LIEUTENANT ADELER AND WIBBELTY-WOBBELTY
Major James Griffin, commander of the Army Signal Corps at the
Monterey Presidio, did not know that the two boys who came riding up
to the door of his office were bearing a great message. He didn’t
even know that the taller was the great Hike Griffin. He believed
him to be merely Jerry Griffin, Son. Why, sometimes he even thought
of him as _Gerald_ Griffin! And, to him, Poodle was only “the son of
my old friend Tom Darby.” So he was not much impressed when the boys
came scurrying in; excited, though they were tired and what Poodle
called “feak and weeble around the knees,” from their hard fast ride
back up the coast.
“Well, boys,” smiled the tall, slender, gentle Major, “did you have a
good ride?”
Hike explained that they’d had a good ride, a very good ride. That
they hadn’t minded sleeping under single blankets, after all. And
that they had found the greatest aeroplane in the world.
The Major listened smilingly to their description of Martin Priest
and his tet-ra-hé-dral (Hike stumbled over the word, and had to take
it in sections, as though it were a circus train!) “Well, well,
strange,” said the Major. “I’ll see you at dinner, boys. Better run
along now, and get a hot tub.”
He turned back to the pile of papers on his desk. Poodle, by raising
his eyebrows, asked silently of Hike, “What shall we do?” Just as
silently, Hike replied, “Nothing!” by wriggling his shoulders.
They left the office, got that hot bath, and went to find Captain
Willoughby Welch. Though they did not like the Captain, he was next
in rank to the Major.
Poodle had nicknamed him “Wibbelty-Wobbelty.” Other people called him
“that mean officer.” Captain Welch was a man who always seemed to
be sneering—and usually was. No one liked him, yet his manners were
beautiful, and his reputation as a Signal Corps expert so great, that
Hike couldn’t help looking up to him and admiring him at times—though
he never thought, for one single minute, of _loving_ him, as he did
splendid Lieutenant Jack Adeler. Captain Welch had been a teacher of
physics, of electricity and light and heat, at West Point. When men
began trying out aviation, he made so many wonderful flights, and
clever inventions—such as a means of fastening bracing cords to the
struts or props of planes—that he became famous. He first went over
to France, and got one of the first aero pilot’s licenses in the
world.
The War Department had detailed him to look into the whole matter
of the different sorts of aeroplanes, for a report to a “Board of
Aviation,” which was to meet in Washington, late in August of that
summer, with Brigadier General Thorne of the Signal Corps at the
head of it. This board was to recommend what they considered the
best aeroplane—and Congress was going to spend nearly a million
dollars in buying aeroplanes of that sort. Their recommendation would
probably be largely founded on what Captain Welch reported. So Hike
was anxious to have the Captain look very carefully into the matter
of poor Martin Priest’s aeroplane. But he felt very doubtful. For
Captain Welch had already announced that he would report favorably on
the Jolls aeroplane.
Hike didn’t like Mr. P. J. Jolls, the owner of the Jolls aeroplane
and friend to Captain Welch. Mr. P. J. Jolls was a plump person,
with rolls of fat at the back of his neck, which stuck out over his
collar like layers of sausage. He had a loud voice and, as Poodle
said, “was allus a-actin’ like he thought he owned the universe
and was comin’ ’round to collect rent from you for bein’ on his
old earth!” Mr. P. J. Jolls had never been up in an aeroplane, and
he had never invented one single bolt or wire. But he was very
clever at money-making. After collecting several millions by selling
patent medicines, shaving-soap, and fake mine-stock, he had cornered
the aeroplane-market. Nearly every model of American monoplane
or biplane, with all patents, was now owned by him. He had hired
inventors to combine the best things about all the different sorts of
machines in one Jolls monoplane and one Jolls biplane.
Captain Welch had announced that the Jolls machines were the best
in the world. Lieutenant Adeler declared that there were better
ones—that Jolls was an old fake—and Hike loved him for saying so.
But Welch said that for his part he was sure Mr. P. J. Jolls would
be recognized by Congress as the greatest aviator in the world. He
seemed to think that Mr. Jolls was also one of the most lovable
men in the world; and to be glad that Mr. Jolls was going to get
Congress’s good round million dollars.
He even had Mr. Jolls as a guest at the Monterey Presidio, and took
him to the Officers’ Club. All the other officers found that they had
important engagements away from the club, when they heard Mr. Jolls’
loud thick voice. Even Major Griffin, the most polite of all men,
disappeared.
While he was at the Presidio, Mr. P. J. Jolls had once patted Poodle
Darby on the head, and called him a “fine boy.” Ten minutes later,
Hike Griffin found Poodle washing the head that had just been thus
patted, with strong yellow soap, meanwhile seriously singing to
himself:
“I hope a sea of soap suds rolls
Above the grave of P. J. Jolls.
He patted me upon the head,
And oh! the orful thing he said;
He’ll soon, I hope, be nice—and—dead!”
Hike had then sat on his legs, like a Turk, and raising his long arms
declared, “Poodski, never before did I know that you are the greatest
poet in the world, but now I see that you are.”
* * * * *
When Hike and Poodle found Captain Willoughby-Wibbelty Welch, lover
of the aeroplanes of P. J. Jolls, the good Captain was smoking a long
thin cigar, sitting in a Chinese wicker chair on the porch of his
quarters. He smiled that silky, sneaky, snakey, sneery smile of his
(at least, that’s what Poodle said his smile was, afterwards), and
called out as they came up the walk, “Ah! Home again, boys?”
“No,” whispered Poodle to Hike. “We’re still at the South Pole
fishing for bread-fruit-fish with a crow bar. Foolish question
eleventy thousand and one.”
“Well, how did the gallant heroes find the long trek?” smiled Captain
Welch.
“Great,” Hike gravely said. “Captain, way down the coast—in a canyon,
where he wouldn’t be disturbed at his experiments—there’s an aviator
chap with a—uh—a tet-ra-hé-dral aeroplane that’s the fastest machine
in the world, and that’d carry the most weight. He hasn’t got the
engine to fly her right, but I wish I could get you to come down and
talk it over with him. I’d like to bet you’d find it was just the
machine the War Department is looking for, for the army aeroplane.”
“What makes you think it’s the fastest machine in the world?” Captain
Welch was still smiling, but he looked more patronizing than ever.
“Why, he explained it to me, Captain. And I saw it. And it strikes
me as so awf’ly reasonable. I’m sure it’s worth some looking into,
anyway.” Hike felt fussed. His argument did not sound convincing.
“Why, my _boy_, there isn’t a crank aviator on earth that won’t tell
you the fool machine he’s made out of barrel hoops and cheese cloth
would fly if he only had the engine. He _knows_ it will, and won’t
you please let him have the money and you’ll get seventy per cent.
He’s always sure it would pay you to look into it. Why, my _boy_, one
of the principal tasks of the Signal Corps is keeping cranks with
wonderful inventions away. They’d use up all your time, if you’d let
them. You just take my advice and don’t listen to them.”
The Captain stood up, yawned like a nice tabby cat, smoothed his neat
little mustache, smiled, and started to go into the house.
“O Captain,” called Hike, “won’t you come down—fine ride—and just
take a _look_ at the—”
“Couldn’t. Really. Haven’t time. Must finish up my report for the
Board of Aviation,” the Captain said, very sweetly, but as though he
considered the business finished.
“Wibbelty!” whispered Poodle.
“Wobbelty!” whispered Hike.
Their last chance was in Lieutenant Jack Adeler, the youngest officer
in the Signal Corps at Monterey.
Jack Adeler was the son of a quiet old gentleman who had left him
five hundred thousand dollars, a ranch in Mexico, and the kindliest
disposition that a man ever had. He had graduated from Yale, then
entered the army, and was devoting a great deal of his own private
fortune to aviation. He had never made such showy flights as had
Captain Welch, and he never advertised his knowledge of aviation as
did the Captain, but Hike had the feeling that he really knew about
ten times as much about it. He was solidly built and quick and quiet,
and he liked to have Hike and Poodle with him, and never was tired of
answering their questions.
When they found him—playing golf on the Post links—he listened to
their tale of Martin Priest and the tetrahedral. He said that he too
was a little afraid that Priest was a crank; but he promised to ride
down the coast with the boys and look over the machine.
They started the next day.
When they reached the secret valley beyond Canyon Diablo, the crank
aviator was sitting on a soap-box, waiting for them. He had cut his
hair, in a rough way, and had changed his crazy-looking white gown
for overalls, a blue flannel shirt, and a greasy sweater-jacket.
Poodle’s opinion was that he had changed himself from a crazy prophet
into a tramp, a hobo mechanic; but both Hike and Lieutenant Adeler
said that he looked like an Edison, with his broad forehead, slender
hands, and bright eyes.
“Well, I wish I could find out all them things, like you high-brows,”
sighed Poodle. “I admit that I’m a mutt. I ain’t even sure but what
I’m a wutt. So I hope you’ll let me go to sleep on that nice soft
grass, and not yell ‘Come on’ too quick.”
Martin Priest seemed to have waked up. He spoke quickly and
hopefully—just as Hike did when he was interested. He showed them the
machine, and told them of the small flights he had taken with his
broken-down engine.
He explained a hundred devices. For instance, there was the speed
changing gear. His aeroplane was the only one that ran on several
speeds, like an automobile, so that the aviator could fly at
different rates without having to cut down the feed of the engine
with the hand-throttle, every second. But there was a hand-throttle,
too. Then, there were double control wires, running from the levers
to the rudder and the elevating planes, so that, if one wire broke (a
thing that has caused many an aviator’s death) another would take its
place.
For starting the machine from the seat—without having to have some
one whirl the propeller till the engine was going—there was an
electrical motor, which was a sort of boy of all work. For, when it
was through its work as a motor, it became a dynamo, and filled up
storage-batteries which worked the big electrical search-light, for
use when the machine was flying at night. It also ran a tiny electric
stove, placed at the side of the freight-platform, and warmed
electric heating-pads placed on the aviator’s seat to keep him warm.
But most important of all was that this machine _really_ had what
aviators call “automatic stability”—that is, the power to right
itself, and not go tumbling down, when it was tipped up by bad
winds, such as a “retarded following breeze.” Most aeroplanes have
little planes called “ailerons,” which swing up and help to balance
the aeroplane when it tips. They are worked by the aviator, and if
anything happens to him, or to them, very quick trouble follows. But
with the tetrahedral’s many little planes, facing every way, the
machine caught the air and righted itself no matter which way it
leaned.
To all of this, Lieutenant Adeler listened without saying much. Even
Poodle listened with interest, though he did keep repeating that
“horrid long name,” over and over—tet-ra-hé-dral, tet-ra-hé-dral—as
though he couldn’t get to like it very much!
The lieutenant poked about in the aerodrome, took off his cap and
stuck his head into what Poodle called “the tetooreelederlum’s
innards,” and looked over some drawings and photographs that Martin
Priest had made of the tetrahedral’s flight. (He had been taking
photographs even when he was hundreds of feet up in the air, by
having the camera’s lens uncover automatically).
Finally, Adeler nodded a couple of times and said, “Good machine. I’m
not sure but that she’d be the fastest and best in the world!”
Then Martin Priest shook hands all ’round, shouted “God bless you,”
and threw himself on the ground, sobbing like a child that wants its
mother.
Adeler stood quietly waiting. When Martin Priest had got control of
himself, the Lieutenant said:
“Of course she’ll have to have a test. If she makes good, I’ll be
glad to back you. I happen to have a good deal of money—inherited it
from my father. I’ll furnish the coin and all the help I can. I’d
like to have an aerodrome built for you near Monterey. And I’ll do
all I can to get the government Board of Aviation—that’ll decide on
what machine the Army is to buy—look over your tetrahedral. The Board
meets in Washington, in August. That is, I will if she shows up well
when we test her—and I think she will.”
“See here, Lieutenant,” stammered Martin Priest, “I can patch this
old Gnome—she’s a good engine, all right, but she was smashed up
in an accident, and I’ve just been able to tinker with her. Never
had new parts for her. But we can fly as far as Monterey with her,
all right. You people have three horses? Well, you, Lieutenant, and
one of the boys come with me in the aeroplane—it’ll carry all three
of us, and what of my stuff here I need to keep—say two thousand
pounds—pretty good load, eh? especially over these hills, with all
the air-flaws there are. You’ll notice there’s a regular freight
platform, aft in the machine. The other boy can ride back, and
there’s a young ranchero that lives across the hills that’ll be
willing to go with him, riding one horse and leading the other.
“When does the Army Board of Aviation meet, did you say? What? In
one month? Well, I could have the tetrahedral ready to fly then, all
right. But what about getting a two hundred and fifty horse-power
engine?”
“There’s a man down in San Diego that tried to build a monster
triplane, and he got a great big two hundred and thirty horse-power
Kulnoch engine for her—you know, one of these new ones, air-cooled,
with revolving cylinders, peach of an engine,” said Lieutenant
Adeler. “His machine never would fly, and he wants to sell the
engine. We can get that in time.”
Adeler, though he talked very quietly, had gone into the thing as
though it was the one thing he counted on. Hike was so glad that he
pounded Poodle on the back till that comfortable youth grappled with
him mightily.
“We’ll make that test,” continued the Lieutenant. “Hike, you and
Poodle draw lots to see which goes with us.... By the way, Mr.
Priest, there’s just one thing we’ve got to take into account. The
only proper way that we can get this machine before the Board of
Aviation is to interest Captain Welch in it. He’s to report to them.
He’s—uh—a little—”
“Mulish,” supplied Poodle.
“He’s a little obstinate,” the Lieutenant went on explaining. “But if
the tetrahedral works out as well as I think she will, he can’t help
seeing her advantages. And so he’ll have to make a favorable report
to the Board.”
The boys drew lots to see which should have the flight in the
tetrahedral, and which should ride horseback up to Monterey. Poodle
won the aeroplane trip. He led Hike aside, and murmured, “Say, old
Hike, let’s draw three times. The only fair way.”
“Don’t you want to try the tetrahedral?” asked Hike.
“’S matter of fact, I don’t,” confessed Poodle.
Hike was a good deal amazed to find Poodle apparently afraid of the
trial. He was so anxious to go himself that he gladly accepted the
offer to change places.
Quick at acting and good at thinking though Hike was, there were many
times when he did not think so quickly as jolly Mr. Poodle. It wasn’t
till long afterward that it occurred to him that Poodle had never
seemed really afraid of _anything_; and that the chances were that he
had given up the flight to please his beloved chum.
While they were talking, Lieutenant Adeler had been saying to Martin
Priest, “What have you named the tetrahedral?”
“I hadn’t planned anything, yet. I suppose the general sort of
aeroplane will be called the ‘Priest Model.’ I think we ought to name
this particular one after young Griffin there. If it hadn’t been for
him, I’d never have had even a chance at a chance.... What was that
you called him—nickname—‘Hike’ was it? Why not call it ‘_Hike the
First_’?”
“Too likely to get his name and the tetrahedral’s mixed up, I should
say,” considered Lieutenant Adeler.
“Well, ‘Hustle’ is pretty much like ‘Hike.’ How about ‘_Hustle the
First_’?”
“Fine.”
The boys were called over and informed of the tetrahedral’s name—by
which they usually called her, afterwards. Hike blushed a poppy-red
when he was told that the name was really in honor of him.
“Hurray for Hike’s _Hustle_!” shouted Poodle, and he dragged Hike and
the grave Lieutenant after him in a dance about the _Hustle_, singing:
“Hallelujah, I’m a bum, hallelujah, bum again,
Hurray-yay-yay for old Hike’s aeroplane!”
As the three danced, Martin Priest sat down on a tool box and covered
his face with his long hands.
They stopped, staring. Priest seemed to be in absolute despair.
“What’s the matter, General?” shouted the irrepressible Poodle.
The inventor raised his head and looked as though he had gone blind.
“I’ve—I supposed—I’ve been hoping—but I must.”
“Yes?” said Lieutenant Adeler, gently.
“I must tell you who and what I am.” The inventor was grim as an
officer directing a siege. Even Poodle grew quiet. Martin Priest
spoke quickly, trying to get it over:
“As far as the aeroplanes go, I’m all right—I’m square. I think I am
about other things, too—now, anyway. But there was a time—”
Hike walked over, as Priest stopped, and put his arm about
the inventor’s shoulder, for a second. The inventor smiled a
three-cornered funny little smile, then looked grim again, and went
on, swiftly:
“When I was a young chap—twenty-six—I married—I can’t tell you what I
thought of my wife, but she was perfect, to me anyway. I’d graduated
from Massachusetts Tech., and was with a marine engine company. I was
interested in aviation, too—long before the Wrights had flown, or the
Bell people, when Lilienthal was just trying his gliders. Well, this
engine company was small, and I had a lot to do with the business end
of it, as well as the mechanical part. My wife got mighty sick—needed
a lot of things, and my salary was small. And I got in debt for a lot
of aeroplane material.
“Well, I just borrowed some money from the firm’s safe—really
borrowed, or that’s what I thought. I was so crazy over my wife’s
sickness that I didn’t think much about it, I guess, to tell the
truth.
“They found out about it, and I was arrested, and sentenced for
embezzlement.... My wife died while I was in prison—back East that
was.... Convict, that’s what I was. I don’t know’s you’ll want to
associate—
“Well, the warden was a fine old boy. He made me head of the machine
shop. I got him interested in aviation—he was a handy man with the
tools himself; and we used to do a lot of work on the side—him in
Christian clothes, and me in stripes.
“When I got out I’d inherited several thousand dollars from my wife’s
uncle, funny old chap that had just been sitting back and watching
my capers without letting me know anything about it. I wandered
around the world, saw what the Wrights and Alexander Graham Bell and
Curtiss were doing with aviation, and what Santos Dumont was doing in
France. Saw one of J. A. D. McCurdy’s first flights. Then I came out
here, and built this shack, and hoped to have a machine that I could
surprise the world with, just the young ranchero helping me. But now
my money’s practically all gone.
“Thought I’d better tell you just how things really stand with me....
I don’t want any false impression—”
Hike started forward and wrung Martin Priest’s hand, silently. The
Lieutenant did the same. They were his friends.
As for Poodle, he did the most brilliant thing of his life—nothing at
all but smile his pleasantest!
Then they began to plan the trip up to Monterey.