father giving him the
news of the rescue of Bunk, so the arrival of the couple was expected.
Bunk was distrustful as to the reception that awaited him, but Mr.
Hartley was as sensible as his neighbor and did not utter a word
of reproof. They understood the slow-witted lad better than he did
himself.
And here it is well to close our story. Harvey and Bunk made other
excursions, some of which were attended by interesting experiences; but
enough has been told. Throughout the weeks that followed all waited
anxiously for news of Professor Morgan and his helicopter, but as has
been said none ever came and as the months passed all doubt of his
tragic fate was removed.
Dick Hamilton returned to Yale in due course, but secured a short leave
for a visit to the Adirondacks early in October. His heart was set upon
procuring those magnificent antlers which had been within his grasp
more than once. He hunted persistently under the lead of Guide Akers,
but was obliged to go back to the university disappointed. In his
letter making this known to his father he said:
“I have established one astonishing fact in natural history: the deer
and other big game in Maine, the Adirondacks and elsewhere know exactly
when the close season ends and they govern themselves accordingly. That
buck last summer continually got in front of me, was as tantalizing
as he could be even to the extent of grinning at me, knowing all the
time that I daresn’t harm a hair of his hide. Now that it is the open
season, you might run a fine tooth comb from one end of Essex County
to the other without bringing him to light. If I stay here until
November 1, he will walk out of the woods at sunrise, halt twenty paces
away and grin at me again. But let him beware: he may tempt me too
far.”