Don Hale, standing before a much battered and bespattered “penguin,”
experienced a delightful thrill, which ran through his entire being.
Brimming over with ambition, equally full of confidence, he could see
nothing ahead of him but success.
The moniteur in whose charge Don and several others were placed was a
rather youthful and pleasant-spoken Frenchman. In a quick, incisive
fashion, he began to give a little lecture on the airplane.
“The body is known as the fuselage,” he explained. “At the front and
just beneath the wings, as you see, is the engine and propeller. This
particular type of plane, and in fact the majority, are drawn and not
pushed through the air. The pilot is seated in the cockpit immediately
behind the motor. Two rudders and two ailerons are placed at the rear of
the fuselage. The former, vertical, and used for steering the plane
horizontally, are operated by a cross-piece of wood upon which the pilot
rests his feet. The ailerons are horizontal, connected with a control
stick by means of wires, and, of course, tilt the plane either up or
down. The control stick is an upright lever in front of the pilot’s
seat. These are details, however, that you need not bother with now.
Monsieur Hale, take your place in number thirty-five. Monsieur Hagen may
use number twelve.”
Both boys immediately followed instructions, and, after each had
securely fastened the belt designed to prevent an unceremonious exit
from the plane, the moniteur explained, first to one and then the other,
the proper handling of the engine and rudders.
“The two most important things to remember,” he said, “are to keep the
tail off the ground and the engine going at full speed.”
With his nerves at the keenest tension, Don Hale waited for the command
to start. Out of the corner of his eye he could see groups standing by
the machine, watching him, it seemed, in deadly silence. The familiar
figure of George Glenn among them nerved the boy to do his utmost.
“Ready, sir?” asked the mechanician standing by the propeller.
“Ready!” answered Don.
“Throw on the switch!”
With a hand that trembled in spite of all his efforts to control it, Don
Hale obeyed.
The mechanician whirled the propeller, and in another moment the motor
was emitting a deafening roar; and in still another the “penguin,” as
though suddenly endowed with life, began a headlong flight over the
rather uneven ground.
With all his senses keenly alert, Don Hale felt the rushing wind fanning
his cheeks; and a sort of wild exhilaration took possession of him as
the “penguin,” like a runaway locomotive, sent the ground speeding
behind at a rate which fairly dazzled his eyes.
But why did the “penguin” wobble and stagger in such an extraordinary
manner?
The more desperately Don strove to assert his authority over the
man-made bird the more he seemed to lose his control. Now he felt it
swinging to the left; then, a too hasty push with his foot on the
steering apparatus threatened to send it wildly careening off to the
right. Above the roar of the motor he could faintly hear the shouts and
yells of the crowd which he was leaving so far behind.
The confidence which Don had felt before jumping into the machine was
given a rude and unpleasant jolt; and, besides this, the speed and
erratic movements of the “penguin” were so bewildering as to make the
boy lose, for a moment, his usual coolness. The sudden thought, too,
that George Glenn was witnessing the almost absurd capering of the
“penguin” served only to add to his discomfiture and apprehension.
In his tremendous eagerness to conquer the difficulties, Don made a
sudden movement with the control stick, lifting the tail high off the
ground, and at the same time he added to his mistake by pushing the
rudder too far around. The result was almost terrifying. The “bird,” as
though roused to sudden fury by his action, began to whirl around and
around, its speed seeming to increase with each passing second.
Dazed and dizzy the pilot had just sufficient presence of mind left to
shut off the power. But the “penguin” had already begun to somersault.
Don Hale experienced a chilling and sickening fear. So suddenly that he
could scarcely realize what had happened, the airplane tumbled over. He
heard the sound of breaking supports and felt the impact of a blow. Then
he found himself pinned to the ground amidst a mass of wreckage.
Several seconds elapsed before he could think coherently enough to
decide that beyond a few bruises and scratches he had not been injured.
And, although the “penguin” was as motionless as though it had never
made a movement in the whole of its checkered career, the ground still
seemed to be whirling rapidly before his eyes. But the dizziness, the
pains and aches he was experiencing were as nothing compared to his
disillusionment. He had fully expected to make a grand and triumphal
trip straight across the flying _piste_ to the flag which marked the end
of the course and to hear the plaudits of George, the praise of the
moniteur and the comments of the admiring crowd. And here he was—in an
undignified heap, with the breath almost knocked out of his body, and
responsible for the ending of the tempestuous career of what had been
but a few moments before a staunch and sturdy “penguin.”
Oh yes, he must have surprised his chum George Glenn—of that there
couldn’t be the slightest doubt!
As Don began painfully to extricate himself, with grim forebodings of
what the consequences of the disaster might be, he became conscious of
the fact that from almost every point people were running in his
direction. He felt the hot blood rushing to his face; he experienced a
feeling, too, somewhat akin to anger—for his sharp ears had caught what
sounded suspiciously like bursts of hilarious laughter.
And, to add to the boy’s discomfiture, he caught sight of a “penguin,”
wobbling and shaking like a ship in a raging sea, approaching. He had
one brief, instantaneous glimpse of a tremendously grinning face—that
of Dublin Dan’s—as the machine lurched swiftly past. A short time later
the foremost of the crowd bore down upon him.
“Are you hurt, Don? Are you hurt?” cried George Glenn, breathlessly.
“No—no!” jerked out Don.
And, as though these words were a signal for a jollification to begin,
roars of laughter and howls of merriment broke loose on every side. The
students were not averse, it seemed, to enjoying the humor of the
situation.
“We have seen the human spinning-top!” guffawed one.
“What a wonderful merry-go-round!” gurgled another. “Sixty miles an hour
without budging an inch!”
“Say, boy, wasn’t that enough to make you remember it?” chirped a third.
“You were chasing your tail so fast you nearly caught up with it,”
chimed in a fourth. “At any rate, it’s certainly a case for the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Birds, even though it was a tough old
rooster.”
Now Don Hale, quite unsteady on his feet, having a jumping throb in his
forehead, and being, besides, in a very disgusted state of mind, could
not, of course, enter into the spirit of jollification, yet,
nevertheless, by a strong effort of the will, he managed to control his
tongue and temper.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the impromptu performance, boys,” he said,
pleasantly. “I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to equal it again.
Ah——”
This “ah!” uttered with the most peculiar intonation, was brought from
his lips by the mere fact of his eyes having caught those of the
moniteur.
But instead of the angry, steely expression he had expected to see the
boy was amazed to observe that the Frenchman appeared as unconcerned as
though the incident was of the most trivial character. Yet even this did
not take away the fear that he was in for a neat little “bawling out.”
“Monsieur Hale, one sometimes learns more by his mistakes than by his
triumphs,” were the words he heard, however. The instructor spoke in
genial tones. “Let us hope that it will be true in this case! Come!—now
for another trial!”
Like a flash, Don Hale’s mood was changed; his usual buoyancy reasserted
itself, and he was now as well able to laugh over his adventure as any
of the others. He also had very grateful feelings toward the moniteur
for his forbearance.
“Dublin Dan’s ahead in the race so far!” he exclaimed, laughingly, to
his chum George Glenn.
“Never mind! The day isn’t over yet,” said George, with a smile.
Full of ardor, full of determination to retrieve himself, the _élève_
pilot took the lead in marching back to the starting point.
There were always two things on the practice field which well testified
to the hazardous nature of the work; a fleet of extra “penguins” and an
ambulance. One of the former was very quickly rolled into place by the
assistants. And Don, his ears assailed by a multitude of suggestions and
words of advice, climbed at once to his seat.
By this time numerous other “penguins,” at widely separated points, were
traveling over the field. Number twelve, Dan’s machine, could actually
be seen racing toward them on the home stretch; and in an incredibly
short space of time the dull gray wings loomed up strongly against the
turf. Following a few extraordinary movements, the machine stopped
abruptly, and from the occupant of the pilot’s seat there immediately
came a series of loud and boisterous hurrahs.
“Maybe I didn’t have a bully trip!” he shouted. “Thought at first,
though, I couldn’t stop the engine, and that I’d have to go clean around
the whole earth and come back again. But say, old stay-in-one-place, I
can almost feel, even now, the caressing touches of those wind-blown
clouds on my cheeks.”
“Well, that’s a great deal better than feeling the caresses of the hard
earth, as I did a few moments ago,” laughed Don.
“_Allez, allez! En route!_”[2] commanded the moniteur.
Don, experiencing the same measure of confidence he had had before,
though it was now tempered by a much greater respect for the
difficulties of the task, waited expectantly.
“Now!” he breathed.
The blades were revolving; the engine began its deafening roar—and,
once more, Don was flying over the turf as though hurled from the mouth
of a catapult. The new pilot had learned his lesson well. He realized
that a firm though delicate movement of the controls is necessary to
assure safety and success.
Faster, still faster, the “penguin” tore ahead; and though its movements
were far from being smooth it kept to a comparatively straight course,
only occasionally displaying an alarming tendency to turn over on its
face.
Almost breathless from the effects of the violent wind which continually
beat against his face, and as jubilant as a few moments before he had
been in despair, Don Hale kept his eyes fixed intently on the flag
ahead; and there grew in him a curious feeling that he was being carried
along by some wild, unruly runaway. One moment the flag had appeared dim
and small in the distance; the next it rose large and sharply defined.
The young pilot switched off the power, the “penguin” began to diminish
speed and after running many yards beyond the goal stopped its headlong
flight.
That was certainly a proud moment to the new candidate. The stain of his
former defeat was now entirely wiped away. He was convinced that, after
all, he had made an auspicious beginning.
“Much good!” exclaimed one of the Annamites, who was stationed in the
field to turn the machines around. “One grand fly!”
“Thanks!” laughed Don. “And I’ll do better next time.”
He was, however, to have his confidence a little shaken on the return
trip; for the “bird,” apparently without any reason at all, showed an
almost irresistible tendency to fly off at a tangent, first in one
direction and then another. And when this was finally overcome it seemed
to display an equally ardent desire again to bury its nose in the turf.
Several times Don had alarming visions of another inglorious smash.
It was, therefore, with the greatest feelings of relief that he again
brought the machine to a stop.
And before this had been accomplished he heard George Glenn shout:
“Great—great! Well done, old chap!”
“Surprised, George?” asked Don, gleefully, when he could catch his
breath.
“No; there are never any surprises on an aviation field,” laughingly
rejoined the other.
“_Vous avez fait de progres, mon ami_,”[3] commended the moniteur.
“Better take a few moments’ rest before starting in again.”
Don Hale thought so, too. Naturally, he hadn’t quite recovered from the
effects of his exhilarating experience. His pulse was beating a trifle
hard, and, unaccustomed to the rushing wind which had beaten so
relentlessly upon him, there still remained some of its effects.
“I’m in a better position now to appreciate the feelings of Drugstore,”
laughed Don to a little knot gathered about him. “Honestly, I think
flying must be the greatest sport in the world.”
“It’s certainly the highest,” chirped Tom Dorsey.
“You’ve got the right idea, son,” chimed in Gene Shannon. “Treat the old
birds gently, and you’ll soon be in a position to treat the Boches
rough.”
For a while Don was content to watch the antics of the “penguins,” which
were now swarming over the field in great numbers, and, as on every
previous occasion, he found plenty of thrills in the sight—collisions
narrowly averted and machines performing the “chevaux de bois,” as the
French say, which, freely translated, means acting like a
merry-go-round.
Some time later on he was off in the airplane again, and shot forth and
back across the field a number of times, with generally fair success,
before taking another welcome rest.
Equally pleased over the afternoon’s work was Dublin Dan; and he
proclaimed his satisfaction in a loud and boisterous manner.
“You won’t find me encouraging the scrap heap industry,” he chuckled.
“I’m going to tear right through this course and hit the next before I’m
many days older.”
“Well, so long as you don’t hit me I’m satisfied,” said Don, with a
laugh.
“Never mind. Don’t crow too soon,” interjected the pessimistic Ben Holt.
“You chaps are a long way from the sky yet. It’s pretty blue up there;
and I’ve seen a few fellows just as blue when they couldn’t make it.”
“I’ll see red if I don’t make it,” chirped Dan.
A few minutes later Dublin Dan was taxiing across the field, while Don
leisurely prepared to follow his example—in fact, so leisurely that it
was not until number twelve was seen returning that he opened the
throttle and sent the “penguin” at full speed ahead.
Ever mindful of the danger of collision, the boy was particularly
careful to give the oncoming machine plenty of room, for, owing to the
tremendously high rate of speed at which they were traveling, it would
be only a few moments before the machines were abreast of one another.
Don Hale noticed that number twelve had suddenly begun to act in the
most wildly erratic manner—so much so, indeed, as to suggest that the
pilot must have gone all to pieces.
What was the matter? How did it happen that the unusually promising
pupil should have lost control of his machine?
And while these thoughts were flashing through his mind he suddenly
became filled with a chilling sense of dismay and fear; for number
twelve had deviated from its course and was bearing down upon him in a
zigzagging line with almost the speed of a lightning express.
-----
Footnote 2:
“Go—on your way!”
Footnote 3:
“You have made progress, my friend.”