BOB TAKES A FLIGHT
And Willie Sloan, in spite of his most vigorous protests, did arrive
early the next morning, by means of the buckboard, at Lone Pine Ranch.
A hat had been found for him, and, as its original owner was a man
of good size, the fit was not all that could be desired. A piece of
newspaper stuffed into the lining, however, prevented it from slipping
over Willie’s ears.
“Here comes the Insurrecto,” grinned Tom, as the conveyance rattled up.
Highly disgusted with everything and everybody, Willie made no reply.
He promptly kicked a suit case off the buckboard, then another.
“Here--one of those is mine!” roared Tom.
“Come up and I’ll treat you the same way,” snorted Willie. “How-de-do,
Mr. Ogden? Yes, quite well, sir, thank you.”
“Quit throwing that stuff around,” ordered Cranny, as suit case number
three was about to follow the others.
“I can’t find my knife anywhere,” growled Willie--“must have dropped it
among this stuff.”
Several pairs of hands helped to unload the vehicle, but the missing
property was not discovered.
“That’s your fault, Cran Beaumont; if we hadn’t come to this old
farmhouse I’d have----”
“Let’s go in and see the rooms, Willie,” interrupted Dave Brandon,
pleasantly.
“Sure; no use lookin’ for that old ten-center; it’s most likely lyin’
on the prairie five miles from here,” said Cranny. “You’re a careless
kid.”
“I couldn’t help it,” grumbled Willie, scrambling to the ground.
The crowd followed the inventor and his sons into the house.
“Go right up-stairs, boys,” said Mr. Ogden, Senior. “Any rooms but the
two on the eastern side are at your disposal.”
Presently the lads were on the second floor walking through the
various apartments. Some had queer-shaped recesses; others closets, but
without a vestige of their doors remaining. The light which came in
through the dusty panes was not enough to dispel a heavy air of gloom.
A few pieces of furniture, of a ponderous design, lifted themselves
from obscurity by sharp touches of light and dense shadows.
“Oh, ginger! If this isn’t the worst ever!” growled Willie,
disgustedly. “Bet nobody’s swung a broom in here since the year minus
one. An’ I see cobwebs, too!”
“Mercy!” snickered Tom.
“You’ll be howling for it soon. Say, does that first-aid-to-the-injured
book tell you what to do for a good hard bump on the nose?”
The crimson mounted as far as Tommy’s eyes.
“Eh?” he stammered.
“When I catch you alone, Mr. Clifton, volume two may come in handy. See
here, Cran Beaumont, I’ll tell you right now, I won’t stay long in this
old farmhouse.”
Within a few minutes the boys had discovered that there wasn’t a bed
in any of the rooms, the only thing suggestive of comfortable repose
being a mattress placed on the floor of the largest. What Willie said
during the next few minutes resulted in such a roar of voices that
Bob hastily stepped to the door and closed it. Cranny did most of the
laughing; Tom was the angriest.
But eventually it all came to an end. Willie had possession of the
mattress, and Bob agreed to make a desperate effort to secure a pillow
for him. Tim Lovell and Cranny decided to share the room, and had the
privilege of taking any part of the floor they chose.
“Now, fellows, let’s get to work,” cried Bob Somers, briskly; “we’ll
soon have these rooms looking several years younger.”
With the exception of Dave and Willie, the crowd set vigorously to
work. They broomed, scrubbed and dusted, until the long unoccupied
rooms began to assume a positively cheerful appearance. Windows were
thrown open, admitting the pure, fresh air that swept for miles over
the prairie. By noon they surveyed their work with much satisfaction.
Prints had been tacked on the walls; even some of Dave Brandon’s oil
sketches were hung up for critical eyes to examine.
“Humph!” exclaimed Willie, intently gazing at a sunset. “Ever sell any?”
“Never did,” laughed the stout lad.
“I shouldn’t think you could. What’s the use o’ painting?”
“To inculcate a love and understanding of nature in myself, and to help
others in the same way.”
“If a fellow ever saw a real sundown like that he might think it was
the end of the world, and yell for help.”
“Why, it’s simply immense!” cried Tom, in amazement.
“Art critics often disagree,” laughed Dave.
“The painting’s disagreed with me already,” said Willie.
The boys all had a fine appetite for dinner; and after it was over
helped the inventor and his sons to get out the “Ogden II.” Rob took
several of the lads on short flights, while Willie spent his time in
the workshop.
Bob again broached to Mr. Ogden, Senior, the subject of taking lessons
in the art of aviation.
The bird-man, disposed to be cautious, again spoke of the risks, but
finally agreed to comply with his earnest request.
“And I wouldn’t consent, Bob,” he explained, “but for the fact that you
seem to be one who is not disposed to take foolish chances.”
“You can depend upon me, Mr. Ogden,” cried Bob, enthusiastically.
The days seemed to follow one another swiftly at Lone Pine; and except
during the very hottest part of the afternoon the boys always managed
to find something to occupy their attention. Ferd made many ascents,
taking Bob with him, rising higher on each occasion, in order to
accustom his pupil to dizzy altitudes. Bob’s nerves, however, proved
equal to the task imposed upon them; and it was agreed that soon he
should be allowed to occupy the aviator’s seat.
“Bob,” exclaimed Mr. Ogden, one morning after breakfast, “would you
like to take a spin over to Border City?”
“Well, I should say so!” cried Bob.
“That ought to be a great trip,” said Tom.
“Perfectly grand!” came from Dick, in enthusiastic tones.
With so many willing hands to draw the aeroplane from beneath its
canvas covering the work was done in record time.
At length Bob clambered into his seat, his eyes sparkling in
pleasurable anticipation. It was a fine day, with a lively breeze
blowing over the broad prairie. There was a fragrance in the air--a
scent of grass and other growing things pleasant to the senses.
“So-long, fellows!” yelled Bob.
Cheery shouts came in response. The motor began to vibrate; the “Ogden
II” shot swiftly ahead, and, in another moment, yielding to the effect
of its powerful propellers, left the ground.
Bob watched the objects skimming beneath with ever-increasing speed.
A backward glance showed him Lone Pine and the boys swiftly dropping
behind. The horizon was rising, each instant revealing greater
stretches of prairie. Chains of distant hills came into view, and,
far to the west, seen through a whitish haze, the range of mountains
extended off in a series of jagged peaks.
The slight sensation of dizziness and feeling of insecurity which
Bob Somers had experienced during his early flights was now almost
entirely absent. He felt a strange exhilaration as the cool air rushing
by fanned his cheeks.
Higher, still higher climbed the biplane toward the white clouds above,
through openings in which streamed bursts of sunlight that sent its
shadow flying across prairie and cattle. The yellow alkali plain, with
its curiously-shaped sandstone buttes, was soon plainly in view, while
he could see a line of scrubby willows and a slender thread of bluish
white showing between, to mark the meandering course of the river.
Mr. Ogden, having confidence in the nerves of his passenger, soared
still higher, the biplane headed against a gently resisting breeze.
Occasionally as stronger or slanting gusts struck the planes, it
rocked; then, with almost the buoyancy of a feather, recovered its
equilibrium.
Bob judged by the rapidity with which the clouds were scudding past
that the machine was going at tremendous speed, but the earth, so
far below, seemed to be slipping by at only a leisurely rate. He saw
patches of timber enveloped in the deep blue of distance, acres of
tumbleweed, and vast areas of bright green buffalo grass dotted here
and there with cattle.
Far off, as little patches of white, Circle T Ranch and its
outbuildings presently shot into view. Eagerly, Bob Somers watched it
growing larger.
“I wonder if Mr. Follett or any of the cow-punchers see us,” he mused,
drawing his field-glass from its case.
A glance through it brought within the range of his vision several tiny
figures gathered before the ranch, all apparently staring hard at the
flying machine.
Mr. Ogden put on additional power. Then, responding to a turn of its
rudder, the aeroplane cut a lane straight toward Circle T.
A few moments later they shot above it, catching glimpses of figures
moving about with apparently sloth-like speed. Again Mr. Ogden
manipulated the rudder, and his biplane swept around in a curve, while
the breeze, striking against it at an angle, sent the planes tipping
slightly.
Some distance ahead a series of partly-wooded hills hemmed in the
plain. Beyond these, in the midst of a dark, loam-covered prairie, lay
Border City.
Bob eagerly watched for its appearance. He raised his field-glass
again, bringing within the circle of light rugged, barren slopes or
rich growths of spruce, aspen and pine.
“Ah ha!”
Beyond their crests the glass had picked out a collection of buildings
extended for some distance in a crooked line. When the hills were
beneath, Bob gazed upon the tops of high trees, into ridges, bluish
in shadow, or at bald reddish rocks shining brightly as the shafts of
sunlight passed across.
Border City was looming up more clearly; the cluster of light-colored
houses seemed rushing toward them. The changing perspective brought
first one building into prominence, then another; but the hangar of
Major Carroll’s dirigible balloon and the big gas tank easily dominated
the scene.
Bob Somers, gazing earnestly through the field-glass, saw the outlying
buildings beginning to detach themselves from the general mass. Finally
the crooked street of Border City, far below, flashed suddenly past,
giving the two a momentary glimpse of excited people rushing to and fro.
Then the town began to fall rapidly behind. Mr. Ogden was piloting his
machine directly over the railroad tracks.
“Wonder where in the dickens he’s going?” mused Bob.
The aviator changed his course, showing perfect control, although the
biplane tipped to an apparently dangerous angle. When it had righted
itself, Bob found that they were speeding swiftly back toward the city.
The roar of the engine suddenly ceased. A pleasant calm, broken only by
the soft flutter of the breeze as it rushed by, followed.
They were volplaning straight toward the hangar of Mr. Warfield
Carroll’s dirigible balloon.
The long glide through space brought with it a truly delightful sense
of comfort. Bob Somers viewed the brown, loam-covered prairie rushing
toward them with almost a feeling of regret. He could see groups of
people gathered about the hangar. Their loud shouts of welcome, too,
reached his ears.
The wind was singing past now at a faster rate. Another pulsating roar
began. Their speed gradually slackened under the power of the reversed
propellers.
Calmness again; and a long, steady, breath-taking swoop! There was a
sudden change in the slant of the balancing planes. A final glide, then
the biplane alighted on its wheels with scarcely a jar, and stopped
within a hundred feet of the hangar.