THE MARBLE ARCH GATE, HYDE PARK
When Buck Stewart finally pointed out the long, black train sheds of the
Paddington station and Alan began lifting the _Flyer_ to the thousand
foot level, the eyes of every one aboard the airship—except Bob at the
engine—were searching for the Mecca of the three thousand mile voyage,
the celebrated Hyde Park.
“There,” announced Buck at last pointing over a mass of irregular brown
buildings between which, here and there, rose clumps of green where
little squares and crescents gave color to sooty chimney pots and roofs
of drab. “See the trees?”
Beyond a row of these, marking Bayswater Road, lay a vast oasis of
shrubbery. With a long curve to the east and north Alan followed Buck’s
continued directions and in a few moments all made out the landmark that
each had fixed in his mind—the Marble Arch gate that stands at the
Oxford Street and Park Lane entrance to the park. The second thing that
caught Alan’s eye was the mass of people in the park all moving slowly
over its open commons as if moved by one impulse. The great coronation
was at an end; the royal procession had returned to St. James—on the far
side of the park—and West London was making its way homeward.
Ned, below, saw something else. In Oxford street, just without the gate,
stood a long, gray motor car. In it sat a chauffeur and standing on the
rear seat, a man with a pair of binoculars. The _Herald_ representatives
were on the ground. As Ned looked, the man dropped the glasses on the
seat, sprang from the car and hurried through the ponderous arch. Not
until that moment did the people in the park appear to notice the on
rushing car. But the exclamations of those first sighting it swelled in
an instant into a roar. Ten thousand persons rushed forward and then
surged backwards as the airship, pausing in its course, began a giant
circle.
Just within the gates the murmuring thousands herded on the
“People’s Forum,” the worn bit of grass where for many years
proletariats—socialists, anarchists, the advocates of all new
philosophies and ’isms—have been accustomed to make their Sunday
stands. To land among these was impossible. To fly along the ground
just above them was perilous. The man who had hastened into the park
from the motor car was in plain sight. He was already in company
with two other men who had bands of white on their arms.
“What are you goin’ to do?” called Alan through the tube. “We can’t land
here. And you’ll kill someone if you drop the bundle.”
Ned was at his wit’s end. Before he could reply, keeping his eye on the
two white-marked men and the one who had used the glass—who seemed to be
in charge—he noted that the latter was waving his arms upward and
pointing to the gate.
“Keep her up,” Ned called back—Roy repeating the message. “Take another
turn or two.”
The three men in the park now made their way quickly to the arch and all
sprang into the waiting motor, their leader meanwhile pointing west
toward Bayswater Road. With only the loss of a few moments the car
turned onto Hyde Park Terrace. Here, in the torrid noonday sun, the
hordes coming from the park were keeping in the shade of the trees. The
wide, smooth terrace stretched away almost free of vehicles.
“Get over ’em and ahead,” shouted Ned—for by this time all were watching
the motor and its occupants. “The street’s wide enough. Drop down and
pass ’em. Get as close as you can.”
As if out for a leisurely tour of the park the gray car moved west on
the terrace. With one more wide swing Alan brought the _Flyer_ to the
west and then, as if on a toboggan, the condorlike airship slid directly
toward the motor. When it seemed as if the aeroplane would crash into
the automobile there was an upward swerve. As if balanced in the air the
_Flyer_ hung in equilibrium an instant. Those in the motor sprang aside
as if to escape the impending blow from the suspended bundle. At that
instant the black package dropped directly into the car.
Ned’s shout of “All right!” was not needed. The checked airship had to
go ahead. And before the order reached Alan the _Flyer_ had hurled
herself forward again. Barely averting a cab, whose driver was too dazed
even to hurl at them a cabby’s imprecations, the aeroplane skimmed
skyward.
“Up!” shouted Roy through the tube, “Up!”
Knowing then that the precious matrices had been delivered, for better
or for worse, Alan threw his wheel over and while Ned lay on the floor
watching the astounded occupants of the motor, the airship began
climbing skyward with straining planes, the engines at full speed again.
Not a word had been spoken to the men in the automobile. None was
necessary.
As the _Flyer_ mounted upward and forward Ned could see the motor
beneath stop for a moment and then turn quickly in the broad road. A
policeman was hurrying toward the motor but the latter did not pause.
While the officer ran by its side the motor suddenly jumped ahead and
Ned, chuckling, knew it was on its way to Fleet Street. Laughing, he
arose and closed the trap door. Then, suddenly, his face became
thoughtful. He seemed almost frightened.
For the second time a big crisis in their perilous voyage had been
passed with a laugh. A week before, the thought of this moment would
have come to Ned as the climax of a ceremony. Now, he had just done that
for which he and his friends had risked their lives, with the ease that
a bag of peanuts might have been tossed into a monkey cage.
When Ned reached the pilot room Roy had already repeated all the details
of what had happened. Both Alan and Buck were elated.
“What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Buck as soon as he saw Ned’s
face.
“Nothin’,” answered Ned as he took his place at the lookout. “Nothin’ at
all. It worked out all right, didn’t it?”
But there was a good deal the matter with the young leader. He had just
realized what it meant to cross the Atlantic ocean over night and the
thought that the _Flyer_ had just accomplished an undreamed of feat in
the delivery of the _Telegram_ matrices almost unnerved him. The great,
busy London beneath, scarcely attracted his attention.
But his reverie lasted only a few moments. Buck and Alan were picking
out the route to the country rendezvous and Roy’s activity aroused Ned.
Throwing open and latching the pilot room doors they quickly reviewed
the program for the stop.
“We’ve been seen, good and plenty,” said Alan, “and we’ll likely be
followed. If the authorities interfere they mustn’t be allowed to get
away with it. Buck,” he added, “you know police and their ways. Stall
off anybody till we get our people and the fuel aboard—if the ‘bobbies’
show up. And we’ll make the shift in rag time.”
Buck had never seen Acton and the place was far from being an ideal
landing place. But it was not wholly bad. And there was no need to waste
time searching for the best ground. Hardly had Alan and Buck decided
that they were approaching the agreed upon spot when Buck’s eye caught
sight of a waiting automobile about a quarter of a mile north of the
suburban depot. Just beyond, in the midst of market gardens and on what
seemed to have once been a cricket ground, now awaiting the gardener’s
plow, an auto-truck and another automobile were in sight.
“These folks certainly ain’t goin’ to be lonesome,” smiled Buck. “I’ve
counted eight men. One o’ the cars is a motor truck!”
As Alan began a swinging volplane, Buck, his pilot duties ended, closed
his lips and hastened down the store room ladder. Ned was on the port
gallery examining the land beneath and the waiting group.
“Ned,” began Buck somewhat embarrassed, “what are you goin’ to do with
all the money you brought along?”
“Probably nothing. I hope so, at least,” answered Ned, his eyes still
squinting to make out the details of the waiting party still far below.
“But why?”
“I don’t want to ask these folks for money. I don’t know ’em. And I
haven’t enough.”
“Enough for what?” asked Ned, turning to Buck at last.
“Well, I thought—you know you said—I mean I said—I’d get off here if
you’d bring me along.”
[Illustration: THE END OF THE FLIGHT, LONDON.]
“You—” began Ned, open-mouthed.
“I know you’ve got a big load goin’ back. I’m expecting to get off
here.”
“You—” repeated Ned and he stopped.
“I thought may be you’d think I was countin’ on goin’ back with you.”
“You get ready to yank those supplies on board,” Ned managed to say at
last, “and shut up.”
That was the end of the episode so far as Buck was concerned. But when
Ned came to talk it over with Alan, the recollection of how Buck had
saved his life was enough to make Ned’s words short and choky.
When the heavy _Ocean Flyer_ at last sank to the ground and came to a
stop—the first in eighteen and one half hours’ constant flight—it was
plain that for a few moments at least its crew need fear no molestation.
Spectators had not yet begun to collect. One machine stood on the hard,
white highway. From it, as the _Flyer_ came to a stop, a figure sprang
out and rushed across the green. The man who greeted them, Mr. Phillips,
the business representative of the _Herald_, seemed to be under greater
strain than any of the young aviators who now dropped from the silent
_Flyer_.
There was an instant confusion of presentations in which Ned managed to
discover that Mr. Arthur Ballard, a man of about forty-five years with a
closely cropped beard and heavy spectacles, and a Mr. Fred Clarke, a
younger man of something over thirty, were the reporters who were to be
taken to New York. Each had his typewriter and Mr. Ballard carried a
case of clothing and a heavy coat.
The younger man’s equipment ran largely to a big pipe and some very
heavy English tobacco. These were in marked contrast to the silk hat and
elaborate afternoon clothes which he yet wore. Clarke had just come from
the coronation exercises in Westminster Abbey with no time to change his
clothes. And, in the ten minutes’ wait, he had been busy on his
typewriter with the beginning of his big story.
“Haven’t you a coat?” was Ned’s first inquiry.
“I haven’t even an extra handkerchief,” responded the younger reporter.
“My stuff is at the office. They picked me up and brought me here
directly.”
“It’s all right,” responded Ned, laughing, “We’ve plenty.”
Then, while the fusillade of questions rained on the boys, inquiries
about the trip and its incidents, Ned and Buck turned over their
messages for the _Herald_ and, answering as best they could, began the
important work of taking on supplies.
“Just a moment,” shouted a voice, “I’d like to get all of you. Mr.
Napier, would you mind taking Mr. Phillips’ hand? It’s a good stunt to
raise your hats a la Stanley greeting Dr. Livingstone. ‘Mr. Phillips
greeting Captain Napier at the end of the marvelous flight.’ What?
Please,” he added.
“It’s Bowman, the photographer,” explained Mr. Phillips laughing. “And
he’d have put it to King George the same way. We’ll have to do it.”
Raising his hat, Mr. Phillips stepped toward Ned with outstretched hand.
As Ned, a little embarrassed, did the same, Mr. Phillips exclaimed,
grasping the boy by the hand:
“Captain Ned Napier I believe!”
There was a snap.
“Once more,” shouted Mr. James Bowman, the irrepressible picture maker
and again the London manager and the _Flyer’s_ commander were “snapped.”
Without taking the time formally to meet those who were to carry him
across the sea, Mr. Bowman instantly plunged into a heap of cameras,
selected another kind and began a series of photographs of the big
airship.
The London party had come to Acton in two motors. Mr. Phillips, his
chauffeur and the photographer with his cameras, were in one, and the
two journalists and a chauffeur were in the other. The supply auto truck
carrying the _Flyer’s_ stores and an agent was early on the ground. It
was now one forty o’clock. Bob and Roy took charge of the London writers
while Ned, Alan and Buck threw off their coats and prepared to get the
gasoline, carboys of ether and lubricating castor oil aboard and in
their proper tanks.
Ned and Alan had no time to act the hosts to the London party. But it
was in good hands. Clambering gingerly up the landing ladder Mr.
Phillips and the well known reporters went aboard. As their luggage was
being stored in the state rooms Mr. Ballard remarked:
“I’m afraid we’re taking up some one’s sleeping apartments. But,
sleeping rooms in an airship! Fancy!”
“Don’t you bother about that,” answered Bob, with a smile. “We loafed,
comin’ across; took it easy and got some sleep. We’re goin’ back on
express time. We’re going to be there by two o’clock to-morrow morning,”
he added nonchalantly. “I reckon we won’t have much time to sleep—any of
us. Will you?”
“I won’t if I’m not sea sick,” answered the older journalist. “But I
never miss, going or coming.”
Leaving the two journalists and Mr. Phillips to Roy’s care, Bob hurried
to the assistance of Ned and Alan. The latter put him to work on the
engines, still hot from the long strain. The supply store representative
was a valuable aid. He had brought with him pumps, pipes and strainers
and in a few minutes the engine gallery of the airship looked like the
oil room of a liner. The gasoline was tested by the airship’s own gauges
and then, with the usual precautions, rapidly pumped aboard. Within ten
minutes several hundred persons had collected, among them several
suburban police. But as these seemed only interested in the details of
the big air vehicle and gave no signs of molesting the crew of the
airship the preparations for a new flight were continued without
excitement.
Buck’s work was the handling and storing of a few new supplies and fresh
water. This done he joined the London journalists. He received with
thankfulness a package of morning and early afternoon papers and then he
assisted Bowman, the photographer, in getting his outfit into the third
state room and in checking over the requirements for a dark room. The
photographer had brought developing pans, “hypos” and other liquids.
“If you need a lot of water,” suggested Buck, “you’d better lay it in
now. After we get goin’ it isn’t easy to run back and forth to the store
room.”
“Good,” exclaimed the photographer, “but I won’t need it till dark. I’m
goin’ to get every kind of a shot before we leave the land. And you can
bet I’ll run back and forth unless we’re standin’ on end. I’ve done
pictures in balloons and snapped mountain sheep. Don’t bother about me.”
Neither Ballard nor Clarke seemed to be specially keen about their
coming trip but as it was an assignment each went to it as readily as if
he had been ordered to the front in battle. Mr. Phillips was joking with
them when Ned and Alan reappeared.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Ned asked, looking at his watch.
It was six minutes of two o’clock. Mr. Phillips began shaking hands. The
other men nervously drew out their own watches and each smiled.
“We are a little ahead of time but the visitors are gettin’ thick. We
are ready,” continued Ned.
The London manager took Ned’s hand.
“I wish you the best of luck,” he said soberly.
“Wish us all the highest speed,” exclaimed Ned with a smile. “We’ve got
a job ahead of us that calls for it.”
With another good-bye all around Mr. Phillips clambered down the ladder
and instantly it was drawn up with a bang.
“Won’t you gentlemen go into your rooms until we are under way?” asked
Ned with something of authority in his voice.
As they did so each member of the crew went to his post. Alan and Buck
took the starboard and port galleries and with insistent demands drove
the spectators back. Again and again they yelled until all was clear
about the _Flyer_.
“All clear forward,” called Alan at last.
“All clear below,” yelled Buck in turn.
Slowly the propellers began to move. Then faster until the great ship
began to tremble.
“Good-bye,” came Mr. Phillips’ parting words.
“Good-bye,” answered Alan waving his cap as the _Flyer_ lifted its huge
shape into the air. “Report our departure two one P. M.”
The real test of the _Ocean Flyer_ had begun.