West of the Palisades the Jersey country rises in slow undulations
like the swell after a storm in mid-ocean.
The village of Dumont is perched upon one of the highest of these
hills, the top of which is flattened into a well tilled plateau.
At full speed the Phillips' auto swept through the town of Tenafly
northward along the country road, took a cross road on the bias, tore
through the village of Cresskill and disappeared to the west where
the Dumont plateau spread level with the wooded tops of the distant
Palisades.
Behind it came a roaring cloud of dust and gasoline fumes. Boston
Willie clung to the wheel, steering the machine more by instinct and
faith in the luck of careless youth than by the use of his keen young
eyes, for his goggles were encrusted with oily earthflakes torn up by
the car ahead.
The two machines fairly leaped to the Dumont plateau. The Phillips'
car turned into the farm road of Peter Westervelt and the one behind
kept on its way to the farm of Guy Verdon, an ancient native with
broad acres and whiskers.
In two big barns a quarter mile apart Angelo and Willie got busy
twanging the fine wires that held widespreading wings to the hollow
steel piping frames of two air machines.
It was an early spring afternoon toward the time of the coming of
dusk and where the fields were not turned up by the husbandman they
showed goldenwide with dandelions and buttercups.
White clouds were piled in the eastern sky and a faint touch of gold
tipped the scrollery of their edges, for the sun was dipping toward
the western hills. The air was still save for the evening songs of
the robins.
In the Westervelt barn Angelo tied a bit of string about the nifty
walking skirt of Ione, hobbling her for safety's sake and not for
fashion's. She took her seat behind the little perch of the aviator
and Angelo wheeled the machine to a stretch of clover.
From the Verdon barn Willie Winthrop wheeled his monoplane to a
stretch of level which a farmer had cleared of every stick and stone.
Then Willie climbed to the hayloft and scanned the Westervelt field
through a pair of field glasses. He saw a rival biplane in position
and heard its exhaust snapping dully in the distance. He clambered
down the ladder and jumped into his seat in the monoplane.
"When'll ye be back, young man?" asked the old farmer.
"God knows," replied Willie. "This is--ah--only my second flight and
I have far to go."
"Don't be a danged fule now, son," said the Jerseyite kindly.
"Ha!" laughed Willie.
"Any of them flying men git killed down at the city to-day?" asked
Verdon.
"Not a one," replied Willie, scanning the heavens above the
Westervelt farm. "Four landed on the decks of the Italian warship
and are now safely stowed below."
The ruffle of propellers sounded across the fields and the biplane
with the elopers soared aloft.
Willie gave a warning, threw on his power, took firm hold of his
steering levers and was off in pursuit through the air.
Like two great dragonflies the air machines soared in a southeast
course. They crossed the Palisades and steered to the south above
the gleaming Hudson.
The biplane soared higher and higher in the air, Angelo knowing that
he would thus avoid the counter currents of air made by the
skyscrapers of downtown New York. Willie's monoplane, like a
swallow, soared in his wake.
The gold touching the clouds in the east had deepened to crimson.
The evening star was pallid in the skies and far over to the
northeast the lights of Coney, Brighton and Manhattan winked in the
sunset shadows beneath a crescent moon.
The Italian Cruiser _Il Vincitore_ had already drawn anchor and was
lying, with just enough steam in use to keep her motionless, at the
mouth of the Ambrose channel. She was ready to start under full
speed for the other side.
The biplane headed for it, dipped, made several wide circles and
landed lightly on the aeroplane deck where a swarm of sailors were
ready to catch it and hold it fast.
Three pillars of black smoke shot from the funnels of the war vessel
as she got under way, gathering a great bone in her teeth as her
speed increased.
Above and around her soared Boston Willie in his monoplane.
Thousands of commuters crowding the ferryboats watched, fascinated.
They could hear the hum of his propellers.
Nearer and nearer the winged thing circled to the cruiser. With a
last downward dip it swept around the fighting masts and then landed
on the deck of the speeding vessel.
"Good Lord; what a feat!" cried a harbor skipper. "That birdman must
be a lunatic!"