THE AERO SQUAD.
One by one the other contests were decided. The hammer throw was won by
Melvin, of the _Idaho_, a giant of a man. Smithers, of the _Manhattan_,
was second in this event. So the Dreadnought's crew continued to keep
up their spirits. The half-mile was captured by Remington, of the
_Louisiana_, while the mile went to Hickey, of the _Manhattan_, a man
with hair of right good fighting red, and a great chest development.
Then came the pole jump. As usual, this picturesque event excited great
interest.
Chance came first, and set a mark that made the other contestants gasp.
"You'll have to be a grasshopper to beat that, Herc," whispered Ned.
Herc nodded. "I'll do my best," he said simply.
"That's the stuff, shipmate," said "Ben Franklin," who happened to be
close at hand, "as poor Richard said:
"'You'll beat the rest;
If you do your best.'"
"I never saw that in 'Poor Richard' that I can recollect," said Ned,
with a laugh.
Steve Wynn looked pained, as he usually did when any of his quotations
was questioned as to its accuracy.
"It's in the book some place," he said confidently.
"Well, maybe it is," agreed Ned. "It's good advice, anyhow."
At last came Herc's turn.
Merritt had now been joined by Chance. With set teeth, they stood
watching the agile lad from the farm prepare for his preliminary run.
"You want to watch closely now," said Chance, with an unholy grin,
"you're going to see something."
"What? You've----"
But a horrified cry from the spectators interrupted the words. Herc
had risen gracefully at the bar, and had seemed about to sail over it.
Instantly bedlam had seethed about the field.
"Taylor, of the _Manhattan_, wins!"
"Good boy, red-top!"
"Go to it, freckles!"
But in a flash the cries of enthusiasm had been changed to that
peculiar sighing gasp that runs through a crowd at a sudden turn to the
tragic in their emotions.
As Herc had lifted his body outward to sail over the bar, the pole had
suddenly snapped beneath him.
The horrified spectators saw the lad's body hurtled downward. Herc, as
he fell, narrowly missed impalement on the jagged, broken end of the
pole. But the lad's muscles were under prime control. Even as he fell,
he seemed to make a marvelous twist.
The cheers broke forth anew as Herc, instead of landing in a heap,
came to earth gracefully on his feet. He had not sustained the least
injury, a fact which he soon demonstrated to the judges and other
officials of the track who crowded about him.
"I tell you, it's that blamed secret of theirs," growled Chance,
turning pale.
"We'd better get out of here," warned Merritt hastily. "Look, they are
examining the pole. I imagine that they'll find it was cut."
"I imagine so, too," said Chance, in a low, rather frightened tone, as
the unworthy two hastened off. "But they can't prove anything on me,"
he added defiantly.
In the meantime Herc had selected another pole. He examined it
carefully and found it perfect. Bracing himself for the effort of his
life, he essayed the jump once more.
He sailed over the bar as gracefully as a soaring sea gull.
"Chance is tied! Taylor's tied him!" yelled the crowd.
"Good boy, Herc," whispered Ned, as Herc prepared for a fresh effort.
"Now this time beat him, and beat him good."
Herc set his teeth grimly. His usually good-natured face held an
expression very foreign to it.
"I'll do it," he said. "And then," he added significantly, "I've got
another job to attend to."
Flexing his muscles, Herc crouched for an instant. Then he hurled
himself at the bar. He cleared it with almost six inches to spare above
Chance's hitherto unapproached record.
If the field had known enthusiasm before, it was pandemonium that broke
loose now. Like wild-fire, the word had gone about that Herc's pole had
been tampered with. The spirit of the Yankee blue-jacket is keen for
fair play. A foul trick stirs his blood as nothing else will. If Ned
or Herc had breathed their suspicions at that instant, it is likely
that, in spite of discipline, it would have gone hard with Merritt and
Chance. But Herc sought another way.
That night word ran through the fleet that Hercules Taylor, of the
_Manhattan_, had challenged Chance, of the same ship, to a boxing
match, and that Chance had refused. Possibly he anticipated that Herc
might lose control of himself and strike out a little harder than is
consistent with "sparring." At any rate, from that time on, Chance
was rated as "a flunker," which, in the navy, is a very undesirable
appellation.
Herc, however, was the idol of the _Manhattan_. His winning of the pole
jump had captured the athletic supremacy pennant for the _Manhattan_.
It had been the climax of a day of triumphs for the lads of the
Dreadnought. From thenceforth the big fighting craft was entitled
to float both the athletic pennant and the coveted "Meat Ball," the
latter the red flag for the best gunnery. How the meat ball was won at
Guantanamo, readers of "_The Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice_" are
aware.
It was on a Monday, a week after the sports, that a line of trim,
athletic looking, young blue-jackets were lined up in a field, some
ten miles out of Hampton, and in the heart of a rural community. Off,
at one side of the meadow, was a row of barn-like structures, painted a
dull gray color and numbered. There were six of them.
These sheds housed the aeroplanes with which the experiments for the
purpose of selecting a naval "aerial-scout class" were to be conducted.
The eyes of the row of aspirants, who had been winnowed from a perfect
crop of such applicants, were fixed longingly on the gray barns. They
housed, not only the aeroplanes, but the ambitions and hopes of that
row of young men--the pick of the squadron.
But there were more than twenty candidates for the scout corps lined
up, and only nine would be selected. No wonder that there was anxiety
reflected in their eyes, as Lieutenant De Frees and his assistants,
Ensigns Walters and Jackson, paced down the row of blue-jackets,
putting questions here and there, and weeding out those who were either
too heavy or cumbersome for aero work, or else did not give evidence
of the keen, hawk-like intellectual faculties that an airman must have.
These include the power of instant decision in an emergency, courage of
a high order, but not recklessness, and a mind capable of grasping the
mechanical qualities of the craft with which they have to deal. As may
be imagined, then, the task of the officers was not a simple one.
One by one, the eager applicants were sorted and sifted, till finally,
the chosen nine stood shoulder to shoulder. Ned and Herc had both
passed, although, for a time, the fate of the latter had hung in the
balance. His heavy frame was against him. But the naval officers had
decided that the lad's quick intelligence and bulldog tenacity made
him desirable in other ways. For the present Herc Taylor would be held
in reserve. There was a certain grim suggestiveness in this--a hint of
the dangers of aerial navigation which might result in the ranks being
thinned before long.
Ned had had no trouble in getting by. Lieutenant De Frees had said with
a pleasant nod:
"I've heard of you, Strong. We want you. You are, of course, willing
to sign a paper absolving the navy from responsibility in case of your
death or serious injury?"
This question had been put to all the applicants in turn. They had all
signified their willingness to do this. It was understood, of course,
that the contract, or pledge, did not in any way affect their pensions
or "disability" money.
When Ned's turn came, he thought a moment. Such was his habit. Then he
spoke.
"If I'd thought only of the risks, sir, I wouldn't be here," he said,
in a respectful but decisive manner.
Among the others who passed the ordeal were Merritt and Chance; a
slender, greyhound-like chap from the _Kansas_, named Terry Mulligan;
a bos'un's mate from the _Louisiana_, called Sim Yeemans, a typical
Yankee from Vermont, or "Vairmont," as he called it; a comical German
blue-jacket from the _Idaho_, Hans Dunderblitz, and some others whom we
shall probably become acquainted with as our narrative progresses.
The disappointed ones were spun back to the ships in a big auto
chartered for the purpose. The successful candidates and the defeated
ones parted without animosity.
"Better luck next time," hailed the chosen nine, as their shipmates
drove off.
"Oh, your ranks will thin out quick enough," cried one of the departing
ones, with sinister humor.
The men selected for the aviation "classes," as they may be called,
were, they soon found out, to board at a big stone farmhouse not far
from the aviation field. Little more was done that day than to pay a
series of visits to the different sheds--or "hangars," in airmen's
parlance. In each of these the embryo airmen listened to a short talk
on the type of machine they were viewing and heard its qualities
discussed. In addition, that night, each of the ambitious ones received
a set of books on the science of mastering the air, with instructions
to study them carefully. It was implied that those who failed to pass
certain examinations at a future date would not be allowed to partake
further in the experiments.
"Well, talk about your ease and luxury," said Herc that night when the
Dreadnought Boys were in the room assigned to them at the farmhouse,
"we're as well off here as middies at Annapolis. What a contrast to the
forecastle! I feel like a millionaire already."
"Umph!" grunted Ned, who was already deep in his books. "You'd better
get to work and study. We've lots of hard work ahead of us."
"And excitement too, I guess," said Herc, dragging a bulky volume
toward him.
Neither of the two lads at the time fully appreciated how much of both
was shortly to be crowded into their lives.