AN AERIAL STOWAWAY.
Mr. Chadwick, breathless from his scramble across the dunes, met
the boys in the shelter of the shed. They now saw that what he held
in his hand was a despatch of some sort. He soon explained that
it was a wireless message, relayed from the yacht _Valkyrie_,—via
Sciuticut,—stating that his friend Professor Bismarck Von Dinkelspeil,
on board the _Valkyrie_, was bound for South America on a scientific
search of some sort, and intended to pay him a call at High Towers
regarding the practicability of devising some sort of a novel boat.
Details were not given.
“I hastened over here as soon as I got the despatch,” he said, “as I
knew that you boys were transforming the _Road Racer_ into some novel
form. The Professor may be here to-morrow, and if you wish me to I’ll
present you to him and you may be able to meet his demands. I’m too
busy at present on that new steel reducing furnace to spare any time.”
“He gives no details?” asked Jack.
“No, as you see, it’s just a hurried despatch dated from his yacht.
He is a celebrated man and has been all over the world on various
scientific quests, in the interests of zoölogy mainly. But you boys
look excited. What’s the matter?”
Jack speedily placed his parent in possession of the situation
confronting them.
“The yacht is in need of aid, you think?” he asked when Jack completed
a hurried and breathless recital.
“Without doubt. Hark! There’s another gun,” cried the boy. “I wish we
could go to their help.”
“If we had a boat——” began Jack’s father. But the boy cut him
short. Without further delay he plunged into an explanation of the
_Wondership_. Mr. Chadwick looked amazed for an instant, but then his
face resumed its customary air of studious calm.
“You think your device will work?” he asked, regarding Jack keenly.
“I’m sure of it. In fact, we have buoyancy to spare. On paper——”
“Paper and practice are different things, my boy.”
“I know, sir, but——”
“You see, there are human lives at stake out there. It’s worth
risking,” broke in Tom, unable to keep silence any longer. “Can’t we
go?”
Mr. Chadwick considered an instant.
“Let me take a look at your ‘_Wondership_,’ as you call it,” he said.
With what rapidity Jack exhibited the craft and showed off her good
points may be imagined. While they were thus engaged there came the
sound of another gun. Then Mr. Chadwick spoke.
“Is everything ready?”
“Down to the last nut on the ultimate bolt,” declared Jack.
“Plenty of gas?”
“A reservoir full and more gas-making stuff in the reserve chamber.”
“Very well, then. I’m ready when you are.”
And without any more words Mr. Chadwick climbed into the machine,
using in his ascent a small ladder set against the gleaming metallic
sides. The boys exchanged glances. But they didn’t make any comment.
It was not a time for words. While they waited even, events might be
transpiring aboard the strange yacht of an unknown, possibly tragic,
nature.
“Open the doors, Tom,” ordered Jack, in a voice that sounded like
anybody else’s rather than his own.
Tom hastened to obey. The big panels in front of the shed rolled back.
The opening thus revealed framed a wild sea-scape of rising waves,
overcast sky and, in the center, the yacht, her reversed ensign making
a bright splotch of color against the leaden background. But as yet the
wind was merely puffy, and not blowing with dangerous strength.
Having opened the doors, Tom hastened back. He climbed in by Jack’s
side.
“Are we all ready?” he asked, with a gulp. In his excitement his heart
was bounding with sufficient velocity to be uncomfortably evident. But
he managed, by an effort, to keep calm, or rather to appear so.
“As ready as we’ll ever be, I guess. Be ready to lower those
hydroplanes when I give the word.”
Tom nodded. The hydroplanes worked on toggle-joints and could be
lowered and locked when required. This was a part of his duty that the
boys had already rehearsed. Jack’s hand sought a lever. A hissing
sound followed. The gas was beginning to rush into the big gas-bag. Its
folds began to puff out and writhe as if some living thing was within
it.
“I’ll start when it is half full,” announced Jack in a sober voice.
“How’s the pressure?” inquired Tom, whose face was pale.
“Fine; a trifle over five hundred pounds. We’ll fill quickly on that.”
In the rear seat, which might be likened to the tonneau of an auto,
sat Mr. Chadwick. Not a trace of emotion was visible on his strong
features. Through his spectacles he eyed the boys’ preparations with
interest. It was by no means his first trip in the _Flying Road Racer_,
as he still called it, and he knew that the boys thoroughly understood
her management. Therefore he did not embarrass them with questions or
suggestions.
“That’s enough,” announced Jack presently, when the bag was almost
full, “that will lift us and I’ll fill out the wrinkles while we are in
the air.”
“You’re going up first, then?”
“Of course. That will give you a chance to get over your ‘rattles’
before we drop.”
“Rot!” vociferated Tom indignantly. “I’m not rattled a bit.”
But his shaking hands and shining eyes belied his words. If not
“rattled,” Tom was considerably excited. Jack, on the other hand,
although his pulses were throbbing uncomfortably fast and a large
lump appeared to have clambered into his throat and stuck there, was
outwardly as cool as ice.
“Ready, Dad! I’m going to start! Hold tight!”
“All right, my boy. Go ahead as soon as you’re ready.”
Jack pressed a button on the steering pillar. The self-starting
mechanism, operated by the same storage batteries that ran the lights
and the ventilating fans, whirred loudly in response. An instant later
he applied the gas. A volley of explosions followed. The shed was
filled with an odd, sickly odor.
Again Jack’s hands flew, and with a jolt the _Wondership_ leaped
forward, rumbling over the wooden floor.
Straight out toward the sand dunes she rolled, her engine pulsing like
a throbbing human heart. The light but strong framework vibrated under
the strain. The great propeller of magnesium-vanadium metal became a
mere shadowy blur.
Outside the shed a sort of runway had been built leading down to high
water mark. As the odd craft rushed toward the waves Tom was conscious
of a queer feeling, centering at the pit of his stomach.
“Guess I must be scared,” he snorted indignantly to himself, and then
broke off with a sudden exclamation.
“What’s that?”
“What’s _what_?” came from Jack, who was busy adjusting levers and
buttons.
“Why, _that_.”
As he spoke, both boys became aware of an odd sort of muffled sound,
coming seemingly from under the seat on which they were stationed.
“Something’s wrong with the machinery,” cried Tom, as the odd sound
came again.
“Can’t be. She’s working like a clock,” rejoined Jack. “Hold
tight,—we’re going up.”
As Jack spoke, he applied a full stream of gas to the limp bag, and the
_Wondership_ shot upward with the swiftness of a rocket. A gust of wind
struck them and sang weirdly through the rigging and supports. But the
craft never wavered on her course. As she shot upward, though, from the
yacht, heard above the hum and buzz of the machinery, came the sound of
another gun.
“They’re wishing us luck!” cried Jack.
“We’ll need all we can get,” came a voice. “By the bounding brown
buffaloes of Brunswick, this is the limit!”
“Hullo! What’s the matter with you, Tom?” cried Jack looking around in
astonishment, as he manipulated the craft with a skill born of long
practice.
“I didn’t speak, Jack. It was that same mysterious voice. This craft is
haunted, I believe.”
“Nonsense. We must be imagining things,” declared Jack; “but I’m almost
sure I heard a voice.”
“So am I. How is she working, Jack?” asked Tom, dismissing the subject.
He thought that his overwrought nerves were at work.
“Finely. I’m heading straight for the yacht. I mean to circle her and
then,” he paused an instant and added, “drop!”
Jack now pushed the craft ahead at full speed. Faster and faster she
went. Far below them lay the sullenly heaving ocean. Beyond, but very
close now, was the yacht.
“All right, Tom. Get ready now.”
Tom jumped to his work. In a few seconds the novel aluminum hydroplanes
were adjusted and fixed in place. The yacht was right below them now,
but the figures on her deck were dwarfed to pigmies. Jack set the
suction pump to work, reducing the gas supply in the bag.
Slowly at first, and then faster, the great air craft began to fall
toward the gray sea. The propeller ceased revolving. In almost total
silence, except for the boys’ quick breathing, the descent continued.
Suddenly a wild cry split the air. It appeared to come from the
_Wondership_ itself.
“Let me out! Put me ashore! By the buck-jumping broncos of Butte, I
wasn’t born for a watery grave!”
“Gracious!” cried Jack, in a startled tone, as a head of red hair poked
itself out from under the seat, “we’ve got an aerial stowaway aboard!”