It rained in torrents all that night; but by dawn the sky had cleared,
and a bright sun shone warmly. But everywhere about High Towers were
plentiful evidences of the abundance of the downpour. The brook that fed
the lake was swollen to a torrent, the lake itself had risen some feet,
and its waters, usually clear, were muddy and discolored.
The boys were astir early, making ready for their trip to Pokeville.
Jupe was set to work with the hose cleaning the body of the Flying Road
Racer, while the boys made some adjustments to the machinery. So fast
did they work that by the time breakfast was announced they were ready
to start.
“I think I will come with you,” announced Mr. Jesson at the last moment.
“I’d like to see Mr. Peregrine’s workshops and laboratories, and
although he appears to be a trifle eccentric he is a very likable man.”
“I wonder what you’d have said if he’d lighted in your corn patch,” said
Tom, with a grin.
This reminded Mr. Jesson that he ought to see how his corn had withstood
the rainstorm, and he hastened off to do this, while the boys got the
car out of its shed. Among other adjustments the boys had made that
morning, was one involving a change of the gas envelope for a new type
which they had invented. Mr. Jesson, on his return from his corn, which
he announced was unharmed, noticed the change, the former gas bag having
been of a yellow hue. The one the boys had folded on top of the
framework that morning was quite black in color.
“Another invention?” inquired Tom’s father, indicating the bag.
“Well, not exactly an invention,” replied Jack, “more of an adaptation.
You know that the difficulty in making sustained flights in a dirigible
has always been evaporation or the condensation of the gas. This bag is
made of a rubber cloth which is interwoven with steel wires and coated
with a peculiar air-tight varnish. It makes a very strong fabric, and
almost does away with the danger of the bag bursting under the expansion
of radolite gas at high altitudes.
“Another feature of it is a small ‘subdivision’ as it were, of its
interior. In other words, there is a small balloon or envelope inside
the main one. This smaller bag is filled with ordinary air. Now then,
when we reach a great height and want to keep on going higher, we pump
this ordinary air out of the smaller ‘balloonet’ and the machine rises.
At least that’s what we expect it to do. You can see; that by
alternately pumping it full or emptying it, we will have—or hope to
have—a craft that will always maintain an even keel without danger.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” said Mr. Jesson, “but you haven’t
tested it out yet?”
“No, but we hope to have an opportunity to do so before long,” said
Jack; “and now, uncle, if you are ready we’ll start. The roads are
heavy, and I guess we won’t be able to make very good time.”
“Well, why not fly over?”
“We may have to,” was the rejoinder, “but I don’t want to use the
gas-making tank or generator again till it has had a thorough cleaning.”
Jupe, to his unspeakable disgust, was left behind, and stood waving a
good-bye to the party as they skimmed off. The road to Pokeville was a
fairly good one, and they were able to make about thirty miles an hour
over it.
At this rate of going it was not long before they rolled through the
little cross-roads settlement of Smith’s Corners, beyond which was the
bridge, of which they had informed the two automobilists the previous
evening. Jack was sending the auto ahead at a good rate down the hill
that led to the bridge, when all at once he noticed a sign nailed to a
tree at one side of the road:
“DANGER, BRIDGE IS DOWN!”
Jack jammed on the brakes, bringing the heavy car to a stop.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Mr. Jesson, who, as well as Tom,
had noticed the sign.
“Why, it strikes me that this is a mighty good time to test out that new
gas bag,” announced Jack, with a quizzical look on his face.
“By ginger! You’re right,” agreed Tom; “let’s get busy at once.”
“I hope it works as well as the old one did down in Yucatan,” said Mr.
Jesson.
“I hope so,” rejoined Jack.
He bent over the valve which admitted gas to the folded envelope, and
Tom, at the same time, adjusted the generator so that the radolite
crystals would begin to make the volatile vapor on which they depended
to rise from the earth. A hissing sound presently ensued, and the
indicator on the gauge showed that all was ready to fill the gas bag.
As the gas rushed into its container, the folds started to round out,
and in fifteen minutes the bag began to assume its cylindrical shape.
Before the machine became too buoyant, however, Jack and Tom secured it
to the ground by the anchors, the “trip-lines” of which were led on
board. Then the work of filling went on, and soon the Flying Road
Racer—a “Road Racer” no longer—was tugging at her bonds.
“All right,” announced Jack, after a while, and they prepared to “cast
off.”
But just as they were about to pull on the triplines and release the
anchors, there was a sudden commotion on the road behind them. They
looked around and saw a farmer approaching in a small wagon drawn by a
dilapidated-looking mule. The mule was careering about, and evidently
objected to coming closer to the weird-looking structure—half auto, half
flying machine—that was drawn up in the road in front of it.
“Whoa, thar, you obstreperous critter!” shouted the farmer, getting out
and hitching his refractory animal.
This done, he came rapidly toward the boys and their—to
him—extraordinary machine.
“Waal, what under ther sun be this yar contraption?” he demanded, gazing
curiously at the big balloon bag which was swaying and tugging at its
bonds.
“It’s a sort of flying machine,” rejoined Jack, repressing an
inclination to laugh; “didn’t you ever see one before?”
“Ya’as, I seen one at ther country fair, but it warn’t nuthin’ like this
yar.”
“If you’ll wait a minute you’ll see us fly,” said Jack; but the former
didn’t seem to hear him.
The countryman’s eyes were riveted on the notice concerning the bridge.
“Gosh all hemlock!” he exclaimed, in a vexed tone, “if that ain’t jes’
ther peskiest kind er luck. I suppose ther crick has swolled frum ther
rain an’ ther old bridge has busted at last. Consarn it all!”
“Isn’t there any other bridge?” asked Mr. Jesson.
“Ya’as, but it’s ’bout a mile further daown, and a roundabout way ter
git thar, and I’m in a hurry. Yer see Betsy Jane is mighty sick, and I’m
goin’ arter ther doctor.”
“Where does he live?” asked Jack, imagining that Betsy Jane must be the
farmer’s wife.
“’Cross ther crick a piece. Consarn it, what am I goin’ ter do?”
“Tell you what,” said Tom, “we’ll take you over in our machine, and
bring you and the doctor back. You can leave the mule tied here.”
“What, me ride in thet contraption? Not but what it’s mighty good of ye
ter offer it—but——”
“If it’s safe for us, it ought to be safe enough for you,” remarked Mr.
Jesson.
“By heck! Thet’s so. Waal, since you’re so kind, I dunno if I care ef I
do. By gum! won’t ther folks stare when I tell ’em I’ve rid in er
airyoplane?”
“But this isn’t an aëroplane,” objected Tom, who was a stickler for
facts, “it’s a dirigible.”
“Don’t keer ef it’s digestible er not, so long as yer daon’t spill me
aout,” was the rejoinder.
“Oh, you’ll find it digestible all right,” chuckled Jack, “come on.
Climb in, Mister——”
“Hank Appleyard is my name, mister.”
“Very well, then, Mr. Appleyard. Put your foot on that step. That’s it.
Now then. Are you all right?”
“By bean poles! This is as comfortable as my parlor cheer ter hum,”
remarked Mr. Appleyard, with a tug at his gray goatee, as he sank into
the softly cushioned tonneau.
He lay back luxuriantly, and drew out a small and very dirty corncob
pipe. Before the boys could observe what he was doing he struck a match.
At the sound of the lucifer Jack, who was preparing to “up anchor,”
turned like a flash. In a jiffy he had grasped the astonished farmer’s
wrist and sent both pipe and match flying into the road.
“Dum gast it all! What did yer do thet fer?” expostulated the indignant
agriculturist.
“Because that bag above us holds fifty thousand cubic feet of
inflammable gas, and we don’t want to go up before we get ready,”
snapped out Jack.
The farmer turned pale.
“By gum, an’ I wuz goin’ ter take a smoke! Say, young fellers, I guess
I’ll—”
He was preparing to clamber out, but Jack shoved him back in his seat.
“Sit where you are and hold tight,” he exclaimed. “All right, Tom! Heave
away! Ah! Up they come! We’re off!”
“Hey, let me out! Let me out! By gosh, this is too dem rich fer my
blood! I——”
[Illustration: “HEY, LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! BY GOSH, THIS IS TOO DERN
RICH FER MY BLOOD.”]
Farmer Appleyard, pale and trembling, peered over the side of the
tonneau and then sank back with a gasp. The earth lay several score of
feet beneath him, and the distance was rapidly increasing. The buoyant
gas which filled the container, as if it had been an immense black rugby
football, had raised the Flying Road Racer so swiftly that it had seemed
literally to “flash” upward.
Below was spread the panorama of the countryside, patches of woods,
fields, fenced pastures, and farmhouses. From that height they could see
quite plainly the ruined bridge and the angry, turbulent waters of the
swollen current that had washed it away. All at once the boys’
passengers had a fresh shock. Jack connected the engine with the
propeller, and the Flying Road Racer began to forge ahead. Tom,
simultaneously, released the clutch that held the rudder rigid while the
Flying Road Racer was merely a land vehicle.
Soon they were flying above the swollen stream, and looking back they
could see the road by which they had come, and the farmer’s mule kicking
and plunging furiously at its halter rope.
“Poor Balaam! I misdoubt he’ll ever git over, this,” breathed Farmer
Appleyard.
“Where is the doctor’s house? Can you see it?” demanded Jack presently.
“Yes. It’s that thar white place with the two big spruces in front. My,
won’t he be astonished when he sees me comin’ ter summon him by ther sky
route!”
“Is your wife very ill?” asked Tom, as Jack headed the Flying Road Racer
for the house indicated by the farmer.
“Eh, young feller? My wife! Waal, she’s as well as I be, I guess.”
“But—but you said she was sick,” exclaimed Tom, wondering if the novel
air ride had turned their passenger’s brain.
“What, I said my wife was sick?” demanded the farmer incredulously.
“Why, of course you did, and that you were going for the doctor.”
“Waal, so I am. Fer Dr. Bates, the best horse doctor round here.”
“A horse doctor!” gasped Tom, “but what about Betsy Jane, your——”
“Old gray mare. Ther pesky critter had ther colic, and——”
But a roar of laughter from Jack and Mr. Jesson, who had listened to the
conversation, interrupted him. They were still laughing over their
comical mistake when Jack brought the Flying Road Racer to the ground in
a pasture at the back of Dr. Bates’ house. Sure enough, a sign on the
front porch, which they had glimpsed as they descended, said:
“Dr. James Bates, Veterinarian.”
And pretty soon out came Dr. Bates himself, his round red face a comical
mixture of alarm and amazement at this unexpected apparition of the
skies. Explanations were soon made, and the “vet” prevailed upon to
return in the air ship to the spot where Farmer Appleyard had left his
mule, the farmer promising to drive the horse doctor back by the lower
bridge.
“Well,” laughed Jack, as, after bidding farewell to the grateful farmer
and the wondering horse doctor, they took the air once more, “I’ll bet
that’s the first time an air ship has been used to convey a horse
doctor.”
Tom made a queer noise in response.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jack.
“I’m giving a ‘horse laugh’ over Betsy Jane,” rejoined Tom, in high good
humor over their adventure.