MAKING THE GLIDER
“Now, you see, Harry, if I hadn’t stopped to do that good turn for Miss
Leslie, and missed the train, you wouldn’t have had a ride in an
aeroplane,” said Gordon, as he hitched up his stocking and settled
himself comfortably in the boat for the voyage to camp. “And you fellows
would have lost the boat-race, too.”
“We don’t appreciate what a blessing G. Lord really is,” said John
Walden, Hawk.
“And he wouldn’t have met Miss Crosby, either,” continued Gordon.
“He ought to be very thankful to you,” said Tom Langford, Beaver.
“That’s the great thing about having a good-turn specialist always right
on hand,” said Vinton, the Hawks’ corporal. “When things are kind of
slow, he just up and does a good turn, and presto! there’s something
doing for everybody! Why wouldn’t it be a good idea, Red Deer, to have a
‘good turn’ badge? We have the marksman’s badge, and the trackers’
badge, and so on.”
“We might suggest that to headquarters,” smiled Dr. Brent.
“Well, anyway, Red Deer,” said Gordon, “here’s a sticker for you.
Suppose you have your choice of doing a good turn or being prepared, now
which should you do?”
Red Deer pondered a moment. “Well, you see, Gordon, if you do a good
turn, that includes being prepared; you _are_ prepared—to do the good
turn. See? But if you just keep your mind on being prepared, and don’t
think about good turns, why, then, the good turn often gets left.
Technically, doing a good turn necessitates being prepared. You see,
when a scout is a good-turn specialist, as you are, that really carries
everything else with it. Of course, it is a nice question that you
propound, and scouts might differ about it. Lawyers can never agree as
to the law, you know—”
“That’s just what Mr. Danforth said,” interrupted Gordon.
“But if I were you,” continued Dr. Brent, smiling whimsically, “I should
go right on and carry out your regular policy—good turns first—then
trust to luck.”
“And the best turn you ever did,” said Brick Parks, “was to come up and
find us, Kid. The camp wasn’t complete without you.”
“Well, anyway,” said Gordon, “we’re all lopsided.”
“What’s that?” said Dr. Brent, puzzled.
Gordon hitched up his stocking, and launched forth with a complete
account of his great discovery, with the result that Dr. Brent, who was
steering, had to give the wheel to George Conway, until he was
sufficiently recovered to take it in charge again.
Half of the troop had gone on afoot, and by taking a short cut across
country reached camp first. The boat made its way to a point about two
miles north of the village, then up a stream for half a mile, and there
in a grove of silver birches was the Oakwood Scouts camp.
“Well, here’s the needle in the haystack, Gordon,” laughed Dr. Brent,
stepping out.
“By the way, Kiddo,” said Harry, as they joined the group ashore, “you
were telling me of a way to find a needle in a haystack, the night
before we started; you fix a magnet to the end of a long stick—”
“And then poke the stick in here and there,” continued Gordon, “and
pretty soon you’ll find the needle sticking to the magnet; but of course
there are other ways, and I thought if we didn’t find the troop one way
we’d find them another. One way is, you—you—sit around on the haystack
and—well—you just—pretty soon, you know, you’ve found the needle.”
“And that’s the way you found the troop,” laughed the doctor.
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“Have an apple, Kid?” said Morrel, pointing to a basket.
“Sure!” said Gordon.
The camp-fire burned late that night, for Gordon Lord recounted their
adventures. It was an unabridged version and held the boys spellbound
till midnight. It was in vain that Harry tried to modify this or that
detail which reflected credit on himself, and it was in vain that Red
Deer looked ruefully at his watch when one or other of the party added
fuel to the already imposing blaze. Being a wise scoutmaster, he saw
that Gordon’s enthusiasm, like the measles, must run its little course,
and the sooner it was over the better.
“Now,” said Gordon, finally, “it’s time to discuss our attack on Fort
Ticonderoga and—”
But here Red Deer put his foot down, and the discussion was put over
until the next day.
That night Gordon and Harry slept in their own tent, with their own
patrol, under the Beavers’ banner. And they slept hard. But Dr. Brent,
alone in his little tepee, broke the rules unseen, and sat up until the
wee hours of the morning. The week they had spent in camp had not been
an idle one, and he had in a good-sized wallet various papers and
memoranda which would mean promotion and awards upon their return to
Oakwood.
For one thing, Brick Parks, in spite of his red head, had succeeded in
getting near enough to a variety of birds and woods creatures to shoot
them with his camera, which is the only way a scout shoots except in
case of need. He needed only to develop his films and make prints, and
the stalker’s badge would be his.
Then there was Howard Brent, the doctor’s nephew, who had at last, after
a terrific struggle, mastered the Morse code, and would, so the camp
gossip said, cease to be a tenderfoot before the summer was over.
Matthew Reed would glory in the marksmanship badge, if he kept up his
crack target work, and Dan Swift and Johnnie Walden would wear the
first-class badge before another camping season.
To these memoranda Dr. Brent added the letter from Mr. Wade, which
recommended Gordon for the medal given for saving or helping to save
life, and Harry for the signaler’s badge. On the back of this letter he
made a memorandum of his own, about the saving of little Penfield
Danforth’s life. Then he wrote a letter to Mr. Lord, and turned in for
the night.
The idea of attacking old Ticonderoga, and winding up with a great laugh
on the genial, but skeptical, Mr. Wade, took the Oakwood boys by storm,
to say nothing of Red Deer, who was having the time of his life among
them. He was a man of about thirty-five, was Red Deer, whose great
recreation was getting among the boys, and he had organized the Oakwood
troop quite as much for his own pleasure as for theirs. None of the boys
could beat Red Deer when it came to roughing it He could take off his
neat gold spectacles, fold them up, lay aside, his spotless white duck
coat, and show you some fencing that was beautiful to see. Whenever he
methodically and carefully removed those precious gold specs, and said,
“Hold these a minute, Ben,” or “Harry,” as the case might be, the boys
knew there was going to be “something doing.”
Whenever Gordon was about to undertake one of his unusual feats, it was
his mischievous habit to put his two hands up to his ears, making the
funny little twirl as if to remove a pair of spectacles, and by this
sign the boys knew that something remarkable was about to take place.
The doctor, who saw everything, had seen this, and it amused him
greatly.
Whenever Dr. Brent’s trim little runabout stopped before a residence in
Oakwood, you might be sure of seeing a boy or two sitting comfortably
beside him, for one or several of them were always about him; and the
little Red Cross on the front of his white automobile might
appropriately have had placed beside it the full badge of the scouts.
What is more, Red Deer had the Master-at-Arms badge, for he was not
going to be handing out honors and earn none for himself, and his
wrestling and jiu jitsu were the envy of his two patrols. In baseball,
he played a very heady game at “first,” and his skyscrapers were famous.
For Harry Arnold, Dr. Brent had an unbounded esteem, and since it was
one of his pet theories that laughter was a great medicine, he took
frequent doses of it at the hands of Gordon Lord. In short, Red Deer was
a true sport, and the proposition to go up the lake about the middle of
August to repeat the historic assault on the old fort touched him in a
susceptible spot. “We’ll do that,” said he, rubbing his glasses with a
spotless handkerchief. “Harry, you’ll be Ethan Allen. Don’t argue now—I
appoint you—I’ll make other appointments later.”
But there was a full month before this plan could be carried through,
and judging from all appearances there was much to occupy the time. For
one thing, Gordon was going to pull himself up to the first-class rank
this summer, which means that his activities are worth watching.
Harry was full of aviation. His meeting with Penfield had kindled an
already existing spark, and his flight with Mr. Goodwin had fanned it to
a flame. Now here, to cap the climax, were Howard Brent, Matthew Reed,
and Ben McConnell, or Mac, of the Hawks, and Tom Langford of his own
patrol, with a good store of pliable, selected willow which they had
gathered for the manufacture of their models to be entered in the
Oakwood contest that Fall. But not a word did Harry say to them of the
wonderful combination motor which Penfield was going to spring on the
multitude, for he was not going to lessen the boy’s glory a particle.
Meanwhile, the others worked away on their models, introducing rudders
and so forth, of any shape and size, to suit their fancies.
One day, about a week after his arrival, Harry came in from one of his
rambles (for he was fond of going off alone at times), and squatted on a
rock under the cooking lean-to, where several of the boys were binding
their frames with coarse linen thread.
“What’s the matter, old chap—blues?” asked Mac, with an end of thread
in his mouth.
Harry laughed, for, oddly, it was a question often asked him.
“Where’s G. Lord, Esquire?” asked Matthew Reed.
“Don’t know,” said Harry. “He’s after his first-class badge these days.
How’s that old balloon silk shelter you had last year, Howard?”
“Why, it hasn’t written me lately. It was a little under the weather
when we camped last season.”
“That a joke, Howard?” said Mac.
“Well, you remember it rained, and the shel—”
“Kill him, if he tries to explain it,” piped up Tom Langford.
“Why, what’s up?” asked Howard.
“I was thinking we might make a glider,” Harry answered. “Red Deer’s
talking of having us throw a bridge up, Baden-Powell fashion—over that
chasm. A glider would be more sport, and help us over, too.”
“You’ve surely got the aeroplane bee in your bonnet, Harry,” said Mac.
“Well, how about it?” said Harry.
“Looks good to me,” said Langford. “Where would we get the stuff?”
“Now you’re talking,” said Harry. “Has this aero club any financial
backing?”
“If you mean, is this aero club able to launch a glider—”
“That meant for another joke?” asked Mac, picking up a stone.
“The answer is, Yes, several of them. The question is, we have one
Beaver in the club already; could we stand for another?”
“Of course, it would be an advertisement to have Harry Arnold a member.”
“Let up on that,” said Harry. “Do you want to build one, or don’t you?”
“Surely we do,” said Mac, becoming serious.
“Well, then,” said Harry, “we’ll need four sticks,—spruce sticks would
be best,—twenty feet long, and we’ll need Howard’s old piece of
balloon-silk, if we’re going to go up against the wind—”
“The first thing is to go up against the doctor,” said Matthew.
So Red Deer was taken into their councils. The upshot of it was that
Howard Brent, Matthew Reed, Mac, Tom Langford, and Harry spent the rest
of the morning with Dr. Brent making and criticising little diagrams on
one of the doctor’s prescription pads.
“I think,” said Red Deer, at length, “that that is about all you’ll
need; the cross-ribs that are left over we can use for splints, in case
of broken arms and legs—they’ll come in very handy.”
The five boys went into Port Henry in the boat that afternoon in search
of a sawmill or lumberyard.
“When G. Lord hears of this taking place in his absence, he’ll explode,”
said Tom, as they chugged up the lake.
Their first business was to send a telegram for Howard Brent’s old
balloon-silk shelter, which would, with piecing, amply cover the two
planes.
“What would you say if I sent for my old wheel?” asked Mac. The
suggestion was received with acclaim, for an old bicycle is a perfect
treasure house of fittings, wire bars, and various odds and ends useful
to the ingenious amateur mechanic. So Mac, with much adding and
eliminating and changing of words, finally succeeded in concocting a
satisfactory message to his father.
“Better underline the word ‘old,’ Mac,” said Harry, quietly, “or he may
send your new one.”
McConnell dutifully obeyed, while the operator grinned. Then, realizing
what he had done, Mac proceeded to administer suitable chastisement on
Harry.
“Do you think your father can make out your handwriting?” Tom asked
innocently, as they went out; “that was a pretty hasty scrawl.”
Mac could hear the operator snicker. “I’ll put a hasty scrawl on your
face, Tommy,” he said.
At the mill they bought and had trimmed four spruce sticks about twenty
feet long and an inch square. These were considerably thinner than the
corresponding timbers of Goodwin’s machine, but they were the best that
could be procured.
“And they’re six feet longer than you said, Harry,” said Howard Brent.
“Well, never mind that,” Harry answered.
“Might as well have them cut down to the length we want.”
“No,” said Harry, “leave them this size.”
“Twenty feet is long enough for any glider,” said Langford, eyeing him
shrewdly. “I know what _you’re_ up to. You expect to put a motor in
her.”
“We’ll see how she goes first,” said Harry.
Besides the four long strips, they managed to root out, with the help of
the mill foreman, a couple of dozen strips four feet long and
three-quarters of an inch in thickness. Some of these would be used for
the horizontal struts, or cross-bars, and some for the upright
stanchions. None were according to the regular specifications for a
glider, but they were not so far out of the way as to destroy the chance
of success and safety; and, as the boys agreed, they “ought to take what
they could get and be thankful.” For one thing, the uprights should have
been round and highly polished to lessen their resistance to the air,
but the boys had to be satisfied with having the edges smoothed off with
a few runs of a hand plane.
Up to this point in their negotiations, the mill foreman had exercised
his resources to satisfy their peculiar wants, though his manner was not
encouraging. But when Mac asked for about forty or so strips, four feet
long and thin enough to steam and curve, he could contain himself no
longer.
“Ye ain’t buildin’ a hen-coop, then?” he asked.
“No, not a hen-coop,” said Harry.
“Huh. Thought ye was. Well, ye can’t use them long strips for a boat.”
“You have one more guess,” said Harry.
“How’s that?”
“We’re building an airship,” said Harry; “that is, a glider—for
gliding.”
The man stared at them, amazed.
“Well, you’ll all break your necks,” said he.
But he condescended to tell them that Marty Forbes might have what they
wanted down at his boat-yard. So they sought out Marty, who, on hearing
their wishes, was still more discouraging. He had prophesied, he said,
that half the boys would go crazy after seeing Goodwin fly, and he
guessed he was about right. But he was willing to be a party to their
rashness to the extent of selling them some thin strips, which he agreed
to steam and curve according to Harry’s directions. So Harry cut a piece
of stiff wire to the proper length and bent it as a pattern. “There,
that’s a parabolic curve,” he said.
“Paregoric?” said Marty.
“No, parabolic.”
Since the matter is important, and since every boy is interested in
aeronautics, you may as well know, once for all, that this is the curve
which does the trick:
[Illustration]
So don’t waste your time stretching barrel hoops, but cut a wooden
pattern, bend your sticks over it, tie them down, then steam them
thoroughly.
If the boys had been in the city, they could easily have bought the
necessary fittings and bearings; but the hardware resources of Port
Henry were limited to one side of the grocery and a rival establishment
at the blacksmith’s. They managed to secure, however, a large box half
full of little wrought-iron right-angle braces with screw-holes, a good
stock of nails, screws, glue, sandpaper, spar varnish, and several rolls
of heavy wire.
As for tools, a small chest of handy utensils, pliers, hammer, file, and
so forth, had been brought from the city (Red Deer’s surgical outfit,
the boys called it), and to this stock they added an extra hammer and a
saw.
It was a merry company that started down the lake with this cargo of
lumber and other necessities, the result of a half-day’s shopping.
Another trip would be made several days later for the bicycle and
balloon-silk shelter, when the ribs would also be ready, according to
Marty.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand about aeroplanes,” said Matthew
Reed, who was at the tiller.
“Only one thing?” asked Tom.
“Well, I don’t mean exactly that.”
“No, we understand,” said Mac. “There might be two or three things.”
“Oh, let up on that,” said Matthew, annoyed. “The Wrights say that every
feature of the aeroplane is taken from nature. I suppose they mean from
birds. Now, Brick Parks has got snapshots of a couple of dozen birds;
he’s after the stalker’s badge, you know, and not a single one of them
has a screw propeller.”
“Slap him on the wrist for that, will you, Howard!” called Harry, who
was tending the engine.
“Well, you can laugh, but that’s true. Show me a screw propeller in
nature, and I’ll—”
“If you’ll promise to be good, I’ll tell you where you can find one,”
said Harry. “Did you ever notice the seed pod of an ash tree? Well, you
just look at one the next time you get a chance, and watch how it comes
to the ground. It’s a little propeller, all right, and it lets the seed
down to the ground as easily as Goodwin landed. You just watch how it
revolves.”
“That’s the kind of thing he finds out when he goes off in the woods by
himself,” said Mac. “Harry, you’ve got us all backed right off the
boards. No wonder Miss—”
“When are we going to start building this thing?” Harry asked hastily.
“Right off—why not?”
“Suits me.”
They were all so interested in the proposed glider and in getting the
stuff from the boat that Harry did not at first notice Gordon among
several boys who came down to the shore.
“Looks like business, hey?” called one.
“Bet your life!” said Harry. “How much do you think the whole business
cost us?”
“How much?”
“Seven dollars, all told.”
“Cheap enough.”
“Here, take this box, will you, Ray?” called Matthew, handing out the
hardware.
“Haul those sticks out, Raymond,” Harry said. Then, suddenly espying
Gordon, “Hello, Kiddo,” he called cheerily. “Here, grab this bundle, and
make yourself useful.”
To his astonishment, Gordon turned on his heel and went up the path to
the tents. Harry watched him, surprised. The others were too busy to
notice. They carried their material to a part of the grove where the
trees were sparse, but close enough to afford some shelter. Here they
smoothed off a strip of already flat ground and partially sheltered it
with Harry’s tenting. Then they sat about, discussing the best way of
going to work in the morning. One by one, other members of the troop
wandered over, squatted here and there, and contributed suggestions and
advice, till Charlie Greer, who was cooking that week, called them in
with the welcome sound of his tin horn.
It was the boys’ custom (originating with themselves) to stand at their
places till Red Deer took his rustic seat. He sat at the head of the
long, narrow board, one patrol occupying each side, the patrol leaders
at his right and left hand. The soft evening breeze caught the fresh
scent of the woods and wafted it among the merry, hungry campers. The
stream which tumbled in a little cascade over rocks a short distance
farther up its course, was their accompaniment.
After the early supper, and just before sunset, they gathered about the
flagpole and sang the song of the beautiful emblem that fluttered above
them. Then Red Deer asked if any one had in mind anything which he had
done or said that day which he would like to undo or unsay. It was his
custom to ask this. One or two had, but the matters need not be told
here. Red Deer never thought of them or mentioned them again, so why
should I spread them broadcast? After that, the flag was lowered.
Before camp-fire, Gordon went off to a large rock on the top of a
neighboring hill, to get a photo printing-frame which he had left there
for exposure. It was a peculiar hill. It looked as if some giant might
have sliced an ordinary hill in half, at its very summit, leaving one
long slope, terminating at a sheer precipice. On the brink of the
precipice stood this solitary, sun-bleached rock and one lonely tree.
Below was an expanse of thinly wooded marshy land, enclosing a pond. And
out of this pond, through reeds and dank undergrowth, a green, scummy
stream wound its sluggish way into Lake Champlain. To look down from the
precipice, one might almost imagine that he was gazing upon a tropical
landscape.
On the rock where Gordon was accustomed to leave his printing frame were
graven the initials “G. L.,” for he seldom identified himself with any
place without carving his initials somewhere about; and so completely
had he taken possession of this sun-scorched hill that the troop had
dubbed it “Kid’s Perch.”
Harry saw him plodding up the hill, and went after him.
“Hello, old man,” he said, as he came up to the rock.
“Hello,” said Gordon, coldly.
Harry stood for a moment, half-puzzled, half-amused. Then he stepped up,
slapping him on the shoulder in his familiar way. Gordon turned
resentfully.
“What’s the matter, Kid?” Harry asked, his voice serious and full of
feeling.
“I’m not bothering _you_, am I?” said Gordon.
“No, Kid, but what’s the matter? Can’t you tell me?”
“The matter is I don’t want to be followed—now are you satisfied?”
“No, Kid, I’m not. I want to know what’s the matter, old boy. I can’t go
down to camp-fire with things this way—you can’t, either.”
“Oh, yes, I can. Besides, I guess you can get along all right. You seem
to have plenty of other fellows.”
“Kid, old boy,” said Harry, beginning to see where the trouble lay,
“don’t talk like that. You know, as sure as you’re standing there, that
I—Why, old man, you don’t forget that week we spent together, do you?”
“You didn’t have any one else, then. Everybody knows it’s easy to play
me for a good thing.” He turned to his printing-frame.
Harry watched him.
“Did it print all right, old man?” he asked, almost humbly.
Gordon, ignoring the question, started down the hill, but Harry caught
up with him. “Wait a minute, Kid,” said he. “I don’t want Red Deer to
know about this. Wait, just a minute, please. You know, we can’t always
stick together, here in camp. Naturally, I’m interested in some things
and you’re interested in others—photographing, for instance. And I’ve
got the aeroplane craze now. I’ll get over it, you know, just as you got
over the mumps. Would you have gone to the village with us, if we’d
waited? They all say I’ll break my neck yet. Won’t you help us make the
glider, Kid? Come ahead.”
“That all you’ve got to say?” said Gordon.
“No, I want you to say that things are all right. I know we haven’t seen
much of each other this week, but you know how it is, Kid. I was
thinking, coming up the hill,” he added, in a pathetic attempt to arouse
the younger boy’s interest, “that your suction-pad—you know, the one
you invented—would be great if there were a ledge on that precipice—”
“Oh, give us a rest,” said Gordon. “There’s Langford and Reed waiting
for you, down there.”
“Kid,” said Harry, putting his hand on Gordon’s shoulder, “do you
remember—”
“Take your hand off me,” cried Gordon, turning.
“You don’t mean that, Kid.”
“It’ll be time enough to crawl,” said Gordon, “when I ask you to.”
“I don’t want to crawl, old man,—or we’ll call it crawling, if you
like,—I don’t care. I just want to be friends. Come on, old Black
Ranger.”
But Gordon had started down the hill, and Harry stood still, watching
him.
The next was a busy day for the aero club, working on the glider. When
the troop assembled under the flag at sunset—the several parties of
stalkers, trackers, fishers, home from their chosen haunts—and Red Deer
asked the usual question, if any had done or said a thing that he would
like to undo or unsay, Harry looked wistfully, almost imploringly,
toward a certain round head, with a scout hat perched upon the back of
it. But the owner of the round head neither spoke nor stirred.