[Frontispiece: Then with a quick turn the eagle darted toward the
plane, meaning to sweep upon it.]
_AVIATOR SERIES VOLUME 2_
AN AVIATOR’S LUCK
OR
THE CAMP KNOX PLOT
BY
CAPTAIN FRANK COBB
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO -- AKRON, OHIO -- NEW YORK
Copyright, MCMXXVII, by
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AVIATOR SERIES
1 BATTLING THE CLOUDS,
Or, For a Comrade’s Honor
2 AN AVIATOR’S LUCK,
Or, The Camp Knox Plot
3 DANGEROUS DEEDS,
Or, The Flight in the Dirigible
Made in U. S. A.
AN AVIATOR’S LUCK
CHAPTER I
There was noise a-plenty in Triangle Park.
From one side of the beautiful little club house sounded the
ear-splitting squeak of swing chains. All the swings were going back
and forth as fast as they could be propelled by a score of pairs of
active legs and arms. A patient procession toiled up the ladder of
the toboggan slide and sailed gloriously down the other side. Eight
small boys and girls dangled from the rings of the Maypole.
The sand piles at either side of the steps of the club house held
bright little dabs of humanity all solemnly making sand pies.
Across the lawn, green as emerald and close as velvet, children in
bathing suits ran to and from the bathing pool, a round, curbed
fountain bed.
On the other side of the club house were the tennis courts, where, in
spite of the July sun, a dozen enthusiastic players hopped lightly
around the courts while as many more sat waiting their turn on the
benches set against the shrubbery.
Drawn up on the grass just beyond the courts was a marking wheel, and
beside it lay a boy flat on his back. His cap was tilted down over
his twinkling brown eyes, showing only a brown cheek and a wide,
smiling mouth. It was a good mouth and very, very rarely was it ever
seen drawn down into the sullen lines that it could assume when the
owner forgot. When Eddie Rowland was happy, he was way, way up; when
he was gloomy, he went down, down to the very depths and stuck to the
bottom like a sculpin! All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
couldn’t drag him up until the cloud passed, and then pop, there was
Eddie sailing around like a May morning, all happy and full of glee!
He was only fourteen years old, and had a man’s job at the Park
during vacation. He was in charge of the courts, and they reflected
credit on their keeper. Never was there a time when the markings
were not perfect; never did a grass blade dare show itself within the
lines prescribed. The players learned there was not pull enough in
the world to get them a place on the courts out of turn.
And through it all Eddie sang and joked and whistled his way along,
good friends with everyone.
Another boy lay at his side. His knees were bent, his legs crossed,
and he was apparently looking with a good deal of surprise at the
foot that was wagging cheerfully at the end of the excessively long
leg. It was really a good way off, that foot. A nice foot, in a
well-blackened shoe. Bill Wolfe’s eyes were blue, and deep; his
smile was quite the brightest and kindliest that a boy could have.
Already, to Bill’s great annoyance, it had made the block he lived on
a favorite after-supper walk for a number of girls. Bill had been
quite forced into the habit of sitting with his back to the street or
else pretending to read the paper.
Bill and Eddie were good chums. Like many people who are different
in almost every respect, they seemed to get along with very little
friction. Both boys were honorable, both scorned a lie, both were
willing to do what they could for other people. The fact that they
differed in the little they knew of politics, religion, and general
history merely served to give them never-ending subjects for
discussion.
Bill, wagging his foot, turned his head and squinted at Eddie under
the limp visor of his cap.
“J’ever hear such a racket?” he asked and not expecting a reply, went
on, “It does look to me, Rowland, as though the city ought to put in
three or four more courts.”
“Three or four more courts,” echoed Eddie with a wail. “What you
wishin’ off on me, Bill? Don’t I have enough to do now? Don’t I
work here ’til eight o’clock at night? Don’t I get up at six to get
the courts marked? Say, don’t I? Where would I be with more courts?”
“Why, you would have a helper, and that would be me,” said Bill,
uncrossing his legs and elevating the other foot. “Of course you do
all those things, but don’t you drag down a man’s pay for it? I say
you do! Gosh! I don’t see why you don’t apply for a helper anyhow.
How’s that, Rowland? I’ll help you for anything in reason. Say
thirty a month.”
“Thirty a month!” cried Eddie, sitting up. “Thirty a ... say, Bill,
what sort of a drag do you suppose I have with the Park Commissioners?
Why, I only get forty-five myself.”
“Course you do,” said Bill, grinning. “Course you do, and you grudge
me thirty! Tell you what, you are always yelling about how hard you
work and all that. All right. I will do half your work for you, and
you can split even with me.”
“No, you don’t, and no, I _can’t_!” said Eddie with the decision of
the man who has his job clamped down tight. “Go find yourself a job,
the way _I_ did!”
“I would,” said Bill; “I would do it just to show you what a real
fellow can do in the way of getting a real life-sized job, but it’s
too late. It’s only a little while before school begins, and I have
to study.”
“Only a little while!” repeated Eddie. “I say it is! Today is the
sixth of July. Oh, man, you amuse me!” He flopped down again, and
crossed his legs like Bill, but they did not stick up as high. They
were short, stocky legs, those belonging to Eddie.
“Well, I don’t know what I shall do,” said Bill. “I do want a job,
but mamma says I have got to go to Georgetown and visit my Aunts down
there.”
“Yes, and how you do hate it!” sneered Eddie. “I _do_ pity you!
Three Aunts with slews of coin, and two automobiles, and horses, and
dogs, and cows and cats, and more cake. I guess I don’t forget the
time I went there with you.”
“All right, if you like it, come on with me this summer,” invited
Bill.
“Here’s this old job,” said Eddie. “I started it and I am going to
finish.”
“Hello, who’s this coming? You don’t suppose Fatty Bascom is going
to take to playing tennis!”
Both boys propped their heads up and watched the approach of an
excessively fat boy. He was so fat that his stockings looked
stretched, his knicker-bockers were too tight to _look_ like
knickerbockers, and his sweater fitted like a glove. It was an old
sweater and would have bagged on any other boy. A small cap perched
on the extreme back of his head. A tennis racket was under one arm
and a small paper bag was in that hand, while the free hand held an
ice-cream cone on which he was nibbling. He did not eat as though he
was hungry. Anyone could see that it was simply force of habit.
“What cher got in the bag?” demanded Eddie as soon as the fat boy
came within earshot.
“Salted peanuts,” replied the boy and, approaching, stood looking
down at the pair on the grass.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t you mean to offer us any?” asked
Bill.
“_No!_” said Fatty Bascom, backing off a step. “Last time I passed
around a bag of gumdrops and you didn’t leave any. There was ten
cents’ worth, too. I ain’t going to offer things.”
“I’ve a mind to get up and fight you!” said Eddie. “I know just
where I could land a knockout.”
“Don’t you dare!” exclaimed Fatty. “I can’t fight. Mamma says it
might hurt my heart, because I am fat.”
“Then why don’t you quit stuffing?” demanded Bill.
“Things all taste so good,” said Fatty, turning the ice-cream cone
around and biting on a fresh side.
“That looks like my brother’s racket,” remarked Bill.
“It is,” answered Fatty. “He will be right over. Him and Skinny
Tweeters is looking over our outfit.”
“What outfit?” asked Eddie.
“Wireless,” said Fatty proudly. “Me and Skinny bought it together.
We are going to stretch it between our two houses so we can talk
together when it rains. I _hate_ rain.”
“Yes, it _is_ wet,” agreed Bill grimly. “Haven’t you both got the
telephone?”
“Oh, yes!” said Fatty. “No fun talkin’ over the phone! Central gets
mad or somebody wants the line or else you can’t think what to say.
Besides, everybody can hear you.”
“That’s so,” said Eddie. “And you wouldn’t want anyone to hear what
you have to say.”
“You bet!” said Fatty.
“How’d you get the receiver?” asked Bill.
“Earned it,” said Fatty proudly. “Skinny, he went down and delivered
groceries, and I went without cocoa every morning for breakfast for a
month. Mamma paid me for doing it.”
“Gee, you have certainly got a lot of backbone!” said Eddie
admiringly.
Fatty finished the cone. “I never drank so much as a taste for a
month,” he said proudly. “Here comes Skinny now.” He gave a shrill
yell, which was answered by what seemed to be the framework, the mere
shadow of a boy, who came skimming along with a package under his
arm. There was no lack of bagginess in _his_ knicker-bockers. They
fell in generous folds everywhere. His thin shirt was full and
floppy; his hat came well down over his ears. He had a jolly grin
that disclosed numbers of large white teeth. The boys often wondered
how he could stand Fatty Bascom for a pal, but they decided that
Skinny liked to look at anything so fat, for Skinny was certainly
thin.
Skinny threw himself down on the grass while his chum remained
standing, braced on his broad feet. It was difficult for Fatty to
let himself down to earth, and certainly it was uncomfortable to sit
or lie down for a fellow built that way. He stood and watched Skinny
as he carefully unwrapped the fascinating wireless receiver. A
couple of cards printed with the Morse code fell out, and the boys
pounced on them. As they pored over them, Francis Wolfe strolled up.
Bill’s brother was built on lines similar to his own. He was thin
and very tall and--well, boys and dogs and small kittens all liked
Frank Wolfe and old ladies always asked him the way. And that about
tells the sort he is.
With him came a solemn looking fellow in the uniform of an airman.
They formed a group and looked the wireless receiver over, Bill and
Eddie growing momentarily more excited.
“It’s a great thing for you kids to fool with,” Frank said finally,
picking up his racket. “I don’t see why you don’t go into it, Bill,
and you too, Eddie. Keep you both out of mischief and teach you
something on the side.”
“That’s right,” said the airman. “It’s a good thing to know. I knew
a fellow once, before they made the rules so strict, who went up and
got some trouble with his engine. He was right in a bunch of other
planes, and they all had wireless outfits on. He had one too, but he
didn’t know how to use it. One chap thought he saw him sort of
wigwagging with a handkerchief, but of course he didn’t pay any
attention specially, and presently his engine went all to the bad, I
reckon. At all events down he came.”
“Hurt him?” asked Fatty, feeling in the bag of peanuts.
“Not a bit!” declared Mr. Beezley, gazing mournfully at Fatty. “Not
a bit! You see he only fell about six hundred feet or so.”
“Queer!” said Fatty. “I fell off the back stoop once, and ’most
broke every bone I had. I didn’t _really_ break any of them, but I
’most did.”
He popped a peanut into his mouth, and firmly closed the bag. Ernest
Beezley glanced at him, then solemnly studied the sky.
“Looks like rain,” he said. “If it does, I won’t have to fly for a
couple days. I hate to go back to the Aviation Field; so many
accidents happening all the while. Funny one the other day. One of
the best pilots out there. He had been eating stuff; ice-cream, I
suspect. Anyway something cold and wet, and he followed it up with a
bag of peanuts. I never felt so sorry for anybody in my life!”
“What happened?” asked Fatty. He cast a suspicious look about but
every face was grave.
“Oh, he died,” said Ernest regretfully. “Nice chap. Gosh, I never
hope to see anyone pass out in such agony! It took ten fellows to
hold him, and then they didn’t. Just from following ice-cream with
peanuts! About ten cents’ worth, I should say.”
“Pooh, that never hurt _me_,” said Fatty stoutly. “I wouldn’t be
afraid to eat a _bushel_.”
“No, I don’t suppose so,” agreed Ernest, nodding. “Of course there
is always a first time.”
He strolled off toward the court, and the boys continued to study the
wireless and the cards. But Fatty stood thoughtfully contemplating
the bag of peanuts.
“I don’t believe that,” he said, looking at Frank, who lingered.
“Believe what?” asked Frank.
“About the fellow who died from eating ice-cream and peanuts.”
“Hey you, Ernest!” called Frank. Ernest turned and strolled back.
“Fatty doesn’t believe what you told about the fellow who died from
eating peanuts.”
“Well, he needn’t,” said Ernest. “Of course I can show him where the
fellow (name was Peter Jenkins) tore up a lot of the sod when he was
just commencing to feel bad. And two of the chaps who tried to hold
him are in hospital yet. Why, they say you could hear him yell
nearly to Louisville.”
“Just how did it take him worst?” asked Frank, frowning
sympathetically.
“Oh, cramps, and pains, and convulsions, and delirium, and a deep
green color suffusing the tissues around the eyes and nose. The
doctor said he had sclerosis of the maltoidus, and there is no cure
for that. Of course if you don’t believe me, I can prove it by a
dozen of the fellows any time you are out there. I tell you it was
_awful_!”
He turned and walked off once more, and as Frank went after him,
Fatty thought he heard Frank say, “It _sounded_ awful! Where did you
get that maltoidus stuff?” What he did not hear was Ernest’s reply,
“Off the dog biscuit boxes, you know. Maltoid.”
Fatty did not hear, and he stood thinking deeply. No one but Fatty
knew how Fatty hated to be sick, or how he shunned pain. But he
looked with fond longing at the peanuts. The boys were still busy
over the wireless. Looking down, he saw the close green grass. How
awful to tear it up by handfuls in his agony! He had had three
ice-cream cones since breakfast!
He stepped nearer to the boys. He opened the bag of peanuts.
“Hey, fellows,” he said in an offhand tone of voice, “help yourselves
to some of these!”