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HIKE AND THE AEROPLANE
[Illustration: THE WAVES WERE INCREASING—THE YACHT COULD NOT LAST
MUCH LONGER
_Page 51_
]
HIKE AND THE
AEROPLANE
BY
TOM GRAHAM
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN TWO COLORS BY
ARTHUR HUTCHINS
[Illustration: Decoration]
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1912, by_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian_
[Illustration: _August, 1912_]
TO
EDWIN AND ISABEL LEWIS,
THE AUTHOR’S OLDEST FRIENDS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A RESCUE IN CANYON DIABLO 1
II THE MYSTERY OF THE HAMMERING 11
III LIEUTENANT ADELER AND WIBBELTY-WOBBELTY 21
IV THE AEROPLANE’S FIRST FLIGHT 38
V THE WRECK OF THE YACHT 45
VI GO! 56
VII A GLIDE TO SAFETY 61
VIII A FIGHT IN THE SKY 70
IX TWO BOYS AND A GENERAL 81
X THAT MILLION DOLLARS 93
XI THE MERRY BELL-BOY 98
XII THE LONE CABIN 110
XIII DETECTIVE POODLE 125
XIV AIR-PILOT POODLE 146
XV CHARGE! 156
XVI THE CAPTAIN’S TRICK 166
XVII AT SANTA BENICIA ACADEMY 174
XVIII THE GREAT HAZING 184
XIX AVIATING AGAIN! 196
XX THE GAME WITH THE ETONIANS 210
XXI LEFT EARED DONGAN 216
XXII TROUBLE IN MEXICO 225
XXIII REBELS AT THE BORDER 230
XXIV A SKIRMISH AT AGUAS GRANDES 238
XXV THE RAIN OF DEATH 250
XXVI A KITE FOR WATCH-TOWER 258
XXVII WILL HIKE PLAY? 265
XXVIII THE BIG GAME 271
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The waves were increasing—the yacht could not last much
longer _Frontispiece_
PAGE
“Lay that gun down or I’ll throw you off this machine” 78
“Will you take a couple of soldiers and come?” 148
Hike passed Left Ear the ball and yelled “Beat it!” 272
HIKE AND THE AEROPLANE
HIKE AND THE AEROPLANE
CHAPTER I
A RESCUE IN CANYON DIABLO
Two boys were riding on horseback along a little trail that overhung
Canyon Diablo. They were exploring the lonely country miles below
Monterey, on the California coast. Above them rose the mountains; a
thousand feet below them was the Diablo River. The boys were dressed
in khaki, with puttees, and with broad-brimmed felt hats that looked
as though they had slept in them and used them for dippers and
footballs.
The strong United States cavalry horses which they rode seemed to be
ready for anything, and the boys themselves did not act as though
they were much afraid of a drop from this narrow shelf of rock.
Hike Griffin, who rode ahead, was a boy of sixteen, with straight
shoulders that were going to become very broad. He had a shock of the
blackest hair that ever grew, and quiet, gray eyes that never seemed
to worry. His mouth was strong, yet with little laughter-wrinkles at
the side, as though he saw life as an interesting joke.
He rode so easily that he almost slouched in his saddle, like a
cowpuncher. But when the horse reared at a rabbit that started up
from the chaparral, he straightened up like a cavalry officer leading
a squadron on parade, and coaxed her into behaving, laughing at her
and patting her neck.
That was just the way Hike Griffin had handled the Freshman football
team at Santa Benicia Military Academy, all the fall before. “Hike”
wasn’t his only name. His father, Major James Griffin, of the army
Signal Corps, had named him Gerald. Hike had feared that the fellows
at Santa Benicia would call him “Geerawld.”
They started to, but when he took his hazing like a man, and captured
the hearts of all his classmates, he was christened “Jerry.” Then he
became right half and captain of the Freshman football team. With a
splendid sixty-yard run or “hike” as westerners call it, he made the
touch-down which won the Freshmen’s great annual game with San Dinero
Prep.
While he was dashing down the field with the ball under his arm, the
Santa Benicia rooters went mad, yelling “Hike, Jerry, hike! Griffin,
hike, _hike_!” After that, he was known as “Hike.” The same meaning,
said Poodle Darby, “to go with speed, like a whale-fish!”
In the spring, he had done some more hiking, when he won the
half-mile and cross-country races, running along easily, as though
he were a little chilly, and wanted to get warm. There was no more
danger that he would be insulted by “Geerawld.”
So he was quite happy when he went home to the Monterey Presidio
for summer vacation, and took with him his classmate and roommate,
Torrington Darby.
You must not think that Torrington Darby was _called_ that! You would
have known he couldn’t have been, if you had seen him—round, sleek as
a dove, always grinning all over his happy face, and usually drawling
songs he made up himself; very lazy and very cheerful. Just the same
he always got his lessons. In fact, he was much quicker at the books
than was Hike.
He made life so interesting to all his friends that they decided
he must have a better handle than “Torrington.” So they sat upon
him, one evening; one on his face and another on his chest, while a
third tied up his legs. This was so that he could not interfere with
their important decision. Darby looked very patient and folded his
hands and whined like a small dog, after kicking Left Eared Dongan
vigorously; so they named him “Poodle,” and made him beg for small
sticks, out in the Yard.
It was Poodle Darby who was riding behind Hike Griffin, along the
canyon trail, making the day hideous by singing that good California
chant, “Hallelujah, I’m a bum.”
They had been out on the trip for four days, and the excellent Poodle
had sung that thing ninety thousand, seven hundred and steen times,
Hike figured.
“Come on, Poodle; we’ll have to hustle if we’re going to reach the
top of the trail for camp to-night,” Hike shouted.
“Oh, why don’t you work, as other men do—
All right then, hike, Hike, and I’ll fol-lol-low you!”
So Poodle carelessly bawled back, and ground his heel into the side
of his horse, kicking it into a canter.
The horse started. A rock slipped on the hillside above and rattled
down, striking her flank. She flung up her head. Poodle vainly pulled
on the rein, as she pranced skittishly.
Her back feet slipped. Over the side of the trail she slid. She
pawed furiously with her front hoofs, but could not get hold of the
slippery rock. She was surely sinking—close to the drop of a thousand
feet.
For a moment her rear hoofs stuck, safe, on a tiny ledge.
Poodle cried “Hike!” once. Then he was silent, trying to keep from
thinking of the awful drop below him.
Hike looked around. He did not make a sound. He spurred his horse,
reached a broader spot in the trail, turned, and came loping back.
Quietly he said to Poodle, “Jump.”
“Can’t—make her lose footing,” stammered Poodle.
Hike dropped from his horse and ventured down the side of the cliff.
His calmness gave courage to the trembling Poodle. He held out his
hand and commanded, “Put foot on that. Jump.”
Poodle obeyed. Hike clutched an old mesquite root with his left hand,
to hold himself in place, and almost threw Poodle up to safety. The
horse was not dislodged from the position to which she desperately
clung.
Taking her bridle, Hike coaxed. She shivered, but would not move. As
quietly as though he were petting her in the stable, Hike rubbed her
nose and urged her. Still she would not move.
“Got to hoist her up.” Hike bit off his words as though he were
running a team-play. “Here, Pood’, fasten bridle to my saddle-horn.
Hustle. I’ll make my horse drag her up. Say, if both horses get
pulled off trail, I’ll jump. Try catch me.”
“Oh, don’t try it!” Poodle’s round face was very serious.
“Fasten that BRIDLE, I said!” ordered Hike. His voice sounded like
his father’s, on the parade ground.
Poodle jumped to obey. Hike got on his own mount, still soothing the
horse that was in danger. Resolutely turning his back, Hike touched
the rowel to his nag.
With the bridle tugging sharply at her, Poodle’s horse started,
scrambled frantically at the edge of the cliff, climbed, wavered,
then bolted up, with heaving back, safe on the trail.
Poodle sat down, looking very pale, now that the danger was over. He
grinned at Hike, who had dismounted and was patting the shivering,
excited horses. It was a very sick young grin, but Poodle worked over
it for a while, and it got much better. He drawled:
“Say, Hike, that was fine scenery from that ledge.”
“Um,” said Hike, after thinking it over.
“You’re dead right,” agreed Poodle. “That’s what I was thinking.
Don’t look so blooming serious about it, though.”
“Well, you’d look serious if you had to spend all your time when you
weren’t sleeping rescuing Poodles from death,” remarked Hike.
“I do!” stated Poodle. “Say, I thought I was going to be an aeroplane
there, for a second. No, I thought my horse was goin’ to be! But
gee! I was wondering how I could deflect her front—”
“Nice word, deflect.”
“—control when we struck the canyon down there.... Maybe the joke’d
have been kinda _flat_, like me, if it hadn’t been for you, Hike.
Much obliged for rescuing me. I oughtn’t to get killed to-day, ’cause
I promised to write Mother about the scenery down the coast.”
“So thoughtful of you,” said Hike. “You’re a good young un, Pood’. I
got twice as scared as you.”
“Sure. That was why my teeth was chattering so. I was so scared you’d
get scareder. Le’s hike.”
“Right,” remarked Hike, and they mounted and rode on. They were
pretty quiet for a mile, and there were no races. At the end of it,
Poodle called:
“Hike.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Say—I was awful scared.”
“So was I,” Hike grinned back, and they both laughed.
Before dusk, they reached the peak at the head of the canyon, and
looked down on the other side of the San Francisquito range of
mountains. A hundred little valleys stretched in all directions.
There were no signs of human life. Many of these valleys had never
been visited by any white man except some wandering prospector
looking for gold mines. One of the ravines led to a valley at least a
mile wide, flat and grassy, with a comfortable brook flowing through
it.
“Gee, that’s a great country down there,” observed Poodle. “We’ll
explore it. Jiminy, this is _great_—feels like we were the first
white men in America.” Tethering his horse, he stood on the edge of
an arroyo leading down from the peak.
“What d’you say to the first white men getting some wood before it’s
too dark?” murmured Hike, rooting out a big log.
“If you weren’t a nice young man, I’d think that was a hint,”
retorted Poodle, quite cheerfully. “If I catch the idee, you b’lieve
we might use a little fire-wood.”
“No, that ain’t it at all. I just thought we might need some
toothpicks after dinner. ’Course we’ll do the cooking in some
moonlight,” explained Hike. “Nice hot moonlight.”
“Well, now, I’d almost suppose you were gettin’ sarcastic,” said
Poodle, “but ’course if you don’t _want_ me to help you ketchum heap
plenty wood, why, I’ll have a small game of mumble-te-peg.” He opened
his knife, but, as he started his game, one Hike, a person of much
muscle, picked him up, carried him over to the remains of a dead fir
tree, and murmured, “Want to get dropped down the arroyo?”
“A hint’s always enough for little Poodle,” declared that cheerful
gentleman, and got busy with twigs and branches.
When dusk came, they were frying bacon stuck on sharpened twigs, and
singing “Hallelujah, I’m a bum.” Coffee was singing with them, in the
pot among the coals. Poodle stated that he could eat a whole grocery
store, including the scales, wrapping paper, and cashier. (He didn’t
have the chance to prove whether he could or not, however, for even
so husky a boy as Hike doesn’t usually carry a whole grocery store at
the cantle of his saddle when he goes on a riding trip.)
With the bacon and flapjacks and syrup and coffee inside them, the
two boys lay with their feet to the fire. They had forgotten the
strain of the rescue on the cliff-side. They were just sinking off
into sleep, looking so comfortably and dreamily at the cheerful fire,
when Poodle started up, awakened by the sound of a coyote’s howl
nearby.
“Say, I thought I heard something besides a coyote,” he said.
“Sounded like hammering—and there ain’t a human within twenty miles
of us. Even if there was a smuggler on the coast, he’d be five miles
away.”
“Yes,” replied Hike, very quietly, “I’ve been listening to it for
five minutes. It _is_ a man hammering—on iron—and there can’t be
anybody down in those valleys—and there _is_!... Well, we’ll find out
in the morning. Some mystery, some mys—some—” Hike was asleep.
“Should say there _was_ a mystery,” grunted Poodle, sticking just the
tip of his button of a nose from the top of his blanket. “Think you
might get a little bit scared, anyway. You oughta be. It’s a mys— It
sure is— I dunno—”
Alas, we can never know what Poodle didn’t know, for by this time the
only thing awake around that camp on the peak was a lone coyote, who
came over and reflectively ate the top of one of Poodle’s shoes. And
still the mysterious hammering kept up, down in the wilderness of
valleys.