HOMEWARD BOUND
Ben beckoned to the Indian, but the latter refused to come beyond the
protecting fringe of bushes. Ben approached him and pointed to the
island.
“I want to go there,” he said.
The guide professed great concern and terror. He was genuinely
frightened. Nothing could prevail upon him to accompany the boys.
In a disconnected way and with numerous gesticulations, he made it
clear that bad white men were somewhere about the island waiting to
annihilate all intruders.
“Why, the place is all shut up and looks practically deserted,” said
Bob.
“Except for the person waving at that window,” added Ben. “Hark! he
is shouting again. Let us descend to the river bank.”
No demonstration of any kind greeted their exposing themselves to
full view from the island. At first it looked as though they would
have to swim over. Then Bob discovered a light canoe hidden in among
some high reeds. He and Ben got into the craft and paddled over to
the island.
As they approached the log structure at its center, it suggested to
them more of a fort than ever. It was built solidly, had port holes
here and there in its sides, and marks in the logs showed where at
some time or other musket balls and even larger projectiles had
evidently assailed its staunch timbers from the mainland.
“No one seems to be moving about,” said Bob. “Even that man in the
cellar has got out of sight.”
They walked about the building until they came to a door letting
into the cellar. This was protected with a simple hasp and bolt. Ben
opened the door, Bob followed him into the cellar.
A somewhat remarkable sight greeted them. Seated on a sawbench with
an upturned barrel before him was a man dressed in aviator costume.
He had a comb and some other toilet articles on the barrel. With
these he was arranging tangled disordered beard and hair. He tidied
up a very much neglected collar and tie. He waxed his long mustachios
with a stick of cosmetic.
“Gentlemen, I welcome!” he cried, and with graceful agility he sprang
to his feet and made a bow like that of some courtier. Something
jangled as he did this, and quick-sighted Bob exclaimed in dismay:
“Ben, one foot is secured to a log chain running to that center
post.”
“Who are you?” began Ben, but guessing.
“I am the Count Eric Beausire,” came the pleasant-toned response,
“but, greater than so, an aviator, as you are, gentlemen,” and he
looked up and down the garb of the visitors.
“Yes,” responded Ben, “we have just made a long distance flight on
our monoplane, the _Dart_.”
“I greet you as brothers,” cried the count with a glad gracious
wave of his hand. “Ah, it is a pleasure profound after weeks of
confinement. Can I be released?”
“We shall see to that at once,” declared Ben, and he and Bob made
immediate inspection of the chain that held the count a captive. It
was fortunate that they had some of the tools used in the monoplane
in the bag which Bob still carried. With even this help and all Ben’s
mechanical skill it took them nearly two hours to get the count free.
The rescued man urged haste as they paddled over to the mainland.
They found the Indian cowering and uneasy, and immensely relieved at
their safe return. Several allusions had been made to the wrecked
_Meteor_.
“I must see my beloved child of the air once more—a sad farewell,”
declared the count.
The boys led him to the swale brake. The nobleman looked over the
scattered ruins of the monoplane. He selected a small piece of one
of the planes, lifted his cap reverently, pressed his lips to the
little piece of wood, and placed it inside his breast as a cherished
memento.
“Vandals!” he exclaimed, taking a last look at the wrecked airship
and then shaking a clenched fist towards the island.
The party now took up the march for the settlement, much to the
satisfaction of their Indian guide.
“I assume that the _Meteor_ arrived in good condition here
originally,” began Ben, interested in learning the story of the
refugee who was now their companion.
“Except for a dead motor, yes,” responded the count. “I sought help.
Misfortune led me to the house on that island. Ah, the banditti!”
“Who are they?” asked Ben.
“As I learned later, merciless outlaws, the proscribed of the
commonwealth. There are ten of them. Immediately I was viewed with
suspicion. Unfortunately I wore a star bearing secret symbols upon
it—a testimonial from a foreign court where I had made an aero
exhibition. These rabble took it for a badge of a detective. They
refused to listen to explanations. I was chained up as a spy, the
_Meteor_ ruthlessly destroyed. Ah, the vampires!”
“They were outlaws, you say.”
“I learned from what I heard and observed that they were proscribed
men with a price on their head, the terror of the district. They have
defied and even held at bay the government for years. They have
resisted a bombardment in their numerous fastnesses, of which the
island fort is one.”
“But we found you alone.”
“Yes. It seems they anticipated a visit from the mounted police, and
abandoned the island two days ago. They promised to send a person to
release me after they had gotten over the border line.”
By this time the boys knew that they were over two hundred miles over
the American line in a wild part of Canada. Their spirits rose as
with their new comrade they talked over all kinds of aviation events,
told their own experiences, and listened to some thrilling stories of
the count.
At last their Indian guide led them into a regularly traversed trail.
They had not followed this any great distance when a trampling sound
caused them to draw aside. In a few minutes a cavalcade dashed into
view—the mounted police.
There were speedy explanations. The captain of the party became
immensely interested in the strange stories of the refugees. He
eagerly questioned the count as to details concerning the outlaws.
Then he paid full attention to the story of the _Dart_ from Ben’s
lips.
The latter explained to the official that he had plenty of ready
money provided by John Davis to pay rewards and expenses. The result
was that the police were divided into two parties.
“If the outlaws have really gone, good riddance, and we won’t
follow them,” said the officer. “Let one party visit the island and
burn the old shack to the ground. The rest of us will look for your
lost airship, Mr. Hardy, and report to you at the settlement. We’ll
be glad to have a hand in helping out you aviators. There is a big
interest in airships everywhere, and we may get some helpful notice
in the newspapers.”
It was a decided satisfaction to Ben, Bob and the count to sit down
to a good meal in a comfortable little hotel at the settlement two
hours later. The Indian guide was handsomely rewarded. A courier
had been hired to ride on horseback across country to the nearest
telegraph station with messages for New York, Blairville and
Woodville.
Before nightfall the captain of police came in with a report of the
findings of the _Dart_. Ben immediately secured the services of a man
owning a large broad wagon, and the next morning the monoplane was
taken apart and packed on the vehicle.
Count Beausire took charge of the barograph and distance register,
sealed both, and announced that he would accompany the boys to
Blairville.
“My declaration as a representative of the international aero clubs,
will be accepted as to the veracity of your exploit,” he observed,
somewhat grandly.
Ben paid liberally all those working in his behalf. Arrangements were
made to ship the _Dart_ to Blairville. The motor and some other parts
of the wrecked _Meteor_ were also to be sent forward, at the request
of Count Beausire.
The news quickly spread that the young aviators had made a truly
wonderful flight, and many came to see Ben and Bob.
“I’ve got an extra telegram to send home,” said Bob, and went off,
leaving Ben alone at the hotel.
A little later our hero received a letter, asking him to call at a
certain address in the town, to see a new invention of an airship.
The letter added that Ben would regret it if he did not pay attention
to the communication.
Curious to know what the invention might be, the young aviator
started off alone. Quarter of an hour’s walk brought him to the
address given. It was a large, dilapidated house, and looked to be
vacant.
“It doesn’t look as if the inventor was very prosperous,” commented
Ben to himself. “But I guess none of them are when they’re working on
flying machines.”
He rang the bell, but no one answered. He looked up at the front of
the house. Many of the windows were broken, and there was no sign of
life.
“Guess I might as well walk right in,” he said. “I’ll probably find
him in one of the back rooms puttering over some of his machinery.”
He went into the hall, his footsteps echoing through the empty house.
He made a tour of the first floor, and soon came to the conclusion
that the inventor must be in one of the upper stories. He got all
the way to the top one before his search was successful. Then a voice
hailed him from one of the rear rooms.
“Who is there?” a man called, speaking with a slight German accent.
“I’m Ben Hardy,” called our hero, not observing his questioner. “I
came to inquire about a flying machine. Are you the inventor?”
“I am, my young friend. I am glad you have called. I am just about to
make a flight, and you shall see it.”
A big man, in his shirt sleeves, and with a ragged pair of trousers
on, stepped into view. He stood in the door of a room far down the
topmost corridor. Ben advanced toward him, noting that the inventor
was of great strength, as indicated by his powerful arms and
shoulders.
“I shouldn’t think you could go up very far in a place like this,”
said Ben pleasantly. “What sort of a flying machine is yours, an
aeroplane or the gas-bag variety?”
“Neither,” replied the inventor. “Mine is on an entirely new system.
It is the screw principle, as old as the world, but applied in a new
direction. I am the greatest inventor in the universe. My name is
Hans Voller. Come in and see my machine. It is about to fly.”
He held open the door of the room. Ben could make out a mass of
machinery, and a curious contrivance like a big auger.
“We are about to fly!” exclaimed Hans Voller, as he took our hero
by the shoulder and shoved him into the dingy apartment, following
himself and quickly locking the door. “We must have no spies, for
there are many who would steal my ideas,” the man added.
Ben sized him up for a harmless crank, though he did not like the
locked door, nor the manner in which the eyes of the German glared at
him. Still, the young aviator reflected, the man might be only out
of his mind on this one subject of flying machines, and he had been
in just as much danger, and more, dozens of times since becoming a
“bird-man.”
“Now attend!” exclaimed the inventor, as he put the key of the room
in his pocket. “I will explain the principles on which this most
wonderful machine works, and then I will demonstrate it to you. You
will write it up for your aviation club, and I shall become famous.
Do you see that screw?”
Ben nodded to show that he did. It was a curious contrivance of a
double spiral, about seven feet high and half that in diameter at
the top, tapering down to a point. It was made of woven basket work,
covered with cloth, and painted white. Our hero compared it to two
spiral stairways twined about a centre pole, similar to one he had
seen in a circus once, and down which a man, shut up in a ball, had
rolled from the top of the tent to the ground.
“That screw solves the problem,” the inventor went on. “I revolve
that thousands of times a minute. It forces the air down, just as
a screw of a steamer forces the boat ahead through the water. That
lifts my machine up, and then I start my engine and we go ahead. I
have not yet made a big machine, but I have tested this one by making
it lift heavy weights. I want it to lift a person. I am too heavy for
this little model, but you would be about right.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t care to try it,” spoke Ben with a laugh.
“There is no danger! You must try it!” the German exclaimed. “See, I
rotate the screw by this electric motor I have installed. Sometimes
it gets going too fast and something breaks. Then I must look out. I
hide behind this wooden screen,” and he pointed to a strong one near
the mass of machinery. “Now I have a chance to try my machine on a
live person. I have long wanted to. I have made some improvements
to-day, and you are just in time. You will fly!”
Before Ben knew what was happening the inventor had grabbed hold of
him, pinning his arms to his side, and was advancing toward the big
screw, which now began to revolve at a rapid rate.
Ben struggled to free himself, but the big German held him tightly.
His face was close to that of the young aviator, and the youth could
see a strange gleam in the blue eyes. The hum of the motor as it
increased in speed sounded loudly in the room. The big rattan screw
was hissing as the blade cut the air.
“Let me go!” cried Ben. “I don’t want to try your flying machine!”
“But you must!” insisted the inventor. “This is an opportunity I have
long waited for. All the other airship men would not come in when
they got as far as the door. They were afraid of me, I guess.”
Ben wished he had been more discreet, for he realized that the man
was a dangerous lunatic.
“You will soon be sailing through the air; right up through the
roof,” the German went on, still holding Ben in his arms, while with
one foot he pushed over a lever on the floor, thereby increasing the
speed of the motor. “You will soon be among the birds. Then you can
come down and write an account of it for the paper, and Hans Voller
will be famous.”
Ben was very much frightened. The man was fairly crushing him in
his terrible grip, and, as he approached closer to the machinery,
the youth saw that the apparatus was strongly constructed and was
revolving at a speed so great that the spiral looked like a thin
white streak. The blades were not visible.
He could not imagine what the insane inventor was going to do with
him, unless he intended to toss him into the midst of the whirling
screw. In this event, though the material was only light rattan, our
hero was likely to be seriously injured, because of the great speed.
Also, there was danger that he would come in contact with a live wire
or part of the big motor, the vibrations of which shook the whole
frail building.
But the German soon showed that he was not going to do any immediate
harm to the boy. He suddenly laid the young aviator down on an
elevated platform, which Ben at once saw was part of a scale for
weighing big objects. The scale was connected to the screw, and the
arm, with the weight on, was oscillating up and down.
Before Ben could wiggle away, the German had passed some ropes over
him, tying him securely down on the platform. Then he sprang to his
feet, leaving the boy lying there, trussed like a fowl.
“Now we are ready to fly!” exclaimed the German, his eyes flashing
strangely.
Ben looked in vain for some way of escape. He was tied so tightly he
could scarcely move. Close to his head on one side was the motor and
on the other the whirring screw, which made such a loud humming that
the German’s voice, loud as it was, sounded faint and far off.
The inventor busied himself about his machinery for several seconds,
adjusting wires, wheels and levers. Then he put some weights on the
beam of the scale. Next he began to figure on some scraps of paper,
the while muttering to himself.
“Yes, yes, we shall do it,” Ben heard him say. “It is a success. He
shall fly.”
“You’d better let me go before the police come!” exclaimed the young
aviator, thinking to frighten the man. The German only laughed.
“The police never come here!” he cried. “It is too lonesome a place.
No one lives here but me. The house is deserted. It is falling to
pieces, for the owner will not repair it. It is good enough for me.
No one shall disturb us.”
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Ben, growing a little calmer.
“I intend you shall fly—that is, theoretically, not actually. This
machine is only a model. I put you on the scales. I start my screw.
If this little screw can so push against the air, with such force
as to cause the beam arm of the scale, with you on the platform, to
go up, I know I am successful. That shows that if I make a bigger
screw, and revolve it in the opposite direction, so as to lift up,
instead of pulling down, as this is doing, I have solved the secret
of flying.”
The man seemed rational, and his language showed he knew something
of the laws of dynamics and pneumatics, but his eyes had a dangerous
glare in them, and Ben, in spite of his outward coolness, was much
frightened.
“I now prepare to revolve the screw at its highest speed,” went on
the German, and our hero wondered if it could go any faster and not
fly apart from centrifugal force. “When it is at top speed, if the
beam of the scale goes up, I am the great inventor. If it does not—I
am nothing. Now we are ready. You are going to fly, but you are not
going to fly. It is all in theory. But I must reverse the motor,”
which he quickly did. “I am afraid if I let the screw revolve the
other way you would go right out through the roof. We may try that
later. I am going to put a string to the electric lever that controls
the motor, and pull it from the other room, as there is danger from
the great speed if I stay here.”
“Are you going to let me be killed?” cried Ben, now thoroughly
frightened, and believing that the man meant to harm him. He
certainly was in a desperate plight.
“I hope no harm will come to you,” spoke the German, with an
unpleasant grin. “I have to have some one on which to experiment. You
are a good one. I hope you escape. Do not move when the screw begins
to go faster.”
He had fastened a stout cord to the lever of the electric switch that
controlled the motor. This cord he passed through the keyhole of the
door, which he unlocked. Then he went out into the hall, closing
the door after him, but not locking it, and leaving Ben, bound and
helpless, alone in the room with the strange machinery.
The motor was purring like a great cat, the screw was whizzing around
so swiftly just above his head that it made our hero dizzy to watch
it. Once more he tried to break the bonds, but they were too tight.
“Look out now!” called the voice of the insane inventor from the
hall. “Tell me if the scale beam moves!”
Ben saw the string that passed through the keyhole become taut. He
heard the spitting of fire as the copper blade of the switch passed
over the various contact points, letting more current flow to the
motor. Then he heard the screw set up a shriller hum, as its speed
increased.
The scale platform on which he was lying shook and trembled. The
whole room vibrated as though a strong wind was shaking the house.
Sparks came from the motor, and there was a roar like a miniature
cyclone in Ben’s ears.
“Don’t move!” cried the German from the hall. “Lie still! Watch if
the arm moves! You may go through to the cellar! I am going down to
catch you!”
Then our hero heard footsteps retreating down the hall. He was alone
with the dangerous and rapidly moving machinery, unable to help
himself, or to move in case the apparatus flew apart from the awful
force that was spinning it around. The thought was too much for the
boy, and he fainted.
How long he remained senseless he did not know, but it could not have
been more than a few minutes, as after events proved. When he opened
his eyes again he saw a pleasant-faced German youth standing over
him, regarding him curiously.
“Ach, Herr Voller!” cried the newcomer. “I find dot you are right on
der chob, as dese Americans say. I am a writer from der magazine. Der
editor sent me to get a story of your wonderful invention. I come
in, as I can make no one hear der bell. I find you experimenting mit
it. Tell me all about it. Ven are you going to fly? But you speak de
German, and dis American he iss not so easy for me,” and with that he
launched into a flow of German.
“Wait! Stop! Hold on!” cried Ben above the din of the machinery. “I’m
not the inventor of this thing! He’s a crazy man, an he fastened me
here to experiment with. Cut me loose before he gets back! Stop the
machinery!”
“Vot is dot?” cried the magazine man, for such he was. “You are not
the inventor? You are tied up by him? Stop der machinery? How shall I
do it?”
“First cut me loose!” cried Ben. “I’ll stop the motor when I get up!
It’s liable to fly to pieces now!”
For several seconds the newcomer stood irresolute. It took the idea
some time to get all the way in, though when it did he was not slow
to act. Whipping out his knife, he cut the ropes that bound Ben. The
latter, as soon as he could stand, sprang to the wall, where he had
noticed the electric switch, and shut off the current. The motor and
screw slowed down, and the hum of machinery stopped.
“It’s lucky you came along when you did,” said Ben, who was quite
pale from his adventure. “I thought I was a goner.”
“How did all dis happen?” asked the German magazine writer.
Our hero explained. It appeared that the German magazine man had also
received a letter, asking that a reporter be sent to write up the
flying machine.
“Dot luck you speak of, he is a queer thing,” said the German, when
Ben had finished his recital. “I was going first to mine supper, but
I dinks I get de story first and eat myself afterwards. Dot is lucky
for you.”
“That’s what it is. Now we’d better get out of here before that crazy
inventor comes back. I don’t know where he went, though he said he
was going to see if I fell through to the cellar.”
“Ach, if he is crazy, I wants none of him!” exclaimed the magazine
man. “Our life it is hard enough widout such troubles!”
“Hark! Some one is coming!” cried Ben, as footsteps sounded in the
hall.
The two made a dash for the door, and got into the corridor just in
time to see someone approaching.
“He’s coming back! We’d better try for the rear way!” cried Ben.
But it was not the crazy inventor who was coming. Instead it was a
man in the uniform of an asylum attendant.
The man questioned Ben and the magazine writer, and then explained
how the crazy man had escaped from an asylum some months before. He
had hidden himself away so well that he could not be located.
“But we’ll get him now,” said the attendant, and he was right; the
crazy man was captured a little later and taken back to the asylum.
“Gracious, I hope flying machines don’t make me crazy!” said Ben,
when telling Bob of what has happened.
“They never will,” declared Bob. “Your head is too level.”
It was a fine morning when the three aviators bade their friends at
the settlement farewell and were driven over to the nearest railroad
town. Then life became an animated whirl to them.
Newspaper correspondents boarded the train at half a dozen points
down the line, eagerly pleading for interviews.
The papers they read were full of the one great popular current
theme: “The Lost Aviators.” It was a strange situation for Ben to
read column after column covering every phase of public interest,
anxiety and speculation in regard to the missing _Dart_ and its crew.
It was before daylight the next morning that Ben bade a temporary
adieu to Bob and the count. This was at a railroad junction between
Blairville and Woodville.
“I must see the folks,” he said. “I feel that my first duty. I will
come straight on to Blairville afterwards.”
Ben’s mother shed joyful tears to welcome home again the lost boy
whose disappearance had brought many anxious hours of hope and
fear. Ben had a hasty breakfast and then took the first train for
Blairville.
He was thinking most of the result of the long-distance race as he
started for the aviation field. It was with a token of interest,
however, that he glanced down the street where the man with the gig
lived. Ben had it in mind always to fathom the mystery surrounding
that individual when he had aero affairs out of the way.
“Hello,” he exclaimed, coming to a halt. “There’s the gig standing
right in front of the house at this very moment. My man must be at
home.”
A little girl with golden curls, evidently the child of the man he
had sought so vainly, sat alone on the seat of the gig. The horse was
secured to an iron ring on the stone curb.
Ben irresistibly started to walk slowly in the direction of the
house before which the gig stood. Then with a thrill he sprang into
lightning action.
A coal wagon half a block away suddenly dumped its load down an iron
chute through a manhole in a sidewalk. The unusual rattle started up
the mettled animal attached to the gig.
With a jerk the horse snapped the hitch rein, and with a wild leap
the animal darted down the street. The terrified little child on the
seat uttered a shrill shriek.
Ben buckled down to a tremendous sprint of speed. He foresaw that
the gig would turn the corner. Making a diagonal cut, he reached the
middle of the cross road just as the gig swept past. With a spring he
caught the back of the high seat, pulled himself over, and seized the
little girl, swaying from side to side, and just about to topple to
the stone paving blocks.
To his dismay Ben saw that the lines were dragging under the feet of
the flying horse. He clung with one hand to the bar at the side of
the seat. With the other he seized the shrinking child by the arm.
Slowly, cautiously he lowered her over the back of the gig. Not a
foot from the ground he released her.
She dropped so gently that she was not even shaken, and simply swayed
to one side with a slight shock. Ben was gratified to see a woman
run out into the street and pick up the uninjured child.
Then he turned around to decide on his own best course—to get out of
the gig or spring upon the back of the flying horse and attempt to
halt the furious runaway.
Before he could make a move the horse made a sharp veer down a side
street. The gig was half overturned and Ben was given a frightful
fling.
The boy aviator flew through space, struck a section of fence
palings, went through them snapping them into fragments, and landed
senseless on a garden plot beyond.