DUTIES OF THE _Ocean Flyer_ CREW
President J. W. Atkinson of the Aeroplane Company, was always ready to
offer chance visitors noon-time refreshment. In fact, for over ten days,
the Airship Boys had not left the factory in the middle of the day but
had devoted the resting hour to a hasty luncheon and talk with Engineer
Osborne, his son Roy, an experienced aviator, and other skilled
employes. Therefore, at two thirty o’clock, as on their previous busy
days, the boys were at luncheon in the same place with their guests. Mr.
Atkinson sat with them and kept Major Honeywell and the _Herald_
managing editor company over their cigars.
In spite of the injunction of the engineer of the Universal
Transportation Company (which by the way had no business connection with
the American-Aeroplane Company although Mr. Atkinson was a heavy
stockholder in each) that experiments should be made for several days to
ascertain the wind pressure on the new airship in flight, it was at once
agreed that these voyages must be made at night.
“The first appearance of such an unusual craft,” the editor argued,
“would certainly attract wide attention. Publicity is bound to follow.
The car ought never to appear by day until the real flight is made.”
This being conceded, Bob immediately sent a wireless message to New York
notifying the engineer to report that night at the factory. The chef at
the factory was not an unskilled one. The day was hot and a cooling
drink he had invented and served received so many compliments that Chef
Jasper was summoned from the kitchen. To be openly and personally
congratulated by such a celebrity as the director of the New York
_Herald_ disconcerted Jasper. For a time he could not explain the
composition of his unique beverage. But at last the pleasant mystery was
revealed.
“Mah wife Lindy,” Jasper finally made plain, “she jes’ done git a bucket
o’ fine, ripe, sweet churries an’ she pits ’em and biles ’em till de
juice is jes lak ’lasses, puttin’ plenty o’ sugar in ’em till de surup
is sweet ’nough an’ not too sweet. An’ dats all. When yo’ desiahs to
make a churry coolah you done take a big col’ glass an’ fill it plum up
full o’ crush ice, dry an’ powdah lak. Den yo’ takes a half a cup o’ de
juice and dreen it down trew de white ice. When de ice ’gins to melt yo’
pour de glass full o’ ginger ale an’ let her fizz an’ bile. But not no
Jersey City ginger ale. You wants English ginger ale cause Jersey ginger
is sweet lak ’lasses.”
“I suppose,” said the delighted editor to the boys, “that you won’t
really need one of Jasper’s ‘cherry coolers’ on your ocean voyage.”
“We’ve made several trips in the air,” laughed Ned shaking his head, “in
which we had to do a good deal of figuring on the food supply. This time
this will give us little trouble. Sandwiches, bread and butter, some
tinned beans, meats and made coffee for heating over an alcohol stove
will be about our only supplies. It’ll be such a short voyage and such a
busy one that eating will be the least of our troubles.”
“Wait till the regular transatlantic service begins,” laughed Bob. “You
ought to see the sketch of the passenger car with its dining
compartments. No ‘short order’ service; soups, roasts, salads, ice
cream. And the sleepin’ car—”
“But that’s to come,” interrupted Alan. “Meanwhile, we have a rather
comfortable car out here in the setting-up room. It’s ready for
inspection.”
“Just one minute,” suggested Major Honeywell. “Your guest asked you a
question on the way out here that has not yet been answered. He wants to
know the duties of the four members of the operating crew.”
As they arose from the table Ned volunteered to explain.
“First, we must have a pilot constantly at the wheel. But his duties are
not simply to keep a lookout ahead. His chief concern is to watch the
control of the machine by counteracting the influence of unexpected air
currents and those atmospheric obstructions that Bob calls ‘ruts.’ It
can’t be denied that there are unexpected and indistinguishable puffs of
air that will bump an aeroplane just as a rock or a piece of wood will
bounce an automobile in the air.”
“You are the pilot, I take it?” commented the editor.
“One of ’em,” smiled Ned. “Mr. Hope is the other. We find it good policy
to take three-hour tricks. The strain of a longer watch unnerves one.
The pilot also controls the engines. But that does not relieve us of the
need of a man in the engine room. This engine man, who on this trip will
be Mr. Russell, who really knows more about an aeroplane than his
conversation suggests, has enough to do. He watches the automatic fuel
and lubricator supply feed pipes; the compressed air gauges and pipe
valves; the signal and illuminating light motor, the oxygen tanks, the
plane valves, and if the rudders go wrong, he is the man who goes out
and fixes them. In this instance he is also the wireless operator.”
“When does he sleep?” asked Major Honeywell chuckling.
“When everything is going all right,” answered Ned, “or when one of the
pilots spells him off for an hour.”
“And the fourth man?” asked the editor. “Everything seems provided for.”
“The rear of the pilot room,” went on Ned, “resembles a laboratory. It
is the observation and record office of the ship. The observer in charge
keeps the log of the flight, records the data that gives the pilot his
bearings and enables him to find his way through unmarked space,
prepared at any minute to sound warnings of perils ahead or behind that
the eye can not detect. His record of the pressure of the aerometer
gives the speed of the machine as nearly as instruments can show it.
These figures, with our own tables of wind and flight pressures under
all revolution speeds, give us approximately the exact rate of advance.
He must watch and keep in operation the barograph or self-recording
altitude gauge which takes the place of the usual barometer; as a check
he also notes and records periodical readings of the regular barometer;
he keeps constant watch on the car equilibrium by means of the
statoscope; he records the compass course, sets down the latitude and
longitude by following the compass bearing and the advance in miles; is
the pilot’s clerk and keeps a record of the pilot’s changes of course—”
“Is that the job my reporter is booked for?” interrupted the astonished
editor.
“That’s the plan. It’s really Mr. Hope’s work; he has the experience and
he is personally acquainted with figures,” answered Ned with a smile.
“But I’d like to have him to work with me. Of course we give a lot of
attention to this work ourselves, as we’re right alongside.”
“Then don’t take him because I asked it,” said the journalist hastily.
“If you want him, take him of your own accord. I wouldn’t recommend any
one for that job.”
Bob, passing a window on his way to the door, sprang forward suddenly,
grasped the open window ledges and then turned as hastily toward those
behind him. His face was a study.
“There he is, now,” Bob stuttered. “He’s here again.”
“I saw his face,” shouted Bob pointing toward a young man in new
overalls and cheap gloves who was running down a little tramway on which
a car carried some castings.
“Was it Stewart?” panted Ned equally excited.
“Sure’s you’re born,” exclaimed Bob. “He certainly has nerve. Hey, you!”
yelled Bob out of the open window.
Their older companions having joined them there was a quick explanation.
“A _Herald_ reporter!” almost shouted President Atkinson.
“And he’s been here four or five days trying to get a line on the _Ocean
Flyer_,” broke in Alan angrily.
Mr. Atkinson started on a run for the door but a word from the _Herald_
manager halted him.
“The horse is stolen now,” began the editor, smiling. “Any way, I’ll
guarantee you against the young man’s causing any trouble. Have some one
bring him here. We’ll see what this means. He’s certainly persistent.”
“All of that,” replied Mr. Atkinson coldly. “We don’t care much for
spies around here.”
“Nor I, anywhere,” replied the editor in a tone that made the
manufacturer turn. “He probably thinks he is doing his duty. At any
rate, he has done no harm.”
The party passed out of the dining room into Mr. Atkinson’s office. In a
few minutes a clerk ushered the overalled young tram car conductor into
the room. His inquisitors were all seated. “Buck” Stewart looked at them
wonderingly. His face wore no smile but he did not seem especially
alarmed.
“Isn’t your name Stewart?” asked the editor sharply.
“Buckingham Stewart,” was the only answer but, as the young man made a
closer inspection of those about him, a look of recognition came into
his face. As he met Ned’s glance there was even the ghost of a smile on
his lips.
“What are you doing here?” went on the editor.
“Workin’.”
“What for?”
“To increase my fund of information.”
“By sticking your nose into other people’s business,” added President
Atkinson warmly.
“I expect that’s true,” answered Stewart as he drew off his gloves and
revealed two very white hands. He also made an attempt to clear his wet
face of perspiration. “I’m a reporter—or almost was,” he added, his
smile broadening into a magnetic grin.
The editor held a whispered talk with Mr. Atkinson which turned the
manufacturer’s irritation into a milder mood.
“Were you sent here to-day?” resumed Stewart’s superior brusquely. “I
told Mr. Latimer I might want to see you.”
“Then he forgot it,” exclaimed Stewart promptly. “I asked for orders
last night and was told there were none.”
“But Mr. Latimer was in my office until after four o’clock,” went on the
editor pointedly.
“I waited for him.”
“And he said—?”
“‘Nothing doin’, young man.’ Then I asked if I could come out here
to-day and get my things.”
“What things?” asked his questioner.
“My gloves and my new overalls,” answered Buck without a smile.
“Have you been _getting_ these all day?”
“I asked the foreman if I could get off to go to New York,” responded
Buck solemnly, “and he laughed at me.”
“And meanwhile—?” began the now almost smiling journalist.
“Meanwhile, I twice just escaped bein’ sent into the shed where the
‘Ocean Flyer’ is.”
Despite his efforts, the straight face of the editor was breaking into a
laugh.
“Your story’s dead,” broke in Bob with a professional tone. “What are
you hangin’ around here for?”
“I don’t know officially that it’s dead,” responded Buck. “I have an
idea it isn’t. Any way, I thought I’d finish the job. But I just missed
it.”
“What would ‘finish’ your job?” asked Ned suddenly and with animation.
“One good peek at your new airship.”
“Come with us,” exclaimed Ned laughing outright. “We’re just goin’ to
look it over.”
“Stewart,” said the editor recovering himself, “you’d better get your
time from the foreman. I am now on this assignment myself. We don’t want
to make it a case of too many cooks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you’ve cleaned up, follow us. The _Herald_ has another assignment
where you and I won’t clash.”
The puzzled Buck watched the editor withdraw, trying to decide just what
this meant. Ned and Alan taking charge of the older men, Bob held back a
moment.
“You’re Russell, ain’t you?” exclaimed Buck. “My name is Stewart. I’m in
the business too.”
“I’ve heard all about you,” answered Bob. “You came near makin’ a mess
o’ things by tippin’ our hand.”
“I reckon I ought to say I’m sorry but you know the game. It’s all right
now; I’m fired from the job. And I guess it don’t necessarily mean I’m
promoted, either. The city editor didn’t tell me to quit. So I stuck
another day. Now I’m holdin’ a fine, large empty sack.”
Bob leaned over and caught Buck by the shoulder. The grimy Stewart was
instantly alert.
“Say, kid,” said Bob in a half whisper, “there’s something doin’. Wash
up and get on our trail.”
“Am I in wrong with the old man?” asked Buck eagerly in the same tone,
catching Bob’s hand.
“Not so’s you could notice it,” answered Bob with a significant wink.
“Trail us.”
The aeroplane setting-up room of the factory resembled a union depot in
floor surface. Its south or yard front was a drop of heavy canvas with
roof supports at one hundred feet intervals. Within this far-reaching
compartment, and dwarfing all other forms of aircraft, stood the _Ocean
Flyer_. A heavy tarpaulin, partly covering the big central car, gave an
added air of mystery to the gigantic machine. Its unusual weight was
indicated by the fact that the big airship was not resting on its extra
size automobile landing wheels but was supported on temporary jacks.
“How do you get it in and out?” was the editor’s instant inquiry as he
noticed the one hundred foot wide entrances and the wing spread of one
hundred and seventy feet.
“The landing wheels turn to any angle,” responded Ned as he threw off
his coat. “We move them sideways, push out one of the wing planes, turn
the wheels back to a right angle and then ‘the tail follows the dog.’”
While the three boys sprang on the side galleries of the car and began
to draw off the protecting cover, the visitors advanced under the high,
wide, spidery planes and gazed in wonder at the metal marvel. One after
another, on each side, the dull, gun-metal colored planes reached out in
unbelievable length and lightness. Braces reaching from the bottom of
the car and metal cables from the top partly supported the vast expanse
of magnalium steel sheets. But, toward the outer ends, the wings
extended unsupported in apparent defiance of all mechanical
construction.
“It’s the corrugated structure and the stiffness of the metal alone,”
explained Major Honeywell.
The decreasing length of each plane, the first eighty feet, the second
sixty and the last forty feet, did not detract from the majesty of the
structure and only added to its birdlike appearance. Each plane, made of
three separate, telescoping fore and aft sections, measured twenty-one
feet in depth. The immense pressure gauges, almost concealed under the
curved front of the main plane, by which the rear sections were drawn in
by cables on a spring drum until the chord of each of the three
planes—or its depth from front to back—was reduced to seven feet, were
almost concealed by the artfulness of their construction. Yet the spring
drums and their extended cables were in sight, beautiful illustrations
of the unique method by which the ingenious boys were able to provide
pressure surface when they needed it and contract it when soaring speed
demanded only a maximum of front or cutting edge. The curious, golden
tinted “moon propellers,” like the thick, heavy wheels of a liner,
suggested nothing of the long, oar-bladed propellers commonly in use.
These, one on each side of the car, were located just beneath and
forward of the front edge of the long planes. Powerful, magnalium chain
drives connected these with the shaft in the car. Behind the chain
drives a light metal causeway extended twelve feet from the car to the
propeller bearing so that the latter might be reached while the car was
in transit, by an operator for adjustment and oiling.
“All right,” exclaimed Alan from the car gallery above. “Stand by to
come aboard.”
The visitors hastened from under the shadow of the planes and looked up.
The lead colored hull of a ship rose before them. A completely closed
car, pierced with ports and doors, twelve feet wide, thirteen feet high
and thirty feet long, extended between the first planes and disappeared
in a maze of metal truss work in the rear—a magnalium braced tail
seventy-three feet more in length, not counting the twenty foot rudder
at its stern.
“And you mean to tell me that heap of metal can actually fly?” exclaimed
the editor at last, unable longer to conceal his amazement.
“Like a gull and as fast,” answered a new voice and Buck Stewart, in
straw hat and natty summer clothes, joined the group.