THE RACING PIGS OF FUNDY
The next land the _Ocean Flyer_ would pass over was the fifteen mile
wide peninsula of Nova Scotia lying between the north arm of the Bay of
Fundy and the Straits of Northumberland. The town of Amherst at the head
of the Bay of Fundy was the next objective point. By the Route Chart it
should be reached a little after six o’clock. The course between Ipswich
and Amherst lay across the Gulf of Maine.
Islands and light houses, with glimpses now and then of the mainland,
made the work of the pilot easy. Yet, Roy persisted in his work, and the
routine of the time record and the checking and confirming of known
landmarks was not relaxed. In this manner the Isle of Shoals, Montigan,
Matinicus, Mt. Desert, Great Duck, Petite Manan, Moosabec, Libby,
Machias Seal Islands and Cutter’s Harbor were passed, the latter sighted
at twenty-eight minutes after five o’clock—the weather so far clear and
fair and the barometer steady.
Not one of these islands was directly in the airship’s course, all of
them showing either abeam to port or starboard and frequently only to be
located in the distance by their lighthouse towers or their high, rocky
bluffs. Cutter’s Harbor was an important point, for from it the
sharp-eyed Alan got his first glimpse of the Grand Manan, the big rock
pile thirteen miles long that guards the entrance to the Bay of Fundy. A
few miles east of Cutter’s Harbor the pilot picked up the southwest
light of Big Manan. Then the West McQuoddy Light appeared four and a
half miles abeam to the south. When Long Eddy Foghorn was made out on
the white cliffs at the north end of Manan, the Bay of Fundy lay dead
ahead.
“I was afraid of this,” shouted Alan after he and Roy had made their
reports and checked them. “We’re runnin’ into the ‘fog factory’ and it
looks like a change.”
“It’s been gettin’ cooler for the last half hour,” answered Roy. Both
now noticed that the glare had gone out of the sun and that the clouds
had lost their fleeciness.
“I hope, if it’s fog,” went on Alan, “that it’ll hold off till we pass
Amherst. If we could have clear weather to Fogo Island it would be
better. Towns, islands, lights and rivers are beautiful checks on our
compass course. We get to Fogo at seven thirty-two and it’ll be daylight
yet.”
For some time Roy was silent. He was consulting the estimated time of
reaching various points and figuring. Finally he arose and braced
himself at Alan’s side, an alarmed look on his face.
“The engineer’s table estimates we’ll reach Fogo Island at seven
thirty-two o’clock traveling at three miles a minute,” he said,
consulting his notes again.
“That’s right,” answered Alan. “We’re doin’ it, ain’t we?”
“We cleared Big Manan at five thirty-four!”
“Well?”
“That’s five hundred and forty-six miles from New York.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s six hundred and fourteen miles from here to Fogo Island—”
“What are you gettin’ at?” interrupted Alan somewhat excitedly.
“Only this: you can’t get to Fogo by seven thirty-two o’clock this
evening.”
“We can’t?” exclaimed Alan. “Why not? Those are the figures. What’s
wrong?”
“The trouble seems to be,” continued Roy, “that someone didn’t check his
figures. The list of distances between points is footed up as nine
hundred and ninety-two miles from the Battery to Fogo. Well, it’s eleven
hundred and sixty miles!”
Alan looked at him with eyes popping.
“It’s one hundred and sixty-eight miles farther than was figured. We
can’t get to Fogo till nine o’clock as I figure it.”
“How much later is that?” asked Alan finally—his lips set.
“One hour and twenty-eight minutes.”
A long whistle escaped the pilot’s lips. He tried to keep his composure
by forcing a smile but it was a failure.
“Do you suppose there can be a mistake in our ocean chart?” he continued
at last.
“Probably not. Your man wouldn’t likely make two errors.”
“When’ll that bring us to London—an hour and twenty-eight minutes late?”
“Thirty-eight minutes after one o’clock to-morrow afternoon, allowin’
for the difference in time,” replied Roy promptly.
“Then we’ll never come back in twelve hours,” announced Alan decisively.
“Unless—” and he paused.
“Unless what?”
“Unless we make no stop in London—or fly faster. But say!” he exclaimed
suddenly, “How’d you figure there’s a mistake? How’d you know it’s
eleven hundred and sixty miles to Fogo? I checked those figures. If the
distances are right you can bet it’s nine hundred and ninety-two miles.”
“Did you ever calculate the distance from New York to London on a great
circle?”
“Sure. It’s three thousand two hundred and eighteen and one-tenth
miles.”
“That was by latitude and longitude, wasn’t it?”
“Certainly.”
“What did the same kind of calculation give you between Fogo and
London?”
“Two thousand, fifty-eight and one-tenth miles,” answered Alan, the
figures at his tongue’s end.
“The difference is eleven hundred and sixty miles. _That’s_ the distance
Fogo is from New York. The chart shows nine hundred and ninety-two
miles. Where’d you get those figures?”
Alan indicated to Roy to take the wheel. Stepping to the table and
sailing chart he studied the latter some minutes. When he arose he
noticed that a mist was perceptible even in the pilot room. As he
resumed his place at the wheel he growled:
“We did this first leg of our flight on tangents with parallel rulers.
We got the distances from the map scale of miles with dividers. I reckon
the dividers were loose. That’s all.”
“That’s hardly navigation,” said Roy with a half smile.
“Not even common sense,” snapped Alan.
Off St. John’s, New Brunswick, the mainland should have been in plain
view but the outer buoy in the harbor, over which the _Flyer_ passed,
was made out with difficulty. But, when its vague shape was at last
sighted the hour was noted as five fifty-one P. M., and the course was
immediately altered to E. by N. The fog was now gathering fast and the
rocks and trees of the rugged New Brunswick coast soon disappeared from
sight. Watching closely for Cape Chignecto Alan headed the airship for
Amherst at the tip of the Bay of Fundy, seventy-three miles distant.
A problem now confronted the pilot. The fog soon thickened to a mist
that resembled a drizzling rain. The flight of the aeroplane hurled this
chilling vapor through the pilot room. Alan was debating what to do. It
was possible to ignore the land beneath and to begin the long compass
flight to London at once. But it was wisdom to check their flight, as
long as possible, with points beneath. In the fog these could not be
distinguished at the height they were flying.
“We’ll have to drop to five hundred feet or less,” he suggested to Roy,
“if we expect to pick up Amherst or any of the Prince Edward Island
marks. What d’ you say?”
“I’d come down and I’d stay down till it’s too dark to make out the
land. That’ll be about Cape Anguille on the west coast of Newfoundland.
Then we’ll cut loose and say good-bye to America.”
Calling below to Bob to close the engine room doors and ports, Alan was
about to head down when he suggested to Bob to see if the ports in Ned’s
state room were closed. At Roy’s first step within the room Ned sprang
up wildly. In another moment, wincing from the pain in his stiffened
leg, he was by Alan’s side.
“What time is it?” he began as he looked with dismay out on the blinding
fog.
“A few minutes after six,” answered Alan with a smile.
“Six, three,” corrected Ned looking at the chronometer himself. Then he
stepped heavily to Roy’s charts. “Are we on time? Why’d you let me
sleep?”
“We’re on time, goin’ without a slip, just passed St. Johns and—because
you needed it.”
“St. Johns?” repeated Ned. “You’re droppin’!”
“Ready to get a bearin’ on Amherst, Nova Scotia, when we pass.
Everything’s fine—exceptin’ the fog.”
“I went to sleep,” exclaimed Ned who was yet a little dazed.
“That’s right,” said Alan. “I’ll take my turn later.”
“I didn’t mean to,” persisted the other boy. “Didn’t you need me?”
“Movin’ like clockwork,” insisted Alan, trying to placate the
disgruntled Ned. “The weather was fine up to Big Manan. I think it’ll
clear before we reach Fogo Island.”
“Did you say we’d just passed St. Johns?” interrupted Ned excitedly,
almost himself again. “We ought to have been there over an hour ago if
it’s after six!”
This necessitated the explanation of the error in the Gulf of Maine
sailing chart and then the explosion came. In time, when Ned had calmed
down and had gone over the figures himself, he became philosophical.
“I don’t mind bein’ an hour and a half late goin’ over,” he said at
last, “but we’ve got to come back in twelve hours.”
“I’d like to,” said Alan. “We can save some of it by shortening the stop
in London.”
“We’ll save _all_ of it!” announced the young captain decisively.
“We may catch a fair wind,” suggested Roy.
“Fair wind or not,” exclaimed Ned, “we’ll come back on time if we have
to go up above the clouds to do it.”
By this time the _Flyer_ was only a few hundred feet in the air. In the
silence that followed Ned’s positive assertion a strange sound fell on
the ears of all. On the instant, Alan’s face paled and the wing wheel
sped around to throw the airship upward. It was the unmistakable,
frightened grunting of pigs.
“Off our course,” yelled Roy springing forward to examine the compass.
“Then the chart’s wrong,” exclaimed Alan. “We’re on our line within half
a point.”
Ned burst out laughing.
“Aren’t you hugging the shore along here?” he asked, still chuckling.
“All the way,” answered Alan quickly, “but over the water—not over barn
yards. Them’s pigs. The course is wrong.”
“And you’re on the Nova Scotia side of the bay aren’t you?”
“We ought to be. But it looks like we’re sailin’ over a lot of Blue Nose
Cajan farms. And there ain’t no farms called for by my chart.”
“I once read a book about Nova Scotia, ‘Among the Blue Noses’—and now
I’m glad I did,” went on Ned. “Don’t get scared. You’re all right. The
forty-foot tide of old Fundy is just comin’ in—that’s all. Drop her down
again. You’re in no danger.”
“Do tides squeal like pigs?” almost sneered Roy, his face a blank.
“Listen to a bit of natural history,” went on Ned. “Be it known that
this shore of Fundy is a succession of small farms. Each farm supports
its share of pigs. But this support is not corn, of which there is none
to spare. The pigs must forage for themselves. From living on the sea
shore the porkers have learned that clams are succulent and fattening.
When the tide is in, there is no beach on which to pick up a dinner.
When it is out, it is good and out. The forty feet that it rises gives a
beach two or three miles wide in places when the tide is out. Seeking
the freshest and fattest clams, the Blue Nose pigs follow the receding
tide as far as they can. Then occurs something that proves one is right
when he calls another a pig—meaning the other has a pig intellect.
However old they grow, these clam chasing pigs never learn by
experience. They are always astonished when the tide turns. They doubt
the fact until the rising water swashes their noses. But they have
learned one thing—unless they beat old Fundy they’ll need no more clams.
They fly before the swift tide and race for the farm. Their grunts are
expressions of astonishment and anger. You’ve just heard the racing pigs
of Fundy. For further details consult the skipper of any old New
Brunswick lumber lugger.”
For a few moments Alan and Roy eyed Ned in silence.
“I guess you’re right again,” said Roy soberly as he turned to his desk
and took up his chart.
“If you’re quite through,” said Alan in turn without a smile and
bringing the _Flyer_ toward the sea again, “I suggest you ask Buck to
bring up some food.”
“That must be Amherst now,” exclaimed Ned sobering instantly as the
noise of a puffing engine sounded through the fog. In a moment there was
no doubt of it. The _Flyer_, less than four hundred feet in the air,
shot over the edge of the little city. Ned threw open the port door and
hung over the gallery rail to get more details. As the fog rolled in
Alan shouted:
“Come in here, you Blue Nose pork, and shut the door.”
“Well, it’s Amherst, anyway,” answered Ned laughing as he hobbled in
again, “I made out the brick yard on both sides of the railroad track.”
Alan and Roy gave him little attention. They were busy confirming time,
speed and location.
“New course, east by one-half north,” exclaimed Roy.
“East by one-half north,” repeated Alan.
“Make it so,” quickly continued Roy in a tone of pride that was plainly
meant for Ned. “Cold Springs in Northumberland Straits, twenty miles
ahead. Weather cool and foggy,” he concluded as he entered the same in
his log.
“Sounds like a yacht,” remarked Ned, still laughing. “I guess I’ll go
below.”
“Hurry up some supper,” repeated Alan who was again intent on the flight
ahead. “Buck must be asleep.”
But Buck wasn’t asleep. For four hours, almost without quitting his
chair, Bob had not left his gauges and indicator board. He was still
there, the close room now hot and stifling with its closed doors. Buck,
on the contrary, since half past four, had been busy in the storeroom in
the forward end of which was the galley.
“How’s the eats, Buck?” called out Ned opening the door to the galley.
There was no need to ask. The odors that rolled out were positive
evidence that, whatever might be Buck’s culinary skill he was at least a
miscellaneous and prodigal provider.
“How you feelin’?” were Buck’s first words.
“I guess you needed a bracer worse than I did,” answered Ned.
“Gettin’ scared don’t hurt. I’m all right.”
The embarrassed young men faced each other a few moments in silence.
“There’s pea soup and hot crackers, hot pork and beans, steamed
frankfurters with rye bread and pickles, orange marmalade and some o’
them fancy preserved pears, hot plum puddin’, coffee, and strawberries.
How’ll that do?” exclaimed Buck wiping his perspiring forehead with a
black looking handkerchief. “Bob says I ought ’a’ cut out the puddin’
but I put that in for myself.”
“Where are we goin’ to eat it?” roared Ned.
“You got to come down here near the stove. That’ll be best,” suggested
Buck. “There’s chairs and a foldin’ table right there in the store room.
Ain’t no way to get these hot things up stairs or I’d ’a’ rigged up a
spread in a state room.”
“You’re doin’ great, Buck,” laughed Ned, “and you’ll either save us from
starvation or kill us with pickles and plum pudding.”
Ned went to the ladder and called off the entire bill of fare to the
busy boys above.
“What’ll you have?” he concluded soberly.
“All of it,” yelled Alan and Roy together. “And what’s the matter
openin’ some o’ those olives?” added Alan.
Within a few minutes Ned had the dynamo going and the lights glowing in
the store room. Then two of the folding tables were set up and at
half-past six o’clock, Roy having announced Cold Spring Harbor on
Northumberland Straits, Chef Buck yelled “First call for dinner on the
_Ocean Flyer_.”
Relieving each other at the wheel and engine, in an hour the five boys
had all dined. In that time the fog had partly lifted. At seven
thirty-seven o’clock it was possible to confirm their bearing by a
glimpse of their first lighthouse rays, the flashing white light on Cape
Anguille in Newfoundland. In that time the _Flyer_ had crossed
Northumberland Straits, twenty-five miles wide; passed over Prince
Edward Island, a stretch of twenty-six miles and then over water again
as the Gulf of St. Lawrence was reached. Many towns, and even great
summer hotels had been in sight during the latter part of the afternoon
but here Ned, then at the wheel, saw the last settlement—the fishing
village of Tracade Harbor on Prince Edward Island.
For thirty-four miles the airship followed the bend of Prince Edward
east. In the misty evening glow East Point Light was just noted to the
south with Magdalene Island lying to the north.
“It’s almost like runnin’ on a track,” said Ned to Alan, who relieved
him a little later. “To make sure we don’t get lost, ninety miles out
there in the gulf you might pick up St. Paul’s Island Light. But it’s
twenty miles south of our course. I reckon you won’t see it in the fog.”
When Ned had finished his dinner St. Paul’s Light had been passed unseen
on the starboard beam and the fog was lifting rapidly. When Cape
Anguille Light suddenly winked like a pale star, almost dead ahead, Ned
summoned Buck to the pilot room. Then he went below to the engine room
and relieved the faithful Bob.
“You boys go above,” he ordered. “You’re both reporters and you love the
picturesque and dramatic. We’ll be over Newfoundland in a few minutes.
Then it’ll be only two hundred and forty-one miles over the last land
we’ll see till we reach the old sod of Ireland. I want you to see all
you can—you may need the impressions in your newspaper stuff. I’ll run
up when you sight Fogo Island.”
When Newfoundland’s dark pine forests, its lakes and rivers, its rocky
wilds where yet the moose lives and multiplies, had filled the circle of
the horizon beneath the birdlike aeroplane, it was eight o’clock. Just
then the long obscured sun broke through the mist clouds. A brilliant
orange and red sky suddenly darkened the lakes and woods beneath. Then
the uninhabited world turned to a sunset glow as if the day had been
born again.
“It’s the longest day in the year,” exclaimed Buck. “We’ll see Fogo!”
At ten minutes of nine Alan announced:
“Fogo Island, almost dead ahead to port.”
Bob and Buck were on the port gallery when Ned joined the excited pair.
“Gentlemen,” exclaimed Ned taking out his watch, “we shall lose five
hours by the time we reach London. Since our next points of bearing will
be reached under London time we may as well change our watches now as
later. When we pass Fogo Island I suggest we move our time pieces ahead
five hours.”
“Fogo Island and eight fifty-nine P. M.,” exclaimed Alan a few minutes
later.
“Fogo Island and one fifty-one A. M.,” announced Ned laughing.
And as the hands of four watches flew to the new time, the flight over
sea began.