THE NEW AEROPLANE.
Motor Matt was as happy as the proverbial bee in clover--and fully as
industrious.
A quarter of a mile below the post trader's store, on the Devil's Lake
Indian Reservation, a tent, with its sides rolled up, was being used
as a workshop. Outside the tent there was a portable forge, anvil, and
full outfit of blacksmith's tools. Inside there was a bench with an
ironworker's vise, and also a carpenter's bench and well-equipped chest.
For two weeks Matt had been laboring about Camp Traquair, as the little
rendezvous was called, assisted in his work by his cowboy chum, Joe
McGlory, and with the Chinese boy, Ping, in charge of the culinary
department.
Immediately after Matt had finished the aëroplane trials, with so much
credit to himself, an order had been given for a new aëroplane at the
same price the government had paid for the first one, providing only
that it should be finished and tried out by the first of the month.
This would enable the machine to be taken apart, crated, and forwarded
to Fort Myer for a competitive test in an event that was to determine
the abilities of an aëroplane for signal corps' services, as against
other types of machines, such as dirigible balloons.
Matt and his two friends had plunged zealously into the work. While
McGlory and Ping were erecting the work tent, and furnishing it with
wood and iron-working tools, Matt had made a trip to Jamestown for a
talk with Mrs. Traquair, and then to St. Paul after materials.
The tough spruce needed for the wings, or "planes," every bolt, screw
and wire guy, and the motor, Matt had secured in St. Paul. At a large
cost for expressage these materials had been shipped direct to Fort
Totten and had arrived there on the same day that witnessed Matt's
return.
Then began a season of feverish activity, during which Lieutenant
Cameron and others from the post had watched the king of the motor boys
with wonder and admiration.
That Motor Matt was possessed of mechanical skill the officers at the
post had long known, but that his genius in construction was fully
equal to his ability as an aviator became evident from day to day, and
was in the nature of a revelation.
"You're the best all-around chap at this business I ever saw in my
life," Lieutenant Cameron had declared.
Matt laughed.
"Why, Cameron," he answered, "I used to work in a motor plant, in
Albany, New York."
"That may be, Matt, but building a motor is a different proposition
from building a flying machine."
"Traquair laid down the plans. All I have to do is to follow them.
It's really very simple. An aëroplane, you know, is nothing more than
two oblong pieces of canvas, fastened together one above the other and
pushed against the air by a motor and propeller. If the motor drives
the wings fast enough, they're sure to stay up."
But Cameron shook his head and continued to believe that Motor Matt was
something of a phenomenon, whereas Matt knew that he had merely the
"knack" for the work, just as he had acquired the "knack" for using the
aëroplane in the first place.
"The machine," he declared to Cameron, "is only a big toy."
"Toy?" echoed Cameron. "It's more than that, Matt."
"For the army and navy, yes. Aëroplanes can be used for scouting
purposes and for dropping bombs down on hostile armies and war
ships--providing they can keep clear of bullets and shells fired from
below; but, even for such work, the aëroplane has its limitations."
"The government," laughed Cameron, "is buying these Traquair aëroplanes
in spite of their limitations."
"Our war department," answered Matt, "has got to keep abreast of other
war departments, and poor Traquair has given you fellows the best
aëroplane so far invented."
"Don't you think the Traquair machine will ever be used for commercial
purposes? Won't there be fleets of them carrying passengers and
merchandise between San Francisco and New York and making the trip at
the rate of sixty or one hundred miles an hour?"
"That's a dream," averred Matt; "still," he added, "dreams sometimes
come true. My old dirigible balloon, the _Hawk_, was a wonder. She
could be sailed in a pretty stiff wind, and a fellow didn't have to use
his head and hands every blessed second to keep a sudden gust of air
from turning his machine upside down. I traveled thousand of miles in
the _Hawk_, but there was always a certain amount of worry on account
of the gas. If anything happened to the silk envelope, no amount of
work with your head and hands could keep you from a tumble."
"Well, anyway, you're in love with air ships."
"I'm in love with this," and Matt's gray eyes brightened as he touched
the motor which he was at that moment installing in the new aëroplane,
"and I'm in love with every novel use to which a motor can be put.
Explosive engines will furnish the power for the future, and every
new way they're used helps that coming time along. But I'm giving a
lecture," he smiled, going back to his work, "and I couldn't tell you
exactly how I feel on this gas-engine subject if I talked a thousand
years. The motors have got a strangle hold on me--they're keeping me
out of college, keeping me from settling down, and filling my life with
all sorts of adventures. But I can't help it. I'm under the spell of
the gas engine, and that's all there is to it."
It was during this talk of Matt's with Cameron, along toward the last
days of the busy two weeks, that Ping came into Camp Traquair with a
dagger.
"You savvy knife, Motol Matt?" asked Ping, offering the dagger for
inspection.
Matt dropped his wrench and took the weapon from the Chinaman.
It was not more than seven inches in length from the end of the handle
to the tip of the blade. The blade was badly rusted, and the handle was
incrusted with earth.
"Where did you get this, Ping?" inquired Matt, beginning to clean the
dagger with the edge of a file.
"My makee find in woods. You savvy place Siwash cally Ping one piecee
night he fool with Flying Joss?"
"Flying Joss" was Ping's name for the aëroplane. His heathen mind
made a joss of things he could not understand, and this machine of
Traquair's had impressed him more than anything else he had ever
encountered.
"I remember," answered Matt. "Siwash Charley carried you off into the
timber, near the lake shore. You found the dagger there?"
"All same."
"Some Indian must have dropped it," put in Cameron. "From the way it's
rusted, it looks as though the redskin must have dropped it a hundred
years ago."
"Hardly as long ago as that," returned Matt. "It's a pretty dagger, as
daggers go, although I don't admire things of the kind. The blade is
of mighty fine steel, and the handle is of sterling silver, set with a
ruby, or a piece of colored glass to represent a ruby, at the end. And
here are some initials."
A little scraping with the file had bared a flat plate in the handle.
Matt studied the initials.
"No," he remarked, "this couldn't have belonged to an Indian, Cameron.
Redskins are not carrying silver, ruby-mounted daggers with initials
engraved on them."
"Some red may have traded pelts for it," suggested the lieutenant.
"Possibly."
"What are the initials? Can you make them out?"
"There are two letters, sort of twined together," answered Matt. "I
make them out to be 'G. F.,' although I----"
An exclamation escaped Cameron.
"Let me see it!" he cried, stepping forward and showing an astonishment
and eagerness which bewildered Motor Matt.
For several minutes Cameron turned the blade around and around in his
hands, staring in amazement and muttering to himself.
"Will you let me have this for a little while, Matt?" asked the
lieutenant when he had finished his examination. "This may be a most
remarkable find--remarkable as well as of tremendous importance. I
can't tell about that, though, till I have a talk with some of the
others at the post."
"Of course you can take it," said Matt. "But what makes that rusty
piece of steel so important?"
"I'll tell you--later."
Thereupon the lieutenant whirled in his tracks and made off at speed in
the direction of the post.
McGlory had been under the aëroplane fitting in the pipe that led from
the tank to the carburetor. He had overheard the talk, however, and had
caught a glimpse of the dagger while the lieutenant was examining it.
"Tell me about that!" he exclaimed, crawling out from under the
aëroplane. "There was something about that rusty old knife that knocked
Cameron slabsided. What do you think it was?"
"Give it up, Joe," answered Matt. "How much too long is that pipe?"
In this offhand way Matt dismissed the dagger from his thoughts--but
not for long. An hour later, Cameron could be seen chasing down the
road from the post trader's, wildly excited.
"I've got to talk with you, Matt," said he breathlessly, as he reached
the side of the aëroplane. "You'll have to give me some of your time,
and no two ways about it. There's a tragedy connected with this
knife--tragedy, and a whole lot of treachery. It's more than likely,
too, that Siwash Charley is mixed up in the whirl of events that have
to do with the dagger. Come into the tent with me for a little while."
Matt gave a regretful look at the motor. He would rather have kept busy
with that than listen to the most absorbing yarn that was ever told.
Nevertheless, there was no denying the lieutenant, and the king of the
motor boys, accompanied by McGlory and Ping, followed Cameron into the
shade of the tent.