YELLOW GYPSIES
RAPIDLY, as soon as Peltok pulled the elevating lever, the machine shot
upward and was quickly beyond rifle distance, though the last glimpse
Ned had of the mounted hunters they were still firing at the aircraft.
But Ned had other thoughts than those of the men who, through fear or
anger, had fired on the _Air Monarch_. He had seen Tom start back,
wince, and disappear from the window.
“Are you hit, Tom?” Ned yelled, as he drew in his head and had a glimpse
of his chum swaying in the middle of the forward cabin. “Did they get
you?”
As if in a daze Tom put his hand to his head and took off his cap. There
was a queer look on his face as he looked at a neat, round hole through
the cap’s visor, close to where it set on his head.
“They missed you!” Ned joyfully cried when he saw this. “But it was a
narrow squeak, Tom!”
Holding the punctured cap in his left hand, Tom put his right hand to
his head and when he brought his fingers down there was a little smear
of blood on them.
“You’re hit—after all!” gasped Ned.
“No, just a graze,” and Tom found his voice for the first time since the
shooting. “It was a close call,” he went on. “It fairly had me going for
a moment or two. That bullet must have creased me, Ned. It skimmed right
past my head. Yes, I was creased.”
This is a term used by Westerners to indicate that a bullet grazes a man
or an animal. The effect, while not serious, is to render the victim
incapable of speech or action for a short time. Often wild horses are
subdued in that way. Needless to say, it takes a sure shot to “crease” a
beast and not send the bullet deep enough to kill. In the case of the
hunters firing from below on the airship it was undoubtedly accidental.
“It was just a graze,” declared Tom again, and an examination showed
this to be the case. The bullet had buried itself in the upper part of
the window frame after piercing Tom’s cap and drawing a little blood.
The wound was treated with an antiseptic solution, and then, feeling
more like himself, Tom prepared to ascertain their position.
They had soon left the hunters behind, and doubtless those wild riders
had a strange tale to tell around the campfire that night.
By calculating their speed and distance and by identifying certain
landmarks, Tom made, certain that they were over Turkey—and the wilder
part of that country.
“Well, I think we’re keeping up to our schedule,” Tom said that noon as
they were cruising along and he and Peltok and Ned were eating an
appetizing meal. “So far we have had very good luck, even getting out of
the hurricane and over the hot bearing without falling back much. If
this keeps up I’ll be well within my margin of twenty days.”
“The race isn’t over yet,” said Peltok, who was an experienced aeroplane
man. “Wait until we run into some real trouble.”
“We’ll strike it, of course,” admitted Tom. “Couldn’t expect not to on a
trip like this. But the longer it holds off the better we’ll be.”
“Hope there aren’t any other wild tribes that are going to take pot
shots at us,” remarked Ned.
“There aren’t likely to be,” said Peltok who knew this part of the
country quite well. “This was some wild tribe, I suppose, that lived in
a mountain fastness, or some wild wooded place, and they had never heard
of an airship before.”
The _Air Monarch_ was now running along very easily. The motors were
beginning to “find” themselves, the rough spots were wearing down smooth
and, as Tom said, the craft was operating like a sewing machine, which
seems to be the standard in cases of this sort.
For the first time since leaving the Long Island field, Tom and Ned felt
the relief from nervous strain and began to take matters a little
easier.
“Guess I’ll write some messages home,” decided Tom in the afternoon,
when he and Ned sat together in the main cabin.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” agreed the other. “I suppose you’ll put the
letters out in front for the mail plane to pick up,” he added, and there
was that in his voice which caused Tom to explain:
“Don’t you think I mean it?”
“How in the world are you going to get any dispatches off home from up
here? We haven’t got a powerful enough wireless to do it—you said that
yourself the other day—and——”
“Go slow!” advised Tom, with a chuckle. “This is easy. I’ll write some
messages—telegrams to be more exact—and you can, too, if you like.
We’ll enclose them in some tubes I had made for the purpose and drop
them when we pass near some city and see a crowd out watching us. With
the messages I’ll include a request that they be sent off, and I’ll put
in some money to pay the toll and also to reward the person who attends
to the matter.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Ned. “I didn’t think of that! Guess I’ll write to Helen
Morton.”
He took it for granted that Tom was going to wire Mary Nestor that, so
far, everything was lovely. This Tom did, also writing brief words of
greeting to his father, Mr. Damon, and some few others.
These messages were enclosed in strong but light tubes and when the
airship passed over the next town, flying low so the crowds could be
observed, the messages were dropped. Before the _Air Monarch_ flew on,
Tom and Ned saw a rush to pick up the tubes, and they felt sure word of
their progress would soon be ticking on its way.
It was toward the close of the afternoon that Ned went into the engine
room and was surprised to see Hartman and Brinkley standing together
near one of the thermometers connected with the water cooling system of
the motors. Like an automobile engine, the machinery of some airships
must be cooled by water circulating around the cylinder walls. As Ned
came upon the two mechanics, he saw Brinkley pointing to the red
indicating column which was higher than usual.
“Anything wrong?” asked Ned, as he saw the two talking.
“This motor is heating up more than I like to see,” stated Brinkley.
“Shall I call Tom?” asked Ned.
“Oh, no. Not yet,” was the reply.
“Maybe the water is low in the radiator,” suggested Hartman. “Let’s take
a look. Yes, that’s it,” he went on a moment later. “It needs filling.”
As Ned walked on, satisfied that it was only a minor trouble, easily
remedied, he heard Brinkley say to his companion:
“It’s queer how the water got low. I filled that radiator only a little
while before the chief so nearly got shot. I don’t see how it could leak
out.”
“Maybe it doesn’t leak,” said Hartman. “There may be faster evaporation
than usual.”
Ned thought no more about it until an hour later when, as night was
coming on, there came a sudden slowing of the motors and the craft began
losing speed.
“What’s the matter?” called Tom, who was on his way to the control
cabin. “Why are you slowing down, Peltok?”
“Something’s wrong!” was the answer. “One of the motors is overheating.
There seems to be a leak in the water radiator. We’ll have to go down to
overhaul it.”
“Too bad,” murmured Tom. “I thought we could gain a little on this leg.
But it can’t be helped.”
In the gathering darkness an open spot amid the forests was picked out
where the _Air Monarch_ could safely land and rise again after repairs
were made.
As the aircraft came gently down to the ground, several scores of
evil-looking men, dressed in gay but fantastic clothes and bearing long
guns, rushed out from the surrounding trees.
“Looks as if we’d get a warm reception!” exclaimed Tom.
“We shall!” declared Peltok. “These are Yellow Gypsies—one of the worst
tribes in Persia. We’ve got to fight, I’m afraid!”
The airship ceased moving, and as she came to a halt the horde of
evil-faced men rushed up to surround the craft.