IN AUSTRALIA
Shortly after five o'clock the next afternoon, Paul saw ahead and to
port what appeared to be haze, but which he and Tom hoped was the
coastline of Australia. Ten minutes later the observer joyfully
pointed out to the pilot unmistakable evidence of an island upon which
stood a tall object--Bathurst Island lighthouse.
John and Tom were routed out, and all saw the rugged outline of the
great island--a continent itself, as large as the United States and
much the same shape--stretching away to the southward and slowly
dwindling into low, sandy, barren shores as it went.
Less than forty minutes later they were circling over Port Darwin, on
the northwest corner of the continent, while a good-sized crowd of
people down below pointed excitedly upward. The flyers soon made out
the landing-field by reason of its white marker, and swooped gracefully
down, while those below cheered.
Two zealous customs officials were anxious to examine the new arrivals,
also a health officer; but this did not take long, and during the
process they were able to converse pleasantly with Mr. Seth Partlow,
the British official in charge of the field, also with the mayor of
Darwin, who gave them the most cordial welcome.
They were sorry to learn that Pete Deveaux and his flyers had departed
less than a half-hour before their own arrival; but they had been
expecting such a report owing to the fact that they had been left so
far behind at Singapore. They now determined to hurry up refitting
operations, and leave at the first opportunity, hot upon the trail.
Messages were dispatched to Mr. Giddings at Panama and to his newspaper
in New York; and another roll of films containing numerous interesting
views taken that morning just before and after landing, were mailed in
to the _Daily Independent_.
Here, for the first time, they were able to secure a paper containing
accounts of their own and their rival's passage. It was a novel
experience to read these glowing descriptions of incidents still fresh
in their minds--descriptions which had in some cases flown by wire, in
others by air-waves, from point to point, more than half-way around the
world. It provoked thoughts which made them marvel at the wonderful
ingenuity and power of the very equipment which they were using
themselves every chance they could get--their wireless telegraph and
telephone sets. The remarkable news-gathering efficiency of the world,
the coordination of agencies in gathering and disseminating news, was
astounding to contemplate.
The mayor of the town insisted upon the boys partaking of dinner at his
home near by, and they thankfully agreed to do this when Mr. Partlow
declared he would personally see to the filling of the Sky-Bird's
tanks, for which task he had plenty of assistants.
They were most cordially received by the mayor's wife. Within fifteen
minutes they had the satisfaction of sitting down to one of the most
satisfying meals they had ever had. Not only was everything well
cooked, but there was a great variety of viands. They were all
particularly impressed with the toothsomeness of the meat which the
maid served, so much so that Paul could not refrain from remarking:
"Mr. Bailey, I never ate sweeter chicken than that."
"No, I don't believe you ever did," laughed the mayor. "The fact is,
young man, that is not domestic chicken at all. It is the flesh of the
brush-turkey, a wild fowl which the bushmen or blackfellows bring in
here to market. It is a great delicacy."
"I have read of these bushmen," said Bob. "Are they quite wild?"
"Indeed they are," the mayor replied. "The blackfellow is, I believe,
on the lowest rung of civilization. He is unlike the negro, the Malay,
the Mongolian, and the American Indian, in many ways. If you could
stay a few days, I would be glad to take you back in the bush and show
you a few specimens in their native state. They have a long skull,
with a low, flat forehead, Their brows overhang deep-set, keen eyes,
and they have a heavy lower jaw, with teeth as strong as a dog's.
Their hair is generally wavy or curly, being usually auburn or black in
color. As a rule their faces are almost hidden by beards and whiskers,
which they never comb and which, like the hair on top of their heads,
are always in a beautiful tangle."
"How do they dress, sir?" asked Paul.
This brought another laugh from Mr. Bailey. "That doesn't worry them
in the least!" he declared. "Most bushmen are covered from head to
foot with hair, and I imagine they think this is a good enough uniform,
for they wear nothing except what nature gave them. In bad weather,
however, they do add some artificial protection to their tough bodies
by making a rough wrap out of the skin of a kangaroo or a piece of
flexible bark. Some tribes use rushes and seaweed for this purpose,
while others make a blanket from the dried frog scum of the swamps and
ponds. For boats, pieces of eucalyptus bark, folded and tied at the
ends and daubed with clay, suit them very well. They are too lazy to
dig out the trunk of a tree for a canoe, like the natives of most other
countries."
"Do these blackfellows live in huts?" asked John.
"That's where their laziness manifests itself again," said the mayor,
smiling. "The blackfellow has no permanent dwelling. His shelter is a
cave or overhanging rock, as an animal might select one; sometimes it
is only a large section of bark which he tears from a tree, and under
which he walks or squats in storms or lies at night."
"Back in the States," remarked Tom, "we hear much about the skill of
these fellows with the boomerang. I dare say a lot of these stories
are overdone."
"Possibly," said their host, "and yet it is a fact that these natives
are undoubtedly more adept at casting various forms of wooden
implements than any other people in the world. Their very indolence
leads them to adopt all sorts of easy-made weapons, and wood is surely
one of the most common materials for the purpose one could find. Clubs
of all kinds are hurled at prey or human enemies. Among these the
boomerang is a favorite. They have several forms. One type is very
light, round on one side and flat on the other, and slightly twisted on
its axis. It is used almost entirely for play, though sometimes to
hurl at flocks of birds in the sky. The war and hunting boomerangs are
much heavier; they are bent differently, and do not return to the
thrower, but are a deadly weapon in the hands of these bushmen at
ranges up to four hundred feet. But stone-pointed spears are their
chief weapons."
"With this skill I presume they have no trouble in securing enough to
eat," suggested Paul, sipping his cocoa.
"On the contrary, there are times when weather conditions, such as
drouth, make it a very difficult matter for some tribes to get
sufficient food. Then they will turn to human flesh, and will eat men
who have fallen to their weapons, or their own tribesmen who have
succumbed to disease or hunger. Even infants are sometimes killed and
eaten by their parents."
"Horrible!" cried the flyers. This seemed almost incredible, with
civilization in abundance so near.
"I agree with you," said Mr. Bailey, failing to notice his wife holding
up a protesting finger toward him. "Of course the blackfellow prefers
to have other foods when he can get them. The kangaroo, wallaby, and
opossum, form his chief food supply, but no animal or nourishing plant
is neglected. He even eats ants, caterpillars, moths, beetles, grubs,
snakes, lizards, often uncooked----"
At that point Mr. Bailey felt a sharp twist of his ear, and looking up,
found his wife gazing at him with a very severe expression.
"Thomas Bailey! You are a cannibal yourself! Where is your sense of
propriety? Have you lost your head in your interest in this subject?
Don't you know you are _eating_?--that you have guests here who are
also _eating_?"
"My! my! Goodness gracious!" ejaculated their host, in a great fuss.
"Young men, I was not thinking. Will you ever pardon me for this
transgression of etiquette?"
The flyers smilingly hastened to assure both their friends that they
had not lost their appetites in the least; that they really had enjoyed
every morsel of food and information passed out. They remained to chat
long enough to convince the lady and gentleman of this fact, and then
took their departure. They had actually spent a most entertaining
hour, one which they would not have missed for a good deal.
At eight-fifty local time the Sky-Bird took off for her long hop to
Apia, principal city of Upolu, an island of the Samoan group. It was
the beginning of their long flight across the big Pacific, an ocean so
wide, so fraught with perils, that no aircraft had ever before
attempted to negotiate it. Some eight thousand miles away over those
great waters lay Panama, their goal. Would they reach it ahead of
their rivals? Would they reach it within their schedule of ten days?
To these two queries in their minds, our stout-hearted, young friends
answered doggedly and determinedly, "Yes!" Fortune might frown upon
them, it is true; but if so they would face her smilingly, with
confidence, with that pertinacity for which Americans are famous, and
try to make her look pleasant, too! They felt that they must win; that
they would win. And yet they left Port Darwin handicapped by being
fully three hours behind their rivals.
As they wheeled over the town they waved a last farewell to the
hundreds below, whose forms they could just make out in the
fast-gathering darkness. Then, turning off straight east, they flew
over the dark-green canopy of eucalyptus forests of fertile Arnhem
Land, and crossed the Gulf of Carpentaria in the full darkness of the
night. When they passed over Cape York peninsula, Tom was at the
throttle, and the younger boys had been asleep for a number of hours.
They had now left the whole continent of Australia behind them, and
were facing the broad wastes of the Pacific.
Their perils had begun in earnest. Should anything happen to cause
them to be forced down, there was nothing but a vast basin of water
miles deep to catch them, and there would not be one chance in a
thousand that they would survive. This, surely, was no place and no
time for engines to fail or steering apparatus to go wrong. Yet each
flyer was ready for such a mishap--attested by the mute evidence of an
inflated rubber tube about his waist. Even Bob and Paul slumbered on
the airy contrivances.
Fortunately the weather was ideal. It is true that headwinds blew
mildly and insistently, causing some bumpiness, but the night was calm
and starry, and with the engine running close to full-out, they saw
that they were making up lost time very fast.
When morning broke, and Paul took the throttle, fair skies looked down
upon their skimming bird, and the sea was bathed in brilliant sunshine.
Bob wirelessed Sydney their position about noon. He made no attempt to
get Apia, because he knew there was no telegraph or radio station there.
Flying low, early in the afternoon they passed close enough to the
Vanikord islands to see hordes of natives watching them from the coral
shores. Numerous smaller islets, gems set in the ultramarine blue of
the sea, were also passed within the next hour. Gulls, ospreys, and
other swift-winged seabirds sailed about these pretty outcroppings of
the mighty deep, and sometimes the creatures came after the Sky-Bird
with shrill cries of challenge, only to be quickly left behind.
Once more the shades of night fell, and once more John took the
destinies of the airplane in hand. For a time Bob and Paul worked on
reports, then played with Grandpa, who in such tedious spells of flying
as this was a never-ending source of entertainment to all. Nine
o'clock found them in their hammocks, hoping that when they opened
their eyes again it would be to see the welcome shores of their
destination.
Nor in this hope were they to be disappointed. It seemed they had no
sooner fallen asleep than they were aroused by a hand shaking them and
the voice of John saying: "Come on, you sleepy-heads! Rout out here
and have a look at what's ahead!"
Having their clothes still on--so that they might be ready for an
emergency at any time of the night--the two chums were up to the
windows about as soon as John himself. The latter had raised two of
these a short time before, and the boys shoved their heads through to
take a look.
It was broad day. Light, fleecy clouds covered the heavens to the
southeast, but in the blue between a huge rift the sun shone down
benignly. And in its bright rays they could count nine islands and
islets, sprinkled here and there like emeralds in a sparkling sheet of
mother-of-pearl. It needed only a glance at the chart to tell them
that these were the Samoan group, and a little searching also told them
that the nearest large one was Upolu.
In less than another hour they were circling above the beautiful island
of their choice, directly over the little town of Apia, which nestled
in the center of a luxuriant forest of palms and other tropical trees.
A number of boats and sailing vessels were in the harbor, and on board
these as well as on the ground hundreds of people were looking up aloft
and waving a welcome.
Now our flyers saw what they really were most concerned about--a T made
of white stones in an open spot by the beach. And in that field they
also saw something else they were very glad to witness. This was the
airplane of their rivals.
They had caught up with them at last!