AVIATING AGAIN!
The coach of the Santa Benicia team was talking to Hike, after
practise:
“Look here, Griffin, what’s the trouble between you and the team?
Looks to me as if they are still jealous of you for your aviating,
and trying to show they’re as good as you are. Breaks up team-play
pretty badly. What have you got to suggest!”
“I don’t know. I’ve been worrying over it. I’ll see what I can do,”
said Hike, gloomily.
It was two weeks after the Great Hazing and now, though all the open
“kidding” had stopped, there was still trouble. Hike was afraid that
he might have to resign from the team, for the team’s sake, though he
would rather have cut off his head.
He wandered up to Lieutenant Adeler’s room, worrying. He passed Sea
Lion Rogers, who hailed him, “O Hike, got a minute!”
“No!” shouted Hike, and hurried on. Sea Lion Rogers was probably
called that because he was so smooth that he could have slid through
water like a seal. He was the son of a millionaire; he had traveled
everywhere; he had manners like those of a duke in a play; and he
always sneered. His chief amusement, these days, was to come up
to Hike and ask some impossible question about aviation with the
polished, courteous, smiling way which was more maddening than any
“kidding.” He was another thing that Hike had to settle—especially as
some of the others were trying to imitate Rogers in this new sort of
“kidding.”
If he could only give the other members of the team a chance to
aviate—well, _why couldn’t he_?
It struck him as one of the finest little thoughts of the season, and
he rushed into Jack Adeler’s room cheerfully.
The Lieutenant looked up from a big book of electricity.
“Where can I get an aeroplane?” begged Hike. “I want one, right away.”
“There isn’t any other little thing you’d like, is there?”
“No, there isn’t,” stated Hike, refusing to be drawn. “I find the
fellows keep thinking I’m an outsider, because of my aviating, and I
want to bring a machine here, and get them into the feel of it.”
“I see. Good idea. I’ve noticed you’ve been having trouble. It’s made
me pretty angry, but I thought I’d let you work it out. What do you
want to do?”
“Why, I thought if I gave them some rides, it would make them feel
they were aviators.”
“They might. Worth trying, anyway. I’ll tell you. A friend of
mine has a Paulhan-Tatin monoplane, at Tanforan, just out of San
Francisco. He’s offered to lend it to me—wants me to regulate the
motor and so on, I guess. We’ll use that.”
“When can we get it, Lieutenant?”
“To-night?”
“Great! That sounds like old times!”
The Lieutenant telephoned for the Santa Benicia town-hack, and to the
Headmaster, and threw a toothbrush and a book into a suit-case, while
Hike hurried off to pack his aviation-clothes. In half an hour they
were on a train.
They found the Lieutenant’s friend at his home on Pacific Avenue, San
Francisco. The three climbed into a motor car, and whirled out to the
aerodrome.
By the light of an electric lantern, Hike saw the Paulhan-Tatin
monoplane, and gasped, for it looked like a fish, with funny wings,
curved up at the ends; curved _up_; mind you. That, explained
Jack Adeler, was for “automatic stability”—the bent wings kept
the machine from tipping, without the aviator’s having to warp
(that is, bend up the edges of) the wings. The Paulhan was the
latest thing in monoplanes, devised for the use of the French
army. Its torpedo-shaped body cut through the air with the least
head-resistance possible.
It sure was “different from the old _Hustle_,” mused Hike. It could
not even begin to carry so much weight, but it was faster, in
comparison, for it made seventy to a hundred miles an hour with a
forty horse-power motor, while the _Hustle_ could only go two hundred
to two hundred and fifty miles an hour, at the fastest, with two
hundred and thirty horse-power.
“Seventy miles—that’ll be fast enough for the fellows, I guess,”
laughed Hike.
He was shown just how the machine worked. He studied the new Gnome
motor; the elevating planes—which were parts of a flat tail, at the
back of the machine, instead of being separate planes in front. He
sat in the aviator’s cockpit, forward of the wings a little, and saw
how the engine, though in front of him, worked a propeller, way back
at the end of the tail.
While the Lieutenant was learnedly explaining that this fish-shaped
body was in the “streamline form”—that is, the form best suited to
pass through either air or water—Hike was wild to plunge out into the
air again.
It didn’t seem quite right to have just two long wings on the
machine, instead of a whole nest of little tetrahedral planes all
around him, but he liked this hot-headed, fiery little machine.
Half the night they spent in learning just how the machine worked;
and next morning, the Lieutenant and the owner of it let him take it
out on the aviation field for a little practise in speeding it along
the ground, bobbing on its forward wheels, with its tail waggling in
the air. Then he tried “grass cutting”—taking it up only a few feet.
The motor was of about the same sort as the _Hustle’s_ great
Kulnoch, and by noon he felt that he could handle the machine in a
respectable, honest wind that would not try to play tag with him. He
said as much to Lieutenant Adeler, but that officer was as cautious
as he was brave.
After lunch, at a country-club near the aerodrome, the three strolled
back to the Paulhan-Tatin again. The mechanics wheeled it out of its
aerodrome. Hike crawled into it, and sat there, idly.
Suddenly there was the buzz of a motor starting, and a Modified Jolls
Biplane ran along its course and launched up, headed for the south,
disappearing in a few moments, as though it were enjoying itself. The
sun flashed on its cloth surfaces. It seemed to be part of the blue
sky. It was too much for Hike.
“Start the motor—give the propeller a couple of whirls, will you!”
Hike muttered to a mechanic, and an instant later he was hurtling
down the field, at full speed, then jumping off the ground. He soared
up—up—up—then turned, in a graceful circle, passed over the hangars,
and headed north—toward Santa Benicia.
Up in the air again—oh! it was _great_! He felt as though he ought to
come down and ask the Lieutenant’s permission before really taking a
trip, but—this was so good! The cracking motor sounded sweeter to him
than any music he had ever heard. He whooped as he faced the fresh
breeze from the Pacific—and then he settled calmly down to reaching
Santa Benicia Academy as soon as he could.
It was forty miles away, and he was flying at eighty miles an hour.
The slender, fishy body cut through air like a shark churning foam.
He had to make a curve around San Francisco, but nevertheless he
sighted the towers of the academy in thirty-five minutes after he had
left Tanforan—and it seemed like five minutes.
He was careful. (“Sure I’m careful!” he apologized to himself.) He
had to watch out for the differences in control between the monoplane
and the tetrahedral—the elevating planes were at the opposite end,
and worked oppositely, for instance.
But careful or not, he was so excited over speeding again that he had
to yell “Wow, WOW!” about every three minutes, to relieve his nerves.
He’d never lose his love for the _Hustle_. No other machine could
load enough gasoline to speed across the country, and carry a large
enough motor to make two hundred an hour. But this—this was like
riding on a bow of a torpedo-boat going at forty knots, while driving
the _Hustle_ was like strolling along the decks of a big liner,
easier but not half so exciting. So Hike whooped and sang, in the
cockpit, close to the wings, and hurled the Paulhan-Tatin at Santa
Benicia.
He circled all about the campus twice, then darted down in the Yard,
landing at sixty miles an hour—like a bullet striking a steel plate
and glancing off. He shot across the long grass plot, with the body
of the machine bumping and leaping up into the air, as it bounced on
the tires of its wheels. The tail flapped as though the whole machine
was going to turn over. It looked as if the nose would smash into the
archway, at the end of the Yard. It stopped only a few feet away.
Hike looked slightly scared, as he crawled out of the cockpit. “Gee!
That’s different from landing in the _Hustle_!” he admitted. “I
didn’t think even a monoplane would come down quite that fast!”
The whole academy came rushing up. “Old Grouch,” the Greek master,
who was holding a recitation in Anabasis, actually dismissed the
class, and came running out, with a piece of chalk still in one hand.
The football-team had just been starting for the athletic-field, in
twos and threes. Though the coach yelled at them, they deserted the
field and came tearing into the Yard.
“Hey, you footballers—come on and have a ride!” shouted Hike, and
climbed back into the cockpit of the monoplane. From this elevation,
he saw Taffy Bingham on the edge of the crowd. “Come on, Taffy,” he
added, but Taffy shook his head, rather scornfully, and strolled away.
However, eight members of the eleven, with a dozen subs., gathered
nearest the machine, while the crowd regretfully made way for them.
Even the glory of their football suits, and school sweaters, was
dimmed as they gazed at Hike’s Balaclava helmet and leather jacket.
They looked as though they wanted a ride, yet didn’t want to show
themselves inferior to this aviator.
“Say, fellows,” pleaded Hike, “I wanted you all to have a share in
this blooming aviation business, and I brought up this machine for
you. Won’t you ride with me. I know just as well as you do that the
only reason I’ve ever done any aviating is just because I’ve had the
chance, and I want to get you in on it.”
Over the faces of the crowd spread a look of great love for Hike, as
they heard him and privately assured themselves that undoubtedly they
would be great aviators, too, if they had the chance.
“Gee, that’s awfully good of you, old Hike!” said Pink Eye
Morrison—and he didn’t talk like a Senior addressing a Sophomore,
either!
“Help me wheel the machine out on the field, where there’s more
room,” said Hike, and as many hands as could find place on the
machine started her off before Hike had time to climb out of the
cockpit.
He had Pink Eye climb in behind him, when they reached the field. It
took the rest of the team to clear away the crowd that insisted on
gathering right in front of the machine.
Hike started away at the slowest speed he could manage, but the
Paulhan shot into the air like an arrow. He wished that he had
the easy-going _Hustle_. He glanced back and saw Pink Eye trying
to smile, but catching his breath and gasping. Hike grabbed the
hand-throttle and slowed down as best he could.
He took the machine on a long, level course, over the safest country
he could find—the sweep of tules in the marshes along the straits;
and when he reached the athletic field, he brought her down as easily
as possible. But even so, Pink Eye was pale and limp when he climbed
out.
“Great work,” exclaimed Hike, before Pink Eye could say a word. “You
took to the air great. You’re an aviator already.”
“Did I take it all right?” asked Pink Eye gratefully, enjoying the
glances of envy from the crowd. “Thanks a hundred times, old Hike.”
And Hike knew that there was one member of the team, at least, who
would not bother him by envy any longer.
Pink Eye was already explaining to his team-mates how much he had
enjoyed the ride, and stating at length that the view of the tules,
as seen from a monoplane at about seventy miles an hour, is very
fine indeed. But the others were not very anxious to ride; not after
having seen the monoplane come swooping down and hit the earth at
over fifty miles an hour. Even Bill McDever, the captain—stolid Bill
who never said much, and wasn’t much known, but was always the center
of team-plays—seemed a little agitated, when he crawled in, as the
next passenger.
Half of the team, didn’t want to ride, much, but they felt that they
had to, or never be seen in those parts again! As each got out, there
was the same hearty hand-shake from Hike, and the same thankful
affection given Hike by his team-mates.
Perhaps it was because they were so surprised and delighted to get
back alive, after roaring through the air, bumping on air-currents,
and seeing houses look like dice beneath them, that they loved Hike
exceedingly when they landed; or perhaps it was because they felt he
wanted them to share in his glory, or because they respected him to
the limit when they saw how he could run the dragon through the air
as though he were riding a bicycle. Perhaps it was all three.
By late afternoon, Hike had given short trips to all of the team and
subs. that were in sight. It was Football Day in aviation. Practise
was called off. But he had to refuse the others—he even took Poodle
for only a five-minute spin. However, there was one Sophomore whom he
very much wanted to treat, and that was his dear, courteous friend
Sea Lion Rogers (sometimes known as “Slimy” Rogers).
He had twice noticed Sea Lion, standing on the edge of the crowd,
with his usual polite sneer. He whispered to Morrison, “Say Pink Eye,
you know how Slimy Rogers has been kidding me? Would you mind getting
him to come up and ask me a fool question—let him think you want to
have me kidded. Then I’ll give him a happy little ride. Oh, thanks.”
Hike managed to look very much surprised when, after giving the last
sub. a ride, he found Sea Lion edging up to the machine, and asking,
in loud cheerful tones for the crowd to hear, “Oh say, Griffin, can
you tell me what the angle of incidence is in this Poling-Tating
machine?”
“Jump in and I’ll show you, Sea Lion,” said Hike cheerfully.
The polished youth drew back, and stammered, “Why, I thought you
said you’d only have time to take the team, and Poodle, for a ride. I
don’t want to butt in—thanks just the same, but there’s a couple of
the team—Taffy, anyway,—that haven’t ridden yet. Much obliged, just
the same. I wish I could ride with you.”
“Why, I didn’t say nothing about your _riding_, I just wanted you to
see how the aviator’s seat was fixed,” said Hike innocently.
Sea Lion looked foolish. The crowd began to grin, in sympathy with
Hike. They crowded closer, till the machine was like the lion’s cage
at the country circus.
“But, Sea Lion,” went on Hike, “since you make me think of it, I
don’t know but what I will take you for a little spin. You see, there
isn’t anybody in the school who’s so much interested in aviation as
you are—I can tell that by the number of questions you ask.”
The crowd howled, for many of them had heard Sea Lion’s tormenting
questions.
“Get in, Sea Lion; get in, Slimy; you aren’t scared, are you?” they
yelled at him, and lifted him bodily, till he fairly had to get into
the cockpit.
Hike had been standing up, gently smiling, with his helmet pushed
back on his damp locks, and his goggles hanging below his chin. He
snapped back the goggles, and fastened down the helmet, sharply. He
crouched in the pit, yelling, “Out of the road—quick—look out!”
Poodle spun the propeller.
As the crowd scattered, the monoplane ran down the field like a
runaway locomotive. It shot out straight across the trees, at the
edge of the field, at top speed, eighty miles an hour. Hike’s heart
thumped horribly, for a tenth of a second, as the wheels on the
chassis just grazed the tree-tops, and the whole machine threatened
to crash down.
Sea Lion, behind him, nearly fainted.
Hike took her up, way up. He ascended in great circles, till he was
up two thousand feet, then scooted down, in a straight line, aiming
for the center of the Carquinez Straits. It looked as if they were
going to hit the river-bottom, and never come up.
He came so near to the water that one wing scattered spray, as he
steered her up. He circled quickly, and headed across the town for
the campus again. He dipped down, as though he were going to stop. He
glanced back. On Sea Lion’s pale face was a look of relief that could
not be described.
“Poor boy, he thinks this is all,” reflected Hike, as he darted away.
In what seemed like a second, they were buzzing over the hills that
surrounded Santa Benicia. The gusts from between peaks rocked them
till sometimes they seemed to be in a small boat on a rough sea.
Then he flew to the academy again. He rounded the flag-pole, a lofty
redwood on the athletic field. As he rounded it, he banked so sharply
that the right wing stood almost straight up, and the left down.
The crowd below howled with terror. They thought the machine was
falling, going to land on its side, wing-first.
But it suddenly straightened up. Hike shot her almost straight down
to earth, within few feet of the ground; then way up, then sharply
down again, in the “Dutch roll.”
As he swooped down the second time, he looked back at Sea Lion. The
Class Tease was clinching his teeth till the edges of his mouth stood
out in huge wrinkles while his open lips made tight, hard lines
across his teeth. His eyes were closed. He was clutching the edge of
the cockpit with both hands.
This was quite too much triumph for Hike. He felt very sorry for
Sea Lion as he circled again, and landed. He felt still sorrier as
Sea Lion was lifted out, and staggered off, silent, while all his
acquaintances yelled at him, “What did you find was the bangle of
accidence, Slimy?”
“Good-by,” cried Hike, and started for Tanforan. He knew that there
would be no more “kidding,” and mighty little more jealousy, the rest
of the year.