WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE FORTY-THREE P. M.
The pilot room of the _Flyer_ contained no loose furniture. The only
chair was that at the observer’s desk. When Buck appeared with a camp
chair for Ned—one of those stored below for use in the state rooms on
the return trip—Captain Napier laughed.
“I meant something that I can use at the wheel,” he explained. “I’ll be
takin’ my trick at the wheel at six o’clock. See if you can’t fix me up
a stool.”
Buck hurried away and Ned limped out into the gallery again. The
responsibilities of commandership had at last begun to worry him. The
_Flyer_ was not making the speed he had planned. Something had gone
wrong. And if the trial trips and calculations had not deceived him, it
was something to be remedied at once or the great experiment was a
failure before it was made. In its trials the monster airship had
attained a speed of three miles a minute. Crawling to the door of the
first stateroom Ned entered and seated himself on the cot. In his note
book he turned to the pages of figures he had made, erased, added to and
revised for a week.
From New York to Ipswich was 205 miles. From Ipswich to Fogo Island it
was 787 more. Nothing was plainer than the total of the sailing courses
from Fogo Island to Galway in Ireland, 1709.1 miles. Adding that and the
three hundred and forty-nine miles between the Arran Island lights in
Galway Bay and London there was a voyage of 3050.1 miles to be covered.
Checking these figures again Ned shook his head.
“We’ll even have to beat three miles a minute by a fraction,” he said to
himself, beginning a new calculation, “and we’re doing only two and
one-half a minute. At that rate it’ll take us twenty-one hours and
thirty minutes to sight Hyde Park. Add to that, five hours for corrected
time goin’ east and we’ll eat up over twenty-seven hours. Let’s see,” he
added, making an addition. “That means we’d land fifty-one minutes and a
fraction after four o’clock to-morrow afternoon—practically five
o’clock. A fine time for our paper to be issued. And that isn’t the
worst. If we started back in an hour it’d take us as long to reach New
York. Even subtracting the five hours in time we gain, we’d reach New
York sixteen hours and thirty minutes later. That means, leavin’ London
at six P. M., we’d get to New York at half past ten the next morning. We
can’t loaf along at that rate. We’ve _got_ to do one hundred and eighty
miles an hour—and better!”
He jammed his book into his pocket and started painfully toward the
pilot room. On the gallery he paused a moment to look over the
_Flyer_—hurling itself like a comet toward the distant sea—and at the
panorama beneath. So great was the nervous tension of all on board and
so insistent were the duties of each that hardly a moment had been given
to this picture. Ned saw it all but his mind was not on it. Even as he
looked, his alert ears were strained for the rhythmic beating of the
propellers and the low note of the vibration of the mammoth planes. But
his thoughts were, “Three miles a minute or better; three miles a minute
or better.”
Yet, he could not fail to notice the town-spotted earth, its web of
roads and railroads, moving specks that might be people walking or motor
cars—at the speed the great aeroplane was flying there was no comparison
of speed with objects below, and even express trains seemed standing
still. Colors played before his eyes; the emerald green of fields,
endless ribbons of chalky white roads. The great black bat moving over
towns and fields he knew to be the shadow of the airship. Far to the
north the mountains of New England lay on the horizon in bands of misty
color that faded from green to gray. Above them, distinct in the far
distance, soft, cottony clouds piled themselves heavenward.
Reaching the pilot room door Ned paused again. His eyes were now fixed
on the world of clouds above him. His abstracted look had disappeared.
His eyes swept the sky from west to east. Just above him, fleecy banks
of motionless clouds seemed suspended, great umbrellas to protect the
earth from the glistening sun. Their tumbling turrets turned to
translucent pearl by the sun, below they joined to make one canopy of
fleeting gray. Here and there, through rifts in this, Ned had seen that
which made him halt again. Then he hurried to Alan’s side.
The town of Derby had been passed and Roy had just cautioned the pilot
that Middleton lay twenty-five miles ahead with Hartford ten miles abeam
to the north.
“What’s she doin’?” asked Ned.
“Ain’t had a hitch. But I’m up a little—seems to handle easier.”
“I hope so,” answered Captain Ned soberly, and he hobbled over to Roy’s
desk. One look at the speed register and the look of concern on his face
deepened. The needle was yet vibrating just beyond the two and one-half
mile figure. Then he went back to the wheel and for some moments studied
the gauges showing the propeller revolutions and the engine development.
The propeller speed had lessened but the engines were doing the same
work that had already driven the car one hundred and eighty miles an
hour. Alan knew what was going on in Ned’s mind and he chuckled.
“Don’t get scared before you’re hurt,” he said, laughing. “I guess
you’re a little upset yet. Go back there and lie down a while. We’re
doin’ all right.”
“We’re a half mile slow,” answered Ned. “We’ll have to go up right away.
There’s a fast drift above this bank of clouds and it’s all in our
favor—”
“Up nothin’,” laughed Alan again as he turned his wing wheel slightly
and brought the _Flyer_ on an even keel again. “Go look at the register!
Do you know what we did between Norwalk and Derby?”
“Better than we are doin’ now?” asked Ned.
“It’s twenty miles. We reeled it off in six and a half minutes. What’s
that figure out?”
“One hundred and eighty-four miles an hour,” volunteered Roy with
alacrity.
“But,” began the astounded Ned pointing to the speed indicator.
“I told you I was liftin’ her a little,” explained Alan. “Look at her
now.”
Another glance showed Ned that the aeroplane had found herself. The
indicator showed a speed of practically three miles a minute. The
nervous young commander threw himself into Buck’s camp chair.
“I—I see,” he said at last, “but what did it? She had all you could give
her when I went out.”
“Sure,” explained Alan without turning his head. “But we didn’t get any
help from the breeze comin’ up the Sound. You’ve got to remember we’re
gettin’ a little slant of it now. If there’s a fair breeze higher up and
this ain’t fast enough for you I can go up and do better—”
“This’ll do,” answered Ned a little hysterically. “I guess you’re
right,” he added soberly. “I think I’ll lie down a few minutes and try
to pull myself together.”
As Ned disappeared into the state room Alan said to Roy:
“That’s the first case of ‘nerves’ I ever saw in Napier. But he’s
certainly excusable to-day. That little swing of his was enough to give
any one the rattles. When he comes out of that room he’ll be the boss
again. Stand by for Middletown with Hartford on the port beam,” he
concluded. And silence once more fell on the wind swept pilot room.
There seemed no longer any question as to the stability or speed of the
_Ocean Flyer_. All that those in charge of it now had to fear, so far as
they could see, was an accident—an unlooked for storm, the breaking of
machinery or a bit of carelessness that might end disastrously before it
could be corrected. When Ned retired to the stateroom Roy took the wheel
a few moments while Alan went below.
He found Bob installed on a camp stool by the emergency engine levers, a
bit of waste in his hands and his eyes on the speed indicators, clock
and signal board. Buck, now wholly recovered from his illness and his
face and clothes spotted with oil drippings, was on his knees at the
silent dynamo cleaning and polishing its exposed parts. There was
already a hot, greasy smell in the engine room. But there was not a
discordant sound, not a jar to alarm the second officer.
With a quick feel of the main bearings for possible heat, Alan looked
over the fuel and oil supply gauges and then motioned to Buck to follow
him.
“Leave your cap in here,” he suggested with a smile. Taking up an oil
can he passed to the gallery and led the way aft to the tail truss. On
the long, narrow gangway reaching through this, protected only by
slender cables on each side, he made his way toward the big twenty foot
parallel rudders.
“Don’t look down,” he suggested to Buck, “and hang on to the cables.
It’s worse than walkin’ a rope, for a tight rope don’t fly up to shake
you off.”
“I’m all right,” responded Buck. “I’ve been initiated. Go ahead.”
Unlike a wind, with its varying gusts and puffs, the air hurled rearward
by the propellers struck the two boys with a steady pressure. Clothing
clung to their bodies like a wet glove. Their hair was plastered down as
if with pomade. With shoulders stooped and legs bent under the strain,
Alan led the tenderfoot Buck slowly out over the void beneath—now nearly
3,000 feet.
“You may have to do this to-night,” yelled Alan bringing his mouth near
to Buck’s ear. “But never try it unless the lights are on. And never let
go the cable. The rudder bearings need oil. They’ve been workin’ like a
barn door with rusty hinges.”
Reaching the end of the truss gangway, Alan braced himself and oiled the
bearings. The lower ones were accessible from the lower gangway. The
upper ones he reached by crawling through a manhole to the top of the
truss, along which ran another exposed and unprotected gangway. By means
of this the big balancing plane could be reached in emergencies.
“But don’t let me ever catch you up here,” admonished Alan as he dropped
down again.
“Very good, sir,” responded Buck with a twinkle. “But you’ll trust me
with this work?”
“Only when you are ordered to do it.”
“How about the propeller bearings?” went on Buck eagerly. “Don’t you
reckon they need a little oil?”
“Look here,” replied Alan. “Get that notion out of your system at once.
I wouldn’t even let Russell go out there. When the propellers need
attention we’ll attend to them. The rear of those wheels isn’t anything
but the tail of a tornado.”
Reaching the engine room again, Alan explained in detail to both boys
what had already been done on the voyage, the ground covered and the
speed. With renewed instructions he disappeared above.
For some minutes no sound came from the pilot room except, now and then,
the slight jar of adjusting planes as the pilot shifted slightly with
the wind. Buck, balancing himself at the starboard door—across which the
guard rail had now been dropped—listened always for the monotonous but
fascinating words of the pilot and observer as land marks were passed
and the hour was compared and noted.
“Webster,” repeated Buck to the unmoving Bob at one time. “Three,
fifteen, twelve o’clock,” Buck added, listening for more.
“Right,” repeated the vigilant engineer noting his own time.
“Thirty-four minutes from Norwalk,” went on Buck as he heard Roy make
the announcement above.
“What was the speed?” asked Bob. “It’s three miles now,” he added as he
examined his own register.
“Average speed between Norwalk and Webster for ninety-five miles, two
and eight-tenths miles a minute,” called Buck excitedly.
“Great,” cried Bob. “We’ve jumped four-tenths of a mile. It was two and
a half on the first leg to Norwalk.”
Buck was again listening.
“He says we should have been over Webster at six minutes after three and
that we’re eight minutes late,” he repeated.
“It’s fifty miles to Woburn,” volunteered Bob, consulting a memorandum
book into which he had copied the land parts of their early flight.
“Look out for old Bunker Hill when we get to Woburn. Boston’ll lie ten
miles abeam on the starboard.”
A few minutes later observer Osborne came down the ladder and confirmed
jubilantly what Buck had reported. He also told Bob and Buck for the
first time of Ned’s nervousness and how he was then resting in the state
room above.
“That’s good,” commented Bob. “I think his leg hurt him a good deal
worse than he let on.”
“Don’t bother about that stool for him,” went on Roy. “Alan and I’ll
take the wheel. Ned can sit in on my trick at the desk.”
“But it’s ready,” explained Buck pointing to an empty tin provision box
to which he had lashed a camp stool. “And you and Alan can’t keep awake
till to-morrow afternoon!”
Roy only smiled and turned to the hooks in the store room on which were
hung extra clothing. Selecting an aviator’s close fitting hood he put it
on and adjusted it about the neck.
“Gettin’ cold?” asked Buck wonderingly.
“I’m goin’ to take a stroll while Alan runs the shop,” answered Roy
laughing. Selecting a can of special lubricating oil, he loosened its
screw cap and then, pausing at the store room door to call “all ready”
to Alan at the wheel, he stepped onto the gallery and, climbing lightly
over the rail, caught the guard cable in his left hand and made his way
out on the suspended gangway leading to the starboard propeller.
The moment Roy reached the edge of the terrific gale shooting rearward
from the heard but unseen propeller blades he gripped his support anew,
and while the fragile looking but strong ropelike bridge swayed dizzily
in the gale, made his way without hesitation to the propeller frame.
Buck and Bob almost held their breaths while they watched Roy, crouched
to break the force of the compressed atmosphere, raise the oil reservoir
lid and pour the liquid into the supply tank. He returned in safety,
Alan regulating the equilibrium as he did so and then, adding a pair of
goggles to his outfit, repeated the same work on the port reservoir.
“Are you going to do that to-night?” asked Buck thoughtfully.
“About three times,” answered Roy, removing his protecting appliances.
“If you’re busy,” volunteered the ambitious Buck, “I can do it. I’ve
already got orders to look after the rudder bearings. I’d like to be
something. ‘Chief Oiler’ would suit me!”
“Like as not,” answered the amused Roy. “But, you see, you’re a sort of
guest. They don’t take chances with guests. And I’m a paid hand.”
The speed of the _Flyer_ was so terrific that there seemed no long view
of any one point. No sooner was a hill or town plainly sighted than the
lightninglike airship seemed over it and, in a few more minutes, the
place had faded into gray astern. The moment Alan announced to Roy that
Woburn was in sight Bob called to Buck:
“Then Boston’s also in sight ten miles abeam.”
“And the sea!” shouted Buck.
When the _Flyer_ shot over Woburn all knew that it was but twenty miles
further to Ipswich where the real flight over the sea was to begin. Ned
had not yet appeared. At exactly forty minutes and twenty seconds after
three o’clock the _Flyer_ passed over the main wharf of Ipswich at an
elevation of 2,800 feet. Beautiful summer homes stretched along the bay
on each side of the town. In the rear lay the bare granite hills and the
derricks of great quarries.
Breathless with excitement, Buck once more took station on the gallery.
He could distinctly hear the puffing of little derrick engines and the
business like “tamp—tamp” of quarry drillers. A strange feeling came
over him. It seemed to him, as was natural to a reporter, that some
ceremony should attend the moment. But, above him, Captain Ned lay
quietly in his state room. Alan stood at his wheel stolid and silent. At
the desk, not even rising to take a look at what was below, Roy bent low
over his work. In the engine room, Bob Russell, as if unconcerned, sat
at his gauges and signal board.
As the little city fled backward Buck saw a squat stone-boat making its
way up the crooked bay. At the same moment, on a distant stretch of
white beach, he made out a group of bathers. Would he and his friends
ever come to home and harbor again? Would they ever again come back to a
world of pleasure and safety? In these minutes the _Flyer_ was five
miles at sea.
“Two lighthouses on the starboard beam,” he heard Alan exclaim suddenly.
“Plum Light eight miles abeam and Thatcher’s Island Light off Cape Ann,”
called back the observer, checking the time.
“Three, forty-three o’clock exactly,” went on Alan with precision.
“Three-forty-three o’clock,” repeated Roy. “And the course is north,
sixty-five and one-half degrees east.”
“East, north, east by compass!” replied Alan.
“East, north, east it is,” repeated Roy. “Make it so.”
And in this wise, with the blue sea beneath them at last and a shore
line fast fading in the west, the real voyage of the _Ocean Flyer_
began.