ROY OSBORNE’S “PICK-UP CRANE”
Just before one o’clock on the afternoon of June 21 ten persons sat down
to luncheon in the private dining room of the American Aeroplane
factory. President J. W. Atkinson, of the company, and Mrs. Atkinson;
Chief Engineer Osborne and Mrs. Osborne; Night City Editor Latimer, of
the _New York Herald_, and the five members of the crew of the giant
aeroplane—the _Ocean Flyer_. These were, Ned Napier, captain and pilot;
Alan Hope, first officer and pilot; Roy Osborne, observer and
calculator; Robert Russell, engineer, and Buckingham Stewart, “assistant
engineer” and “English pilot.”
Not a member of this crew had been in bed less than ten hours the night
before. And, as an athletic trainer would have expressed it, there had
been only “light work” that morning. One after another, the Airship Boys
and their associates had met at the setting-up room of the big plant
where, from time to time, many of the older employes of the works had
also gone for a last inspection of the aerial craft that was soon to
start on its astounding voyage seaward in an attempt to cross the
Atlantic—to make good its projector’s prophecy of “New York to London in
Twelve Hours.”
“But, remember,” explained Captain Napier more than once to those who
persisted in crowding around him, “I’m frank to confess we’re going to
take advantage of a technicality in our attempt to do this. And the
twelve hour trip, if we can make it, will be from London to New York—not
eastward. At the speed we have planned to make, we couldn’t do it; we’d
have to be in the air seventeen hours. Going over, we’ve got to add five
hours and a fraction to this because of the time we lose; that’ll make
us twenty-two hours going. We ought to reach London between twelve and
one o’clock to-morrow. But coming back,” and Ned’s face showed a grin,
“look out! We’ll gain five hours in clock time. We’re goin’ to start
back at one thirty P. M. We’ll be in the air seventeen hours again but
we’ll get here in twelve hours by the watch—at one thirty the next
morning.”
So far the big aeroplane had not made a single daylight flight. Every
test had been made under cover of darkness. And in spite of the long
voyage now about to begin and all the activity that this had
necessitated, the secret of the _Ocean Flyer_ had not passed beyond its
makers and their friends. With fuel, chemical and lubricator tanks full,
every tool and appliance in place, provisions and clothing aboard, the
final inspection of the car took place just before noon when Mrs.
Atkinson and Mrs. Osborne went aboard.
Roy Osborne, the young professional who was to act as observer and
assistant to the pilot, hardly needs a description. About the age of Ned
and Alan, he was already an experienced aviator. More than once he had
represented the Aeroplane Company on daring and dangerous airship
expeditions. When not so employed he was the factory expert testing new
machines. He also had a national reputation, and considering his
mother’s aversion to having him undertake the present trip, the boys
were doubly fortunate in signing him as a member of the crew. Mrs.
Osborne had only consented after her husband, Chief Engineer Osborne,
had decided that there wasn’t a mechanical defect in the new aeroplane
and that, in his judgment, it had better than an even chance to make a
successful flight.
In spite of some forced joviality the luncheon was not very lively.
“Don’t eat too much, boys,” suggested Buck Stewart. “The pantry is well
stocked. I’m going to serve tea about five o’clock, dinner at seven and
supper at midnight, wind and weather permitting.”
“You mean Captain Napier permitting,” suggested Bob. “We’ll probably eat
and sleep when he gives the word.”
“In less than an hour, Roy,” spoke up Ned, evading comment on the
statement, “we’ll find out all about your ‘pick up crane.’ If it don’t
work,” he went on with a smile, “and our freight is dumped into the sea,
we’ll come about, hang you through the engine room trap and make you
pick it up with your hands.”
“Give me the wheel,” answered Roy with spirit, “and I’ll pick it up. But
my crane won’t reach out and grab your bundle unless you put the machine
where it ought to go.”
These references were to the devices installed on the _Herald’s_ sea tug
and on the airship for picking up the matrices while in flight. A
somewhat enlarged copy of Roy’s land crane had been selected. The tug,
of twenty-foot beam, was equipped with two twenty-foot masts stepped
abaft the engine house. These provided a space of fifteen feet in the
clear between their tops. Some experience in tackling a foot ball dummy
had given Roy the idea for the equipment of these spars. On the top of
each, to which it was elevated by a block and tackle, was a spring hook
that released instantly under sharp pressure. Between these hooks
extended a looped rope or cable, to the center of which was attached the
article to be taken aboard by the flying car.
On the aeroplane, well to the front, a hinged metal arm dropped about
ten feet below the car bottom. It was in the shape of a long, acute
letter V with one side against the bottom of the airship and the other
pointing forward on a wide angle at its mouth. The acute end of the arm
ended at the trap door in the bottom of the engine room. Rushing toward
the freight to be loaded, suspended between the masts and held by the
spring hooks, the metal V crane would be lowered in place. As its arm
passed under either the freight itself or the cable holding it, the
metal crane would guide the package or cable swiftly along the angle
until the narrowing slot of the apex caught and held the object. At the
impact, the spring hooks released the suspension cable and the motion of
the aeroplane held the freed article until it could be secured through
the trap door. At the apex of the crane the arms were jointed and held
in place by a bolt. By loosening this, the lower arm could be folded
parallel with the upper one and thus made fast against the car bottom
until needed again.
“I’d think you’d have a net, like those on street cars,” suggested Buck.
“When you can tell us how to use a net without danger of knocking your
freight farther from you, we’ll be glad to try it,” answered Roy.
“You can’t pick up a passenger with it, can you?” went on Buck, who was
desperately trying to make conversation.
“No,” answered Roy, “and I don’t know any way to take on and land
passengers when trains are going sixty miles an hour.”
When some one commented on the absence of Major Honeywell from the
luncheon it was soon explained that he would be on the _Herald_ tug,
preferring to get the latest possible view of the departing _Flyer_. At
half past one o’clock Mr. Atkinson’s telephone called Ned. It was the
_Herald_ editor who only wished to give the voyageurs good luck, to ask
if everything was ready and to announce that the program of the
_Telegram_ would be carried out on the minute.
“You have the _Herald_ code book,” were his parting words. “Try to send
me advices from Ipswich and Nova Scotia if you can. In London, the
_Herald_ representatives will look after your arrival. Don’t bother
about anything but getting safely across and back. You have the best
wishes of the _Herald_. Good-bye and good luck.”
Ned and those about him did not know that the great editor, as he hung
up his receiver, sighed and for a moment leaned his head in his hand.
The journalist realized that he was sending five young men on a mission
in which there were overpowering odds of death unnoted in time and
unmarked in place. Then he thought of the time when, as a young
reporter, he rode six days with the thermometer forty below zero to
interview Sitting Bull, and he was an editor again.
Since it had also been decided that the _Telegram_ as printed in London
was to contain matter describing the _Ocean Flyer_ and a brief “advance”
story of its plan of flight, it was accepted as inevitable that these
details would return to all American newspapers in time for publication
the same morning that the _Herald_ printed its own elaborate account. It
was planned, therefore, that the _Herald_ was to arrange to publish a
much fuller and better story by using, in addition to the story in hand,
the log of the _Flyer_ for the description of the actual flight, and to
augment this by adding the particulars of the start in Newark as well as
a graphic account of what took place while the aeroplane was in London.
This accounted in part for Mr. Latimer’s presence at the luncheon. He
had assigned himself the duty of preparing the story of the start. He
had also another mission. While making his first inspection of the
aircraft that morning he had arranged with Bob Russell for a lively
account of both flights to be ready on the return and to be delivered
with the great coronation story.
“I ain’t puttin’ anybody’s nose out of joint, am I?” asked Bob at once
when first approached on this subject.
“Whose nose?” asked Mr. Latimer wonderingly.
“Stewart’s, of course,” answered Bob. “He’s the _Herald_ man, you know.”
“But I thought Stewart wasn’t coming back!” said the night city editor.
“I know he isn’t,” answered Bob with a wink. “But what if he does?”
“In that event,” replied Mr. Latimer, smiling, “he won’t need any
instructions. We can count on him for twice what we can use. And we’ll
run it as ‘The Only Passenger’s Story.’”
By two o’clock, each of the crew—except Ned—had gone through the final
formality of farewell and mounted into the car. The big aeroplane,
silent and strong, stood on the starting-ways facing the east, as if
anxious for the touch that was to start its planes into vibrant life.
Just within the open window of Mr. Atkinson’s office Mr. Latimer sat at
the telephone, watch in hand. Just without, his shirt sleeves rolled to
the elbows but with a heavy gray sweater on his arm, stood Ned. And, as
in all crucial moments, the editor and Ned were speaking of the thing
least related to their real thoughts. As if wholly unconcerned with the
things about them they talked of trout fishing in Wisconsin.
When the telephone rang and the newspaper man responded he turned to Ned
again with no excitement in his voice.
“The last form has gone to the stereotyping room,” he remarked almost
casually.
“One fifty-six,” replied the boy outside.
“Correct,” answered Latimer. “They’ll be on time.”
Three minutes later the instrument called him again.
“It’s off,” he announced in a low voice. “We won’t hear from them
again.”
At that instant the wireless operator rushed from the adjoining room and
the coatless and hatless Bob—already in overalls—sprang onto the _Flyer_
lower gallery.
“They’ve started,” yelled both, almost together.
Ned smiled and held out his hand to the night city editor.
“Until we meet again,” he said.
“Remember me to the king,” was the journalist’s only reply as he shook
hands and Ned walked slowly toward the mounting steps. Part way to the
car he paused, turned and hurriedly retraced his steps. Mr. Atkinson,
watch in hand, was approaching from a group of several hundred
employees. Ned lifted his cap to the assembled onlookers and then caught
the president by the sleeve.
“I don’t know that we’ll need it,” he said with a laugh, “but I just
remembered we haven’t any money. Have you a thousand dollars in the
office?”
The two entered the office. At six minutes after two o’clock Alan
appeared on the upper gallery, watch in hand and an expression of
concern in his face. About the same moment Mr. Atkinson and Ned
reappeared, the latter carrying a package of bills.
“Don’t leave without me,” called out Ned, waving his arm to show the
money. “I almost forgot; we may have to pay some fines in the big town
if we’re arrested.”
“It’s eight minutes after two,” was Alan’s anxious reply.
“Don’t worry,” called back Ned as he advanced, “feeling” the direction
of the breeze with his raised hand. “I’d rather be a little late than
too early.” Then, at the foot of the ladder, he turned to Mr. Latimer
again. “As I was saying,” he continued, addressing the night city
editor, “when we get back, if you’ll take about ten days off, I’ll show
you the best fishin’ spot in Wisconsin.”
If those congregated near the airship had the impression that Captain
Napier would start with some ceremony or formality they were
disappointed. Although Alan, Bob, Roy Osborne and Buck were now on the
gallery above, each in some stage of excitement or concern, Ned made his
way up the ladder as calmly as if preparing for one of the nightly
tests.
His first words aboard were, “Buck, you seem to have less to do than any
one else. We’d better make you purser as well as steward. Here’s a
thousand dollars,” and he shoved the bills into the reporter’s hands.
“Take care of it till we need it. And now a last word to everybody: the
rolling and plunging of a vessel on the water is steadiness itself
compared with some of the sudden motions the _Flyer_ may make; do not
pass from one part of the ship to another except when necessary and do
not fail, on the galleries or top deck, to keep a hand on the rail. It’s
a few minutes after two o’clock. All hands stand by their stations for
the signal and we’ll be off.”
Just as Alan and Roy sprang up the store room ladder to reach the pilot
house and Bob and Buck were entering the engine room, an employee rushed
from Mr. Atkinson’s office.
“The _Herald_ wants Mr. Latimer,” he shouted.
The latter glanced at Ned inquiringly and the boy nodded his head.
“Go ahead,” exclaimed Ned. “It’s probably an O. K. message for us. We’ll
wait.”
Within two minutes—Ned’s associates having once more appeared on the
upper and lower galleries with no attempt to conceal their
impatience—the night city editor hurried toward the car again.
“From the office,” he said in a low tone to the boys above him, for as
yet none of the spectators were advised of the mission of the aeroplane.
“They’ve just received word that the English government authorities have
prohibited airship flights over London during the coronation exercises.”
“London—the big London—or just the city?” inquired Captain Ned.
“Over London: that’s the message. The office wants to know if you’ll
wait till it talks with the managing editor down at the marine office.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” answered Ned.
“Two twelve,” exclaimed Alan, whose watch had not been out of his hand
since two o’clock.
“It’s too late,” repeated Ned. “Tell your folks everything stands as it
was. We’ll put it over. Are you all ready, Mr. Engineer?” went on Ned.
Bob’s eyes snapped.
“All ready, sir.”
“Start your engines.”
As if an electric button had been pressed, first one and then the other
big turbine began moving. With neither jar nor noise the circular
engines spun faster and faster until the ceaseless, muffled explosions
fell into a soft, continuous purr of power. For a few seconds Ned stood
at the engine door. Then, with a slight wave of the hand to those
standing almost breathless on the ground below, Captain Napier walked
forward until he was beneath the open door of the pilot room above.
“Are you ready, Mr. Hope?”
“Two, twelve, twenty-eight,” came from the pilot house.
“You may start at once.”
Slowly and gently, like the Alpine pebble that starts the avalanche, the
eleven foot “moon propellers” began moving. Taking time to draw on his
sweater, Ned hurried aft on the gallery to the companionway leading to
the upper gallery and thence to the top deck. As he appeared on this the
propellers had already attained a speed that drove the near-by
spectators to flight. Then, suddenly, the streams of compressed air
began to sing in the terrifying moan of a coming cyclone. As Ned made
his way forward on the narrow elevated deck the storm broke; the cyclone
burst.
Under the most powerful propellers ever made, the _Ocean Flyer_
surrendered. It ran forward twenty yards as if trying to escape the
terrific power grasping it, tossed its head sideways two or three times
and then, the ingenuity of man annihilating gravity, the heavy airship
left the ground. As if falling from a great height, it plunged forward
at increased speed. The seventeen hour flight had begun.