A NARROW ESCAPE
The _Gossamer_ had struck “a hole in the air!” “We are lost!” thought
Dave Dashaway.
The young aviator was not prone to arrive at senseless conclusions. He
had made a practical study of aeronautics, in a way; from the first time
the pioneer airman harnessed a gasoline engine to a kite and called it a
flying machine, down to the loop-the-loop somersault trick in aviation.
A “hole in the air” to the sky traveler is what a yawning chasm is to a
speeding automobile or an unexpected cataract to a hydroplane. It is
worse than a “killed” motor or even a threatened “turn turtle.” Every
part of the machine suddenly goes useless. The heavy mechanism simply
drops. In a word, the _Gossamer_ had been caught in a dead void caused
by two opposing air currents colliding, and shutting the machine into an
absolute pocket, or vacuum.
If Dave had remained inert, or had hesitated for a single instant of
time, the _Gossamer_ would have been doomed. A slender thread of hope
presented itself and he was quick to utilize it to the limit. “Feeling”
the air with one cheek, he noticed the tail of the machine give a quick
switch. This he at once understood indicated that the master air current
was from the north. Dave hoped there was power enough left in the
propellers to make a sharp, quick turn. He set the apparatus for the
speediest whirl he had ever attempted.
The machine was tipping, dropping steadily. Dave banked to the left at a
most critical angle. There was a dizzying spin and then a dive. A great
breath of relief swept from Dave’s lips as the _Gossamer_ righted. The
wings caught the violent blast of the gust, and the machine fairly bored
its way ahead, true as an arrow, into the teeth of the storm.
A drenching shower shut the aerial wayfarers into a blinding deluge of
rain drops. Then their course lightened, and Dave knew that the thinning
veil of moisture indicated sunlight beyond it. He shut down speed
slightly. The air pressure was fast decreasing as the _Gossamer_ emerged
from the clouds. Dave gradually worked the head of the machine due
southwest once more. The former head wind was regained, and sunny
progress offered beyond.
“A close shave,” said Dave, to himself, and turned to see how his
passenger had taken it.
“I suppose that scared you somewhat, Miss Winston?” he remarked.
Amy’s face was pale, and she showed the strain of her startling
experience, but she replied:
“I could not be frightened with you. Anybody as kind and thoughtful as
you are to a poor girl in distress like myself, could not be anything
but brave.”
Dave’s heart warmed at the compliment. He admired the girl, too. As he
thought back, he realized that his nerves had been at a tension where
any outcry or movement on the part of his passenger might have upset his
self-control, and have prevented the prompt action which had saved the
day.
He felt proud and pleased at his success in turning a hard corner. His
passenger, too, became more light-hearted as the prospect of soon
reaching the side of her invalid mother became more assured. Once or
twice as they flew over chicken coops in farm yards there was great
excitement beneath them, and she could not help but smile.
“That is Easton,” she leaned over finally to say to Dave, as the
steeples and factory chimneys of a little town came into view.
The girl pointed out her home a few minutes later, and Dave prepared to
make a landing. The _Gossamer_ came to earth in the middle of a field a
few hundred yards distant from the house the girl had designated.
Long before Dave had released the ropes that had held his passenger in
her seat, people who had viewed the novelty of a real airship came
flocking to the spot from all directions. Amy seized the hands of the
young aviator, bubbling over with gratitude. She tried to thank him as
she wished to, but the words would not come.
“Don’t delay, Miss Winston,” said Dave. “I know they must be very
anxious about you at home.”
Dave led his little charge to the fence surrounding the field and helped
her over it. Then he returned to the _Gossamer_. He found that the
propellers had gone through some strain during his adventure in the
storm, and he had some little work to do with chisel, hammer and wrench.
While he was thus occupied almost a mob surrounded the airship, curious,
gaping and delighted.
A man wearing a big star, and evidently the policeman of the town, made
himself very officious keeping the crowd back. He had seen an airship
once at a county fair and paraded his knowledge now. He tried
industriously to make himself very agreeable to the young aviator. Dave
had to laugh secretly to himself as the man pinched his fingers
describing to a local newspaper man that this was the “magenta”—meaning
magneto; and that the “carbutter”—meaning the carburetor.
“You must have been reading up on airships,” spoke the newspaper man to
the policeman, as the latter walked importantly about the craft, now and
then sternly calling on some small lad to “git back out th’ way.”
“I have,” came the confident answer. “I know a lot about ’em. Of course
I haven’t ever sailed in one, but my brother, he’s a policeman in Long
Island, and once, when I was on a visit to him, he was detailed to go
out to a place where they was havin’ one of these airyplane contests,
and keep order. I went with him, and he swore me in as his deputy
assistant. I seen a lot of them foreign fellers fly, and I picked up a
lot of information.”
“I suppose so,” murmured the newspaper man, who was new in town, and did
not know enough to discount the boasting talk of the officer.
“Yes, indeed!” went on the constable. “Why, once one of them
birdmen—they call ’em ‘birdmen’ you know,” he explained as though he
knew it all, “once one of ’em run out of gasoline just as he was goin’
to start in a prize flight, and if it hadn’t been for me he’d never won
it.”
“How’s that?” asked the reporter.
“Why I hustled over to the hangar—that’s the French word for a balloon
shed,” he explained condescendingly, “I rushed over to the hangar and
got him a can of gasoline and he went up as slick as anything and won
the prize. He said I helped him a lot, and he gave me a dollar. I didn’t
want to take it, but he insisted. Oh, I know a lot about airships.”
Dave was so busy tightening some of the guy wires that had come loosened
at the turn buckle, by reason of the great strain, that he paid little
attention to the reporter and the constable for a few minutes.
The young aviator, however, noticed that the officious officer was
becoming more and more familiar with the machine, touching the different
parts, often calling them by their wrong names, and totally unconscious
of his errors. Nor was the reporter any the wiser.
“I don’t exactly understand what makes the airship move,” confessed the
newspaper man to the self-appointed instructor. “Is it——?”
“It’s these here perpellers,” explained the constable. “They work just
like an electric fan, you know.”
“I see, but then the blades of an electric fan go around but the fan
doesn’t sail in the air. Why is that?”
“Well—er—it’s because—Oh, here’s something I forgot to explain,” said
the constable quickly, finding himself unexpectedly in deep water. “I’ll
tell you about the perpellers later. This here’s the radiator,” he went
on. “It’s full of water, just like in the radiator of an automobile, and
it keeps the gasoline from boiling over—cools it off you know.”
“Indeed,” said the reporter, who knew a little about autos. “But I
thought the water was to keep the engine from getting overheated.”
“Not in an airship,” insisted the constable. “In an airyplane the
radiator keeps the gasoline cool. I’ll jest show you how it works,” and,
before Dave could stop the man, he had opened a small faucet in the
radiator, designed to drain out the water.
Now it happened that Dave had been running his engine very fast, and, in
consequence, the water in the radiator—which really did cool the motor
and not the gasoline—this water was very hot—in fact some steam was
present.
No sooner did the meddlesome constable open the stop-cock that a jet of
steam shot out, burning his fingers severely. The man jumped back with
an exclamation of pain.
“I—I didn’t know it was so hot!” he cried. “This must be a new cooling
system he’s using on this affair.”
“I should say it was more like a _heating_ system,” remarked the
reporter, with a smile he could not conceal.
“Ha! Ha! Shiner got burned!” yelled a small boy who had been ordered
away from the craft. “Shiner got burned! Ha! Ha!”
“Make a cup of tea, Shiner!” yelled another lad, “Shiner” evidently
being the constable’s nickname.
“I’ll ‘shiner’ you if I git holt of you!” he threatened, rushing forward
with some of his fingers in his mouth to render the pain less. It was
not a very dignified attitude for a guardian of the law.
“I wish you’d shut that stop-cock!” cried Dave, who was busy tightening
a part that he could not very well leave just then. “Shut that water
off, or I’ll lose all there is in the radiator, and have to put in
more.”
“It—it’s too hot,” objected the constable, his attention drawn from the
annoying lads. “I didn’t know it was so warm. What system do you use?”
Dave was too annoyed to answer, and the constable, not wishing to burn
himself again, held back. Meanwhile water and steam were spurting from
the stop-cock.
“I’ll shut it off,” volunteered the reporter, feeling that he was partly
to blame for the incident, since he had evinced a curiosity that the
constable had tried to gratify.
The newspaper man advanced toward the radiator, which was now enveloped
in steam. Dave saw that he had on no gloves.
“Look out!” cried the young aviator. “You’ll get a bad burn. That’s very
hot. Here,” he added, “take these pliers, and turn that valve. I’d do it
myself only if I let go this wire it will slip and I can’t easily get it
in place again,” and Dave indicated where a pair of pliers lay on the
ground.
“I get you,” said the reporter with a smile. A moment later he had shut
the stop-cock and the stream of water and the hissing steam stopped.
“Cricky! but this burns!” exclaimed the constable. “I forgot about the
radiator part. Some airships don’t have ’em on.”
“Why not?” asked the reporter.
“Oh, er—well—you see—say, here’s what I was telling you about, the
perpellers, they make the ship go. You see you turn them around to start
the engine, jest like you crank an auto. I guess I can turn them over,
though it’s pretty hard. Down on Long Island, where my brother was that
time, I helped one of the birdmen lots. You jest do it this way,” and he
advanced toward the big wooden propeller.
“Here, don’t touch that!” cried Dave, but he was too late. The officious
constable whirled the wooden blade around. As it happened Dave had
turned on the switch in order to make a test, and had forgotten, until
that moment, to turn it off. But when he saw what the man was going to
do he realized what would happen. “Let that alone!” he cried, being
unable to get out, as he was straddling one of the runners to tighten a
wire.
The constable gave the apparatus another turn, and with a rattle and
bang, like a salvo of musketry, the motor started.
Now there is considerable power to an airship’s propeller—there has to
be to make the craft sail. As the blades whirled about they fairly blew
the constable back out of the way. His helmet went sailing off, tossed
by the terrific wind created and, only that he jumped aside in time he
would have been hurt. The airship, too, would have moved off, only Dave
had left the drag-brake on. This halted it long enough for the young
aviator to leap out and shut off the switch.
“Say!” the lad cried to the constable, “I’ve a good notion to——”
“I—I didn’t know it would start!” cried the man, finally managing to get
on his feet, for he had staggered back so fast that he fell. “I didn’t
know it would do that. I—I guess I’ll go up to the drug store and get
something for my burned fingers,” and, not stopping to give any more
information to the newspaper man, the officer hurried off, amid the
laughter of the crowd.
It took Dave half an hour to get the machine as he wanted. He had a
pleasant chat with the local reporter, who was immensely interested.
Dave got ready to start back for home, when a young fellow about his own
age made his way hurriedly through the crowd. Our hero observed his
resemblance to his recent passenger. He was excited and eager, and
seized Dave’s hand with great warmth.
“You are Mr. Dashaway?” he spoke.
“Yes, I am Dave Dashaway,” replied the young aviator, pleasantly.
“My sister sent me. Oh, how we want to thank you,” and the tears began
to fall down the cheeks of the manly young fellow.
“How is your mother?” asked Dave, embarrassed at the growing attention
of the listening crowd about them.
“That’s it, that’s it,” exclaimed young Winston, brokenly. “You’ve saved
her, oh, think of it; the doctor says she won’t die, now!”
Dave tried to quiet the agitated lad, but the latter would have his say.
From his incoherent talk Dave gathered that Mrs. Winston had indeed been
near death. The main trouble was that she imagined her daughter Amy had
died away from home. The girl’s return had quieted the frantic sufferer.
She had received Amy in a wild transport of delight. Then she had gone
to sleep in her daughter’s arms, happy and quiet, the fever broken; and
the doctor had announced that the crisis was past.
The crowd began to get wind of the pretty little story of Dave’s
heroism. The newspaper man was excitedly taking notes. The policeman
looked proud at having something of importance happen in the town of
which he was the public guardian, and the crowd began to shout handsome
things at Dave.
The young aviator was actually blushing as he started the _Gossamer_
again. Cheers of genuine enthusiasm rang out, three times three and many
times over, as the machine shot skyward. Then, as Dave caught sight of a
little lady waving a handkerchief at him from the front porch of the
Winston home, he felt somehow as if a real blessing had been bestowed
upon him.
“It’s a good deal to be an airman,” Dave told himself. “It’s a good deal
more to be able to do a kind deed and make others happy,” he added, so
glad that he had been of service to Amy Winston, that he would have been
willing to go through the daring adventure all over again.
The skies had cleared in every direction. The machinery of the
_Gossamer_ worked to a charm on the return trip to Lake Linden. The dial
showed a trifle over two hundred miles in five hours and a half.
Dave made a run for the turning bar in one corner of the enclosure to
get the stiffness out of his limbs. Then he hurried over to the living
tent, glad that he had an interesting story to tell to his fellow
airmen.
“Nobody here?” he remarked, looking around. “Mr. Grimshaw and Hiram must
have gone to town. Probably didn’t expect me home so soon.”
“Hello, there!” spoke an unexpected voice.
Dave turned quickly. Two persons had passed the gates and were
approaching him. He recognized them at once. One was the
foppishly-dressed man he had seen twice before. The other was the boy
who had shaken his fist at Dave when the _Gossamer_ had started on the
hasty trip to Easton.
At closer sight than before the young aviator instantly read his
visitors as in a book. The elder of the twain was about twenty-five or
thirty years of age, and all his elegant attire and rather handsome face
did not disguise his resemblance to some shrewd sharper who made his way
in the world by living on others.
The boy suggested the spoiled scion of some wealthy family, with plenty
of money, and used to spending it foolishly. His face was flushed and
excited, and Dave decided that he was under a very baneful influence in
the company he kept. He was the first to speak.
“You are Dashaway, I suppose?” he observed in a careless, almost
insolent way.
“Yes,” said Dave.
“Well, this is my friend, Vernon. Was here before, to-day.”
“I know he was,” replied Dave.
“Where is the old fellow who was so saucy to him?”
“What do you want to know for?” demanded Dave, unable to keep from
getting a trifle angry.
“Because he’s due for a trimming, that’s why. I don’t allow my friends
to be treated that way. See here, I don’t suppose you know who I am,”
observed the speaker, with an air of self-assertion that was almost
ridiculous.
“I don’t,” answered Dave.
“I thought so. That may enlighten you.”
The boy drew an elegant case from his pocket, selected a card with a
tissue paper cover, and handed it to Dave, who took it, somewhat curious
to know the personality of so presumptuous an individual. The card read:
“_Elmer Brackett_.”
The name Brackett was suggestive to Dave, but not altogether
enlightening. There was a Mr. Brackett who was president of the
Interstate Aero Company. Dave read the card over twice, closely and
thoughtfully, then he looked his visitor squarely in the face.
“Well?” he demanded, coolly.
“My name is Brackett, as you probably observe,” remarked the boy,
smartly.
“I see it is.”
“You don’t seem to understand yet,” proceeded the forward youth. “My
father is the owner of the company that hires you.”
“Well?” again challenged Dave.
“You’ve heard of him, I reckon.”
“Many times,” replied Dave.
Young Brackett looked nettled. Apparently he had expected Dave to bow
with reverence or quake with fear.
“See here,” he spoke suddenly in a harsh, rasping tone. “I’m Elmer
Brackett, my governor owns that airship and everything around here. I’m
his son, and I want to give my friend Vernon a spin in the air.”
“Well,” said Dave simply, “you can’t do it.”