WILLIE SHOWS HIS NERVE
The “day after to-morrow” seemed to come around very quickly, and, as
is usually the case when one is leaving for any length of time, an
immense number of things had to be attended to at the last moment. It
was a busy morning for all, except, of course, Willie Sloan and Dave.
These two had a natural aptitude for relieving themselves of work.
When the wagon had finally been loaded, the young Mexican hitched the
horses to it, and the inventor and his sons were at last ready to bid a
temporary good-bye to the scene of their successful labors.
“Now, Bob, don’t forget, the workshop is to be kept closed.”
Mr. Ogden, Senior, spoke in a tone which, while low, reached the ears
of Willie Sloan.
“All right, sir.”
“Of course, in case any occasion to use tools arises, you have my
permission to take them. Now, may I rest assured that you will exercise
the same care in making flights as before?”
“Indeed you may, sir!”
“That relieves my mind.”
“Oh, ginger; the workshop is to be kept closed,” murmured Willie.
“Isn’t that awful luck?”
The smile which had rested on his face immediately vanished.
“Good-bye, lads!” Mr. Ogden was calling. “Yes, Bob; one of us will ride
over soon. Take care of yourselves.”
“We shall!” laughed Cranny.
A chorus of “Good-byes” arose. The Mexican flapped his reins and the
wagon wheels began to revolve.
The crowd raced by the side of the vehicle as far as the stockade, and
stood gazing out over the prairie as it rumbled slowly away. Not until
a patch of timber had hidden the conveyance did they turn toward the
ranch-house.
“All alone!” said Sam.
“Dreadful situation--with no one but Willie to protect us,” wailed
Dick.
“See here, Cran Beaumont, when are you going to get to work at Border
City?” demanded Willie.
“Mighty soon,” answered Cranny, with a cheerful grin. “I’m thinking
’bout it.”
“And I guess that’s almost enough to give you brain fag. Say, I do
wish those cattle would keep away from our yard. There’s an awful lot
loafing around outside. Ever notice their eyes, Brandon? They roll
frightfully.”
“What’s to be done, fellows?” asked Tim Lovell.
“Done?” cried Willie. “Why, there isn’t a thing we can do, now, in this
old farmhouse.”
“Well, it’s certain that you can’t stay in the machine shop poking into
other people’s business all day,” said Cranny.
“When I want advice I’ll go to some one whom I can address as
‘Mister,’” returned Willie, scornfully. “Going sky-planing to-day,
Somers?”
“It’s my turn to go up with Bob,” urged Tim Lovell.
“Well, I hope he won’t drop the subject, then,” said Willie. “Go
on--an’ up. Do I ever intend to try it? No! Haven’t got the nerve, eh?
Say, Cran, what’s a mailed fist?”
“A letter, sometimes,” chuckled Cranny.
“Huh; not so dense, after all,” said Willie. “If I were your dad, the
mailed fist I’d send would knock you flat on the prairie.”
The first thing the boys did was to take stock of the provisions. Then
they reached an agreement regarding the cooking, as usual, leaving Dave
and Willie out of their calculations.
Later, Bob Somers, with Tim as his passenger, made a short
cross-country flight.
Willie, now unable to visit the machine shop, fell quickly back into
his old listless ways.
After lunch, the boys, with the exception of Dave, explored a
subterranean passageway which led from the house to the stable, and
found a great deal of fun and interest in the proceeding.
The days began to pass with a somewhat monotonous regularity. Early
one morning, when the “Ogden II” was ready for a flight, Willie Sloan
sauntered slowly into view. For some time, the boys had observed him
carrying around a small, red-covered book; but even Cranny’s efforts
to discover what it was had met with failure.
Tommy, walking over toward the biplane to take his seat beside Bob, saw
the small volume drop from Willie’s pocket, and instantly made a grab
toward it.
“Here--let that alone, Dr. Thomas Clifton!” snapped Willie, in high
dudgeon.
The crimson flush, which, ever since Tom had grown so tall, came to his
face on the slightest pretext, was once more in evidence.
“Well, what are you getting so wild about?” he demanded.
“Wild? I’ll get more’n wild. Don’t you dare touch that book, smarty!”
“Ha, ha! Where’s that arbitration board?” roared Cranny.
But Tom already had the book.
“You open it--just you open it!” came from Willie.
Tom Clifton’s forbearance was not equal to the task of accepting this
command with equanimity, particularly as it was accompanied by a
threatening movement of Willie’s fist.
Deliberately, he turned the pages.
“Why, it’s called ‘Practical Mechanics,’ fellows,” he announced.
Willie instantly tore the book from his grasp.
“You’ll catch it for that, you bean-stalk!” he piped, furiously.
“Little grouch! Scary kid--afraid of everything!” cried Tommy, highly
incensed and excited. “Afraid of bronchos! Afraid of tame old cows!
Afraid to go up in an aeroplane!”
“I am, eh? I’ll show you how much afraid I am, Doctor Clifton!”
To the astonishment of all, Willie deliberately elbowed the tall lad
aside and laboriously climbed up by the side of Bob Somers.
“There’ll be the biggest muss anybody ever heard of, if you try to put
me off, Somers,” he snapped.
“He’s only bluffing,” jeered Tommy. “That’s my place, William; step
down!”
“Come an’ take it, Mr. First-aid-to-the-injured,” challenged Willie,
doubling his fists.
“Stop jawing!” commanded Bob, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Do
you really wish to go, Willie?”
“If I don’t, nobody else shall,” said Mr. Beaumont’s ward, with
emphasis, as he stared angrily at the grinning faces around. “Afraid,
am I? We’ll see, bean-stalk--bean----”
“Cut it out!” commanded Bob.
“I can wallop anybody who says that I’m afraid,” screeched Willie.
“Ha, ha!” It was Cranny’s roar again. “Who’d ever have believed it? The
little chap is actually beginning to show some signs of spunk at last!”
“Now, Willie, do you still wish to go?” asked Bob.
“Yes.”
“Then let me fasten this strap about you.”
“Hold on tight,” said Cranny.
“Ready?” asked the aviator, a moment later.
“Go on,” answered Willie.
“Give him a good ride, Bob. We’re goin’ to saddle up an’ follow you,”
called out Cranny.
“Ho for a canter over the rolling plain!” cried Dick.
As several preliminary gasps came from the motor, the boys dashed
pell-mell toward a frame building in the rear, where their bronchos
were stabled.
The “Ogden II” was off.
Willie Sloan, clutching hold of the supports for dear life, instantly
began to regret his hasty decision. The powerful engine was sending
them along at a rate which, to his inexperienced eyes, seemed extremely
dangerous. And the earth was falling away from them in a most curious
and awe-inspiring manner.
The boy shut his eyes to keep from view this dreadful sight.
After many minutes had passed, he again dared to peer through
half-opened lids. Although they were flying quite low, that one swift
glance was enough to make his head swim. But the thought of Tom Clifton
prevented the lad from reaching over to give Bob Somers a warning touch
on the arm.
“I just won’t let old Doc Cliffy have a chance to grin at me,” he
reflected.
He looked at the white fabric close around him; then turned his eyes
upward, to see a translucent yellowish light shining through the plane.
He experienced an unpleasant sensation of being suspended in space. A
bird flew by, so close that his eyes took in the measured beating of
a pair of wings. His startled exclamation was drowned by the steadily
throbbing motor.
Bob, frequently glancing toward Willie, finally read upon his face
evident signs of distress, and, considerately, decided that it was time
to bring his flight to a close.
He turned his gaze earthward, and saw a shadow of the biplane skimming
lightly across green fields and herds of cattle. He would have been
glad to speak a reassuring word to his passenger, but the din of engine
and whirr of propeller blades made this quite impossible.
“I can’t land anywhere about here,” he thought, with another look at
the herds of longhorns just below.
Bob observed that the animals, frightened by the monster of the air
soaring not so high above their heads, were already showing signs of
uneasiness. Some pawed the ground, or ran about, while others, with
uplifted heads, stared defiantly toward them, as though ready to engage
in battle.
“Guess I’ll have to go higher; this might start a stampede,” he
reflected.
Accordingly, Bob manipulated the control levers, and the “Ogden II”
began to climb steadily upward.
Willie Sloan could not stand the sight of the earth receding. He again
closed his eyes, and held on with a still tighter grip, as Bob finally
sent the biplane around in a great curve.
The planes, naturally, began to tip.
Willie Sloan’s eyes shot open to their widest extent. Bob had risen
just a little higher than his shaky nerves could stand. He stared hard
for an instant, and then:
“Go down, Somers; go down!” he yelled.
The aviator gathered the sense of his words, and in his desire to ease
the mind of his excited passenger, sent the “Ogden II” again rushing
toward a lower level.
“The little chap ought not to have tried it,” he reflected. “I’ll have
to take my chances on the cattle stampeding.”
[Illustration: “GO BACK TO THE RANCH”]
And now a new fear had entered Willie Sloan’s mind. He looked at the
earth, apparently coming toward them with appalling speed; he thought
that Bob Somers had misunderstood him and intended to make an effort
to alight somewhere on the plain below. He looked at the dreaded
steers, now in a state of great commotion.
“No--no! Go back to the ranch, Somers!” he yelled, hoping that his
words might be heard.
In his anxiety, he reached over and gave the aviator’s arm a violent
jerk.
It was an unfortunate move, at a critical moment. Instead of soaring
off in a horizontal direction, in response to a clever handling of the
control levers at the proper instant, as Bob had counted upon, the
interference so affected his manipulation that the biplane continued on
its downward course.
Hastily, he attempted to undo the result of Willie’s imprudent action.
It was a moment such as may happen in any aviator’s career, when a
false move may send the machine crashing like a broken-winged bird to
the ground.
With the engine in reverse, and their momentum only slightly checked,
the biplane shot straight toward a rise in the prairie. Another
instant, and they would be upon it. All Bob Somers hoped for was to
prevent the machine from smashing against the ground with dangerous
violence.
But Willie Sloan was even more frightened than ever. A glance at Bob
Somers’ knit forehead and firm-set lips gave him no encouragement. A
dreadful vision of being held fast with plunging longhorns on every
side caused him to reach down and unfasten the leather strap which
stretched across the seat. Then he partly rose to his feet.
It was his second blunder, and, like the first, had a most disastrous
effect. Several straggling steers were wildly attempting to race out
of the biplane’s path, and, in spite of Bob’s quick effort to prevent
it, one swinging directly beneath was struck a glancing blow by the
descending ’plane. Willie Sloan, partly off his balance, became, the
next instant, completely so. He began to topple--a sharp cry came from
his lips--he was falling.
The little red book, the innocent cause of this startling incident,
slipped from his pocket, to strike an unappreciative steer in the eye,
while Willie himself dropped squarely upon the back of another.
Wildly he threw out his hands, and grasped with all his might an
immense pair of horns.
Five seconds later, Mr. Beaumont’s ward, still clinging desperately to
his novel steed, was being carried away from the scene of the accident.