The Phantom Airman

The little chap's eyes sparkled, and his face flushed a little at this reference to his scant wardrobe. But he knew by the changed tone in the captain's voice that the worst was now over. He had not even heard a reference to the proverbial rope's-end, a vision which he had always associated in his mind with stowaways.

"My word, he's a plucky little urchin, Crabtree!" declared the air-skipper at length, his anger settling down, and his admiration for the adventurous little gamin asserting itself as he gazed at the ragged but sharp-eyed little fellow.

"What is your name, Sonny?" he asked at length.

"Gadget, sir," whipped out the stowaway.

"Good enough!" returned the captain smiling. "We've plenty of gadgets aboard the airship, and I guess another won't make much difference. What do you say, Crabtree?"

"Oh, we'll find something for him to do, sir. And we'll make him earn his keep. He's an intelligent little shrimp, anyhow."

"How old are you, Gadget?" asked the captain.

"Twelve, sir!" replied the gamin.

"Father and mother dead, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"Been left to look after yourself, Gadget, I reckon, haven't you?" said the skipper kindly, as he gave one more searching glance at the small urchin, and noted how the little blue lips quivered, despite the brave young heart behind them.

There was no reply this time, for even the poor, ill-treated lad could not bring himself to speak of his up-bringing.

"Never mind, Gadget…!" interposed the skipper, changing the subject. "So you determined to see the world, did you, my boy?"

"Yessir!" came the reply, and again the sharp eyes twinkled.

"Well, you shall go round the world with me, if you are a good boy. But, if you don't behave, mark my words"–and here the captain raised his voice as if in anger–"I'll drop you overboard by parachute, and leave you behind! Do you understand?"

The urchin promised to behave himself, and, in language redolent of Whitechapel, began to thank the captain effusively.

"There, that will do! Take him away, and get him a proper rig-out, Crabtree," said the skipper impatiently. "I never saw such a tatterdemalion in all my life."

"Come along, now, Gadget," ordered the chief officer, giving a little tug at the frayed rope, which he had been holding all this while, and, which, in some unaccountable way, seemed to hold the urchin's wardrobe together.

This little tug, however, had dire results, in-so-far as the above mentioned wardrobe was concerned. It immediately became obvious that it not only served as braces to the little gamin, but also as a girdle, which kept in a sort of suspended animation Gadget's circulating library and commissariat. For, even as the janitor and his prisoner turned, the rope became undone, and, though Gadget by a rapid movement retained the nether part of his tattered apparel in position, yet his library–which consisted of a dirty, grease-stained, much worn volume–and his commissariat–composed of sundry fragments of dry crusts of bread wrapped in half a newspaper–immediately became dislodged by the movement, and showered themselves in a dozen fragments at the captain's feet.

"Snakes alive! what have we here?" demanded that august person, as he stooped and picked up the book. Then he laughed outright, as he read aloud from the grubby, much-thumbed title page:–

Five weeks in a Balloon … by Jules Verne.

The mate grinned too. He remembered how that same book had thrilled him, not so long ago either. And, perhaps, after all, it was the same with Captain Rogers.

"Where did you get this, Gadget?" asked the captain, reopening the conversation, after this little accident.

"Bought it of Jimmy Dale, sir," replied the boy readily.

"And how much did you pay for it?"

"Gev 'im my braces, an' a piece o' tar band for it, sir."

The captain ceased to laugh, and looked at the boy's earnest face. And something suspiciously like a tear glistened in the eyes of the airman, as he replied:–

"You actually gave away to another urchin an important part of your scanty wardrobe to get possession of this book?"

"Oh, it wur a fair bargen, sir. Jimmy found the book on a dust heap, but I wasn't takin' it fur nothin'. And then Jimmy never had any braces."

"I see. Very well, you can go now, Gadget. Mr. Crabtree will find you some better clothes, and get you some food. Then you shall report to me to-morrow. See, here is your treasured book," said the skipper, dismissing the urchin once more.

"Thank you, sir," returned the boy, pulling a lock of unkempt hair which hung over his forehead, by way of salute. "I'll lend you the book, sir, if you'll take care of it," and the chief officer smiled as he led the little chap away.

So that was how Gadget became part of the fixtures and apparatus of the air liner. He was more than an adventurer, was Gadget. He might even have been an inventor or a discoverer, if he had met with better fortune in the choice of his parents. His sharp, young brain was full of great ideas.

In less than a couple of days, rigged out in a smart pair of overalls, which had been very considerably cut down, he was soon perfectly at home aboard the great liner. But then he was so adaptable. As an up-to-date cabin boy, the captain declared that he never knew his equal.

He became a general favourite, and in a very short space of time he discovered more about airships and internal-combustion engines than many a man would have learnt in six months.

It was no use, therefore, to argue with the boy that he didn't belong to the crew of the Empress. And it just wasn't worth while to inform him that, as he was still of school age, he would be handed over to the authorities, or placed in a reformatory, as soon as the vessel returned to England. Gadget had made up his mind that he wouldn't. In a little while it even became an open question whether Gadget belonged to the airship or the airship belonged to Gadget.

"I hain't argefyin' with you, I'm telling ye. This is the way it should be done!" he was heard to remark to one of the air mechanics one day, after he had been on the vessel about a week. The point at issue concerned a piece of work on which the mechanic was engaged, and Gadget had even dared to express his point of view. The extraordinary thing was that Gadget was right.

Ships and railway engines were all right in their way, but they were not good enough for Gadget. Aeroplanes and airships were much more to his liking. He was thoroughly alive and up-to-date, and though some months ago, when this fever of world travel first seized upon him, he had more than once considered the question of stowing himself quietly away on some outward bound vessel from the West India Docks in London, his fortunate discovery, and ultimate possession of that tattered copy of Five Weeks in a Balloon, had caused him to change his views.

Ever since reading that volume he had had no rest. Even his dreams had been mainly concerning balloons and their modern equivalents, airships.

"I will see the world from an airship," he had confidently announced to himself one day. "I will sail over tropical forests and lagoons, over deserts and jungles."

This had been his dream and his prayer. But unlike many older folk, Gadget had left no stone unturned in order to answer his own prayer. He had carefully followed the newspapers (for he had earned many a shilling by selling them) for the movements of the new air liner and the opening up of the All-Red Route. And when the time had arrived for the airship to sail, watching his opportunity the little fellow had smuggled himself on board, and here he was, having now almost sailed around the world, crossing the Arabian desert on the homeward voyage.

CHAPTER VII

A DUEL WITH WORDS

Gadget's activities, however, were not confined merely to the duties of cabin boy, although his diminutive size and his rapidity of movement made him very useful in that capacity. To fetch and carry for the skipper or chief officer along that 670 feet of keel corridor was to him a life of sparkle and animation. But, when no particular duty called him, the pulsating mechanism of that mighty leviathan irresistibly attracted him.

His round, closely cropped, well shaped head, and his roguish little face, would suddenly appear in the wireless cabin or in one of the four gondolas, where the powerful Sunbeam-Maori engines drove the whirling propellers.

Ship's mascot and general favourite though he was, his sharp wits soon enabled him to make himself almost indispensable. At length, however, the everlasting call seemed to be–

"Gadget! Gadget! Where is the little rascal? What mischief is he up to now?"

For it must be admitted that the overwhelming curiosity of the urchin sometimes got him into trouble. In this respect he had particularly fallen foul of Morgan, the third engineer, a short, stout, somewhat stumpy type of Welshman, whose spell of duty generally confined his activities to the care of the twin-engines in the rear gondola.

It appears that Gadget had unwittingly broken the rules and regulations of the airship by smuggling two parcels of tobacco aboard during a brief stay in one of the air ports. He knew full well that a little fortune awaited the man who could unload smuggled tobacco down the Whitechapel Road, and the temptation had been too great for him. He had been discovered, however, and the captain had punished him for the offence.

Now, Gadget was still smarting under this punishment when one day he startled the third engineer by his sudden and unlooked for appearance in the rear gondola.

"How now, you little rascal!" exclaimed Morgan, throwing a greasy rag at the boy. "How much did you make on that tobacco?"

"Stop smokin' on dooty, will yer, an' mind yer own bisness!" rasped out the urchin, feeling that both his dignity and importance were being imperilled by this reference to his recent offence.

"Go away!" snarled the bad-tempered Welshman, surreptitiously hiding the still smoking cigarette.

"Yah! Why don't yer get more 'revs' out o' those rear engines?" yapped the insulting little Cockney boy, repeating a few words used by the captain himself the day before, and preparing to beat a hasty retreat through the doorway.

"You dirty ragamuffin!" shouted the stout man, flushing with anger, and hurling the oil can, which he held in his hand, at the gamin.

For one instant the tantalising little street arab disappeared on the other side of the door, but, when the missile had spent its force, and had crumpled up against the panelling, leaving a pool of oil on the floor, the urchin's head reappeared once more. The opportunity was too good to be lost. All the vivacity of the boy was pitted against the hot tempered Welshman, and Gadget was a master of invective, and had a wonderful command of high sounding words, the real meaning of which, however, he did not properly understand. But he was just dying for another of these encounters, so common in his experience of things down Stepney way, or along the West India Dock Road.

"Call yerself an ingineer?" came the next gibe from the saucy, impudent little face, now distorted into something grotesque and ugly. "We'll be two hours late at Cairo, an' all because you ain't fit to stoke a donkey-ingine."

"Ger-r-r-o-u-t!" shouted the angry man, making a rush for his tormentor. "I'll break your head if you come in here again!"

"I'd like ter see yer!" came the tart reply, ten seconds later, as the head reappeared once again, for Gadget had retreated swiftly some way down the keel corridor, as his opponent made for him with a huge spanner.

The engineer had determined to lock the door of the little engine-room against the little stinging gad-fly, but of course the sharp-witted rascal had outwitted, or "spike-bozzled" him, as they say in the Air Force, by snatching the key and locking the communication-door on the outer side.

Morgan was beginning to find out to his cost that it was a very unwise proceeding to cross the path of this pertinacious stowaway. He could not get rid of him, and this morning, after the skipper's recent remarks, he was trying to recover his lost reputation by extra attention to his engines. Besides, the captain would be along on his rounds again soon, and, if the engines were not doing their accustomed revolutions, there might be trouble.

Thinking he had now got rid of his tormentor, Morgan turned to examine his engines, when the key turned softly in the lock once more, and the irrepressible mascot, peering through the slightly open door, grinned, and then gave vent to the one word, which means so much:–

"Spike-bozzled! Yah!"

"You're a little villain!" roared the engineer.

"You're an incubus!" retorted Gadget.

"Go away!"

"Swollen head, that's what you've got!"

"By St. David, if I catch you, I'll–" cried the now exasperated Welshman.

"Abnormal circumference–distended stummick, that's what you're sufferin' from. The capten says so!" replied Gadget as a parting shot.

This ungentle reference to his personal symmetry was too much for the engineer, and he made another wild rush in the direction of his opponent. This time, Gadget had no opportunity to lock the door, but, turning round, he bolted precipitately down the long keel corridor, cannoning into the chief officer, who was just coming along to the rear gondola, and receiving a somewhat violent cuff on the head from that dignified official, whose gravity had been gravely endangered by this sudden encounter.

"Here, you little rascal, take that!" cried the angry officer, and Gadget, glad to get away on such slight terms, and feeling that he had given his opponent value for his money, scampered off, and made his way to the wireless cabin.

Here he assumed immediately an attitude of respectful attention, and even prevailed on the officer in charge to give him another lesson on the Morse code, for the urchin had a wonderful range of feeling which enabled him at a moment's notice to adapt himself to the circumstances of his environment.

"Wonderful, Gadget! You're making rapid progress. You shall have a lesson in taking down messages, to-morrow. You have the making of a good wireless operator in you. I shall speak to the captain about it."

"Thank you, sir," replied the gamin, pulling his lock of hair by way of salute. This lock of hair, by the way, at the urchin's special request, had been left there, when the famous "R. D. clippers" had shorn off the rest of the crop, when the airship's barber had overhauled and close-reefed him, soon after his first encounter with the captain.

Gadget's next visit was to the little photographic cabin, where the wonderful negatives and bioscope films were carefully prepared. These were to record to the world at large the wonderful panorama of the earth and sky, photographed from the great air-liner on her wonderful trip.

Here, again, by his artful, winning way, which Gadget knew how to adopt when circumstances demanded it, the little urchin was on good terms with the photographic officer. The latter, who admired the boy's character and wit, and pitied his upbringing, had declared more than once that Gadget possessed in a large degree that intuitive genius which belongs to greatness, and prophesied a brilliant future for the neglected boy, if only he could be properly trained.

"Come to me for an hour a day, Gadget, when the captain does not require your services, and I will teach you photography. Some day you shall have a camera of your own, and who knows, you may become a great film operator." And the grateful boy was only too quick to learn what these skilful operators had to teach.

So, into this new life of adventure and travel, this little urchin entered with all the zest and enthusiasm of which he was capable, making many friends, and an occasional enemy. And all the while the great airship, glistening in the tropical sun, sailed on across the wide stretch of desert which lies between India and Egypt, along the line of the thirtieth parallel.

CHAPTER VIII

SONS OF THE DESERT

The tropical sun looked fiercely down upon the burning sands of the Hamadian Desert. North, south, east and west, as far as the eye could reach, in every direction, the illimitable waste of desert stretched, save only at one pleasant, fertile spot, where a cluster of date and lofty palm trees fringed the banks of a silent pool.

A small encampment of Bedouins, sons of the desert, fierce-looking and proud, occupied this charming spot. Three small tents and a larger one, a camouflaged fabric, part of the loot of the garrison of Kut, completed the camp. There were a dozen men all told, and as many noble, fiery Arab steeds. The men were well armed, with modern weapons, too. There had been too much loot in the Mesopotamian campaign during recent years for the Arab sheik and his followers to find much difficulty in securing the very pick of European weapons, ammunition and equipment. But one thing was evident–all these men were not real sons of the desert. Three of them at least were Europeans, as the reader will shortly perceive.

An atmosphere of subdued excitement, primed with expectancy, seemed to pervade the camp. The whole party were eagerly watching and waiting for something. But what caravan, with its tinkling bells, its camels and spices, its rich silks and ladings from Persia or from Damascus had awakened the predatory instincts of these kings of the desert? Besides, were they not too few in number to engage a well-armed band of Baghdad merchants?

Nay, it was no rich argosy of the desert that these fierce men expected; their eyes were directed one and all towards the skies, for the days had now arrived of which the poet spoke, when he

"Saw the heavens filled with commerce,Argosies of magic sails,Pilots of the purple twilight,Dropping down with costly bales;"

and they were awaiting, with evil intent, the passing of the Aerial Mail, which they knew to be carrying vast treasures of gold and other precious things from India to Cairo and Europe.

The three Europeans who had collected and organised these robber chiefs, by appealing to their hereditary instincts, were none other than our friends, Rittmeister von Spitzer, and his companions Carl and Max, the German irreconcilables, whom we left in the dark shadows of the Schwarzwald preparing for their adventure.

Already they had made a name greater than Muller of the Emden, but they had made themselves outlaws of the nations of the world, and though for a little while success and fame might attend them, yet they knew that sooner or later the agreed price of their adventure would be death.

"What news of the British air-liner, Max?" called von Spitzer, as his subordinate descended by a rope ladder from one of the smaller trees, where an observation post had been fixed, and an aerial mounted, for the purposes of wireless telegraphy and telephony.

"She left Delhi at mid-day yesterday, sir," replied the operator, unclamping the receivers which till now had been fixed over his ears.

"Then she's running to scheduled time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was it the official departure message that you tapped?"

"It must have been, Rittmeister, for it announced that a distinguished passenger had joined her at the last moment."

"Indeed! What was his name? Did you discover it?" asked the flight-commander, who, to maintain his influence over the wild sons of the desert, was wearing the loose, flowing robes of an Arab sheik, richly emblazoned and adorned.

"His name was the Maharajah of Bangalore," replied Max, the erstwhile Gotha pilot.

"What! the miscreant! He was the man who raised thirty thousand Indian troops for the Mesopotamian campaign, and made it possible for the British to advance on Baghdad after their disaster at Kut."

"That accounts for it. He is to be decorated at St. James's Palace for some eminent services he has rendered to the British Government."

"We're in luck's way, Max. I may spare his life, as I do not seek to take any man's life who does not oppose me. But it's a thousand to one he's carrying his jewels and his household gods with him; it is the custom of these eastern potentates. I will strip him as the locust strips the vine. I will give his jewels to these brave Arabs; it will confirm my hold upon them. We may need their help upon another occasion. But, this is by the way, was there anything from the professor?"

"Only this, Rittmeister; I have waited since dawn for it," and the operator handed to Spitzer a cryptic message of seven letters, which, to the receiver at least was quite unintelligible. Max had pencilled it down as follows:–"X–G–P–C–V–S–M," for it had come through the ether by wireless telegraphy and not by wireless telephone, like the first message. The reason was obvious. One message was for public intelligence and for use in the newspapers, and the other was for more secret and sinister purposes. The cryptogram had come from the professor, who, with his mechanic, had been left behind in the Schwarzwald to collect information for the brigands, and to obtain further supplies of uranis for the Scorpion.

The Rittmeister eagerly grasped the little strip of paper on which the message was written, and retired to the small hangar where the Scorpion was pegged down and stowed away, remarking:–

"This is evidently urgent; I must get the cipher-key and decode it at once. Meantime, I want you to rehearse the men in the parts they are to play, and give Carl a hand with the vibration drum. The great liner is almost due. You may tell the sheik that in addition to the large cargo of gold which the airship carries, an Indian Prince with jewels worth a king's ransom is on board."

"Your orders shall be carried out, Rittmeister," replied Max, who was glad to be relieved of his monotonous task of listening hour after hour for coded messages, and looked forward with some pleasure to the coming adventure.

Shortly afterwards, Max, having delivered his message to the Arabian chief, was standing beside Carl under the shadow of a cluster of trees on the very margin of the pool. That wonderful instrument, the vibrative drum, which is fashioned somewhat on the principle of the human ear, but with a large horn-shaped receptacle for receiving the very minutest sound waves, and focussing them on to a very sensitive drum, was engaging their attention.

Every now and then, when they fancied they heard a sound that broke the stillness of the desert, they would listen acutely, turning the horn this way and that way to discover whence came the sound.

"They are due about mid-day, the chief says," remarked Carl, after a brief pause in their conversation. "What time do you make it now?"

"A quarter of an hour yet," responded Max, consulting his chronometer, and making a rapid calculation to allow for the difference in longitude, for he still carried Central European time.

"And they're sure to follow the 30th parallel?"

"Yes, it's their shortest route," replied the wireless expert.

"Then they should pass within three or four miles from here," observed Carl.

"Yes, unless they've drifted a little out of their course."

"But we should hear them on the vibrator even if they were fifty miles away in a silent land like this."

"Undoubtedly."

"Listen! Can you hear anything?" exclaimed Max in a slightly nervous tone, after a brief silence.

"No, I don't think so, but those fellows over there must be quiet; they're getting excited about the promised loot."

"Go and tell them, Carl; you speak the best Arabic."

The German left the drum for a moment and after expostulating for a while with the sheik, he gained his point and the word was passed along for silence.

The Arabs were greatly mystified by this strange instrument, as well as by those aerial wires affixed to the trees, and most of all by that strange, weird machine, hidden away behind the sand-proof curtains of the little camouflaged hangar, like the sacred ark in the holy of holies.

With wondering eyes they had on occasion watched the Scorpion mount to the heavens with marvellous ease and descend with like facility–bearing its human burden aloft to the very skies and bringing them safely to earth again.

These strange gods which the infidels had brought with them to their desert home were greatly feared even by these brave, proud men, and it was only the largesse and the promise of still better things to come, from the great white chief, which prevented these sons of the desert from leaving this dreaded spot.