The Flying Boys in the Sky

“But not where he got his knowledge.”

“Let that question go till you meet him, when he will make it clear. What caused the breakage of your machine?”

“Somebody chopped it up; it was done in spite.”

“Did you catch the scoundrel?”

“Catch him! no; nobody knows where he is.”

“Well, such things happen and it is all a part of the game. Suppose we go to Chesterton, and have a look at the remains; there must be some salvage which I can ship to the factory. How about the engine?”

“It is battered, but must be worth repairing.”

“If you and your friend will seat yourselves, I shall have you there in a jiffy.”

Bohunkus and Harvey climbed into the seat and adjusted themselves. Young Mitchell examined the different parts of the biplane, which was an almost exact replica of the one that had been wrecked, and then took charge of the business. At his request one of the bystanders swung the blades of the propeller around so as to start the motor, and several held on until the tugging almost drew them off their feet. Then they let go, and away sailed the second machine for Chesterton.

CHAPTER XXI

BEGINNING THE SEARCH

There certainly had been lively work, for within six hours after the discovery of the destroyed aeroplane, a message had been sent from New York to Garden City, Long Island, a machine despatched from that point to the little town among the Alleghanies in eastern Pennsylvania, and an aerial ship had sailed across the State of New Jersey to the destination more than two hundred miles from its starting point. When and by what means the merchant had learned of the straits of his son could not as yet be guessed, but the news must have been waiting when he reached his office in the city, since young Mitchell said it was received at the factory between eight and nine o’clock that morning. The flight to Groveton was made in about four hours, with a brief halt on the way to replenish the supply of gasoline. Traveling at the rate of fifty miles an hour and sometimes faster was surely “going some.”

As Mitchell afterward explained, he had visited the section twice, and was familiar with it. He lost no time, therefore, in groping, but recognized rivers, cities, towns, and the general conformation of the country over which he glided, and identified Groveton long before any one there dreamed he intended to make a call.

Harvey glanced at the little watch on his wrist, and noted the exact time of starting. Eleven minutes later to the second, he volplaned into the open space in front of the hotel. Although the distance passed was less than by rail, he must have averaged nearly if not quite a mile a minute.

The lesson of the “accident” to the other machine was not lost upon the two young men. It was hardly to be supposed that any one would try to harm the new one, but Bohunkus was ordered to stay with it and see that all hands were kept off.

“Yo’ bet I will,” he replied, fully alive to his duty; “de fust chap dat lays an onkind hand on dis pet will git broke in ’leben pieces and den flung ober de fence.”

Several idlers were gaping at the fractured aeroplane huddled in the wagon sheds of the hotel. Mitchell quickly finished his examination.

“The man or men who did that,” he said in a low voice to Harvey, “showed the devil’s own spite. It looks as if the scoundrel was crazy.”

Harvey glanced at his companion. Did he suspect the truth? His looks and manner, however, showed that he was not thinking of Professor Morgan. The remark was a natural one, under the circumstances. Harvey was not disposed to reveal anything, since he saw no good to be accomplished thereby, while an unpleasant situation might develop.

“You can save something out of the wreck?” remarked the owner inquiringly.

“Considerable; I shall ship what’s worth while to the factory at Garden City, and in a few weeks you will have a new machine as good as ever.”

“The greater part of it will have to be new,” commented Harvey.

“That being so, you can return this one in exchange, if you wish.”

“Is there any way, Mitchell, in which I can serve you?”

“None; I shall have what is left of the machine gathered up, as I said, and sent to the factory; that will take the remainder of the day, when I shall follow in the train. Meanwhile you are not called upon to lose any part of your vacation. There is no perceptible difference between the two biplanes, so you don’t need any help from me.”

The youths walked back to where a small group remained staring at the biplane in which Bohunkus Johnson was still seated, as alert as a watch dog. As the couple approached, the negro crooked his stubby forefinger to his friend, who went forward.

“What is it, Bunk?”

“Yo’s forgot something.”

“What is that?”

“It’s ’bout dinner time.”

The colored youth meant to whisper, but his husky aspiration carried as far as if he had spoken in a loud tone.

“He is right,” remarked Mitchell; “let us have dinner together.”

The old fellow who served the hotel as hostler was hired to stay by the machine and to keep every other person at a distance, while the three went in to their meal.

During these minutes, Harvey was on the watch for a sight of Detective Pendar. He much wanted to have a few words with him, but was puzzled how to bring it about. Harvey had given up his room, so he could not signal to the officer to follow him thither and there was no understanding as to how they should otherwise meet.

Pendar, however, remained invisible until Bohunkus had perched himself in the seat in front of the tank, and Harvey had his hands on the levers. Mitchell stepped to the rear to give a swing to the propeller blades. The machine was pointed to the left, where the highway showed quite a sharp slope downward, of which the young aviator meant to take advantage.

At this crisis, when twenty pairs of eyes were upon the party, Harvey heard an odd sounding cough. He looked around and saw a man standing on the porch above the other spectators. It was Detective Pendar, who was looking keenly at Harvey. As their eyes met the former rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully and winked once, but made no other sign that he recognized the youth.

“Now what does he mean by that?” Harvey asked himself; “a wink may signify one of a score of things.” As the only reply he could make, he winked in return. A dozen of the group might have accepted it as meant for him, but, if so, he must have been equally puzzled with the author of the signal, who a minute later was scooting through the air and steadily rising.

Harvey had decided to carry out so far as he could the programme agreed upon the day before by him and Pendar. The only change was that caused by the enforced delay. Instead of making his search in the forenoon, it now would have to be done in the afternoon. He shot upward, until barely five hundred feet above the earth, and then headed westward over the long stretch of forest of which mention has been made. It was advisable that he should keep as near the ground as practical, since his view would thereby be improved.

Bohunkus Johnson was still in the dark on two points: he had no conception of the serious business upon which his companion was engaged, knowing nothing of the kidnapped child, and, though certain in his own mind that Professor Morgan was the man who had wrecked the aeroplane, he had never suspected that he was insane. Ignorance on the former point was a good thing, but as regards the latter it proved a serious mistake, as has been intimated in another place.

It need not be said that a heavier-than-air machine must progress rapidly in order to sustain itself aloft. When such motion stops, through breakage, accident or the will of the aviator, an aeroplane obeys the law of gravity and comes to the ground. It does not fall, as is the case with a balloon.

It would never do to withdraw care from the machine, which worked with perfect smoothness, but having headed westward and struck as moderate a gait as was practical, Harvey Hamilton gave all the attention possible to the country under his feet. He noted the wide expanse of forest in its exuberant foliage, a flashing stream of water and the foam of a tumbling cascade on the slope of the farther ridge. In the other direction wound the railway line over which he and Bunk had ridden earlier in the day. The sky was clear and sunshiny with a rift of fleecy clouds in advance, but at so great an elevation that no inconvenience was to be feared from them. The town of Groveton was so distinctly seen that he recognized several of the buildings, including the hotel, which he had observed on his brief visit. Far away in the radiant horizon the steeples and tall buildings of a city showed, but it was all strange to him. He could identify nothing beyond that which has been named.

Harvey had sailed probably three or four miles from Chesterton when he was thrilled by a sight that roused instant hope. In the midst of the wood, an open space several acres in extent was crossed by a stream of considerable size, on its winding way to the distant Delaware. In the center of this clearing stood a log cabin, which recalled that of Abisha Wharton where Harvey and Bunk had spent a night after leaving home on their outing. The land showed slight signs of cultivation, but from the stone chimney running up the outside of the decayed structure, he traced a faint blue spiral of smoke.

“That shows somebody lives there,” was Harvey’s thought; “from what Pendar told me I believe it’s the very place where the kidnappers are holding the child a prisoner.”

He leaned far over and scrutinized the picture as he swept over it. What he longed to see was the little girl running about or playing in front of the cabin, or one or more of her captors. It would seem that the loud throbbing of his motor ought to have attracted the attention of the occupants, but it did not do so, and the spot speedily glided from sight. When Harvey twisted his neck, however, in the effort to see more, he noticed that Bunk had also turned and was attentively studying the picture. Conversation in such circumstances was impossible, but Harvey hoped his companion had discovered something – a supposition which he was certain to remember when the time came for a halt in their flight.

Had our young friend followed his inclination, he would have circled around and returned over the cabin, in order to inspect it further, but that most likely would have roused the suspicion of the abductors, and the moment they believed an aeroplane had been impressed into the service against them, that moment the usefulness of the contrivance would be ended. He could remember the location clearly, and would give the detective all the directions he needed.

“I didn’t see any wagon road or trails, but there must be one path at least which connects the house with the outer world. Those men have a source of supplies and they can’t help leaving footprints.”

As Harvey reasoned out the problem, the solution was simplified. Simmons Pendar was confident that the hiding place was somewhere in the stretch of wilderness, but to search for it would prove fatal. The effort was certain of discovery by the watchful guards. Now, however, since the exact location of the cabin seemed to have been found, a speedy approach ought to be within the detective’s power. The near future must answer the question.

CHAPTER XXII

IN DANGER OF COLLISION

The cabin in the clearing being no longer in Harvey Hamilton’s field of vision, he gave his attention to the management of his aeroplane. In order to avoid so far as possible arousing suspicion, he made a sweeping bend to the northward, with a view of passing over the ridge and then returning to Chesterton from the east. By following this course, he would make it impossible for the tenants of the log cabin to see him, and thus render distrust on their part out of the question.

It was important that he should remain over night in Chesterton, in order to report to Detective Pendar and receive instructions from him. The youth was morbidly sensitive about offending the gentleman, or doing anything that could interfere with the success of the extraordinary enterprise in which he was engaged.

Harvey had changed the course of the machine and lifted the edge of his front rudder in order to make sure of clearing the top of the ridge, when Bohunkus touched him smartly with the toe of his shoe. The aviator turned his head to learn the cause, and the dusky youth with staring eyes pointed to the northwest, that is somewhat to the left of the course they were following. Looking in that direction, Harvey to his astonishment saw an aeroplane no more than a mile distant. With a minute or two at his disposal, he brought his binoculars into play.

The first glance told him an amazing fact.

“As sure as I’m alive, it’s the Dragon of the Skies! Professor Morgan is coming this way too! I’ll be neighborly and meet him.”

The vertical rudder at the rear was shifted, and the two machines the next moment were so headed that a collision threatened unless one changed its course.

Bohunkus kicked the shoulder of his friend again. His dark face revealed his terror.

“He’s gwine to smash dis locumotive! What’ll ’come ob us?”

Of course not a syllable of these words could be heard in the thunderous throbbing of the motor, but the expression of Bunk’s face and the vigorous contortions of his lips made his meaning clear. It occurred to Harvey that there might be cause for his companion’s alarm. There is no accounting for the whimsies of a crank, and, having destroyed one aeroplane, what more likely than that he should wreak his fury upon another, particularly when it was handled by the owner of the former?

Harvey’s first inclination was to shift his course again and run away from the Professor, but he reflected that if he did so, he would invite pursuit, and speedy as was the new machine it was certain the Dragon of the Skies was speedier. An inventor who was able to construct an “uplifter” that would hold his monoplane as stationary as a bird waiting for sight of the fish far below before making its dive, or could muffle his motor into noiselessness without lessening its power, was sure, beside doing all this, to acquire a speed that no rival could equal.

It was better to put a bold face on the situation, and paying no heed, therefore, to the gestures and mute shouts of his companion, Harvey headed for the monoplane, which approached with the speed and accuracy of an arrow.

Less than two hundred yards separated the two when Professor Morgan veered to the right, curving so far that his course shifted to a right angle of the other machine, toward which he turned broadside.

There sat the strange man in plain view, his feet on the cross-piece below, his hands resting on the upright levers, between which he sat bolt upright, with his linen duster buttoned from chin to ankles, his cap drawn low, while those blazing black eyes above his grizzled beard suggested an owl peering through a thicket and were turned full upon the two youths in the biplane.

Harvey waved his hand in salutation, but the Professor did not seem to see him or Bunk. He glided past, and when he had shot beyond a point opposite, turned his head so as to look directly in front. Harvey gave him no further notice, for he was now so near the ridge that all his skill was needed to direct his aeroplane.

Bohunkus was not yet free from his shivering fear, and kept his eye upon the dreaded Professor.

“I know what de willain am up to,” he reflected; “he’s only makin’ b’lieve dat he’s gwine to lebe us. He’ll snoke round behind and de fust thing we know will be when dat rudder out in front jams into us, slides under me, lifts me out ob dis seat and pitches me head fust down among dem treetops.”

But the form of the Dragon of the Skies grew smaller and fainter until the aching eyes of the negro could see it no longer. By that time the watcher concluded that nothing for the present was to be feared from the eccentric individual.

“But we hain’t done wid him yit,” said Bunk; “he’s got his eye on us, for if he hadn’t why am he hangin’ round de country, bobbin’ up when we ain’t lookin’ fur him? He’ll find out where we’re gwine to stay to-night and den he’ll get a new axe as big as de side ob a house and smash dis machine wuss dan de oder. De Perfesser am mighty sly and I doan’ like him; I wish he’d take a shine to some oder part ob de world.”

Having surmounted the ridge, Harvey sailed ten or more miles to the northward and descended at a town containing probably ten thousand population. There he renewed his supply of gasoline and oil, and halted for an hour or so, when he was prepared to return to Chesterton. While he and Bohunkus were seated apart from the others at the hotel, the colored youth gave voice to his dissatisfaction.

“What’s de use ob hangin’ round dis part ob de country, Harv? How many times do yo’ expect to go to Chesterton?”

“I have some business there to attend to. When that is finished, we can travel as far as you wish in any direction.”

“Why can’t we go to Afriky?” was the astounding question.

Harvey laughed.

“Why, Bunk, that is thousands of miles off. We should have to cross the Atlantic Ocean.”

“What’s to hender doing dat?”

“You know we have to renew our supply of gasoline and oil every few hours. Can you tell me how it is possible to do it when hundreds of miles from land? We spoke of this before.”

“Don’t de ships and steamboats carry de stuff?”

“If we could count upon meeting one of them when needed, we might get on, but when father and I crossed the ocean, we passed days at a time without seeing a sail.”

“Hang a boat on to de bottom of dis keer and paddle till we run agin a ship.”

“Drive that wild idea out of your head, Bunk. I don’t doubt that you and I shall live to see the day when aeroplanes will make regular trips between the continents, but we must wait till that time comes.”

“Doan’ yo’ spose Perfesser Morgan can doot?”

“He has made so many wonderful inventions, he may be the first to succeed. When he does, we shall hear of it.”

Bohunkus was silent for a minute or so. If his friend had imagined what wild freak had entered the lad’s brain, he would have made all haste to root it out, but unfortunately he did not dream of anything of the kind.

The next query of Bunk was more startling to Harvey than anything that had gone before.

“Harv, did yo’ see dat little girl?”

“What do you mean?” demanded the other sharply.

“When we was sailing ober dem woods, after we’d left Chesterton.”

“I saw no little girl; did you?”

“Sartinously; yo’ doan’ forgot dat cabin down among the trees where a small creek runs in front ob it.”

This was unquestionably the place in which Harvey had been so much interested. He had not observed a living person near it, while his dusky companion had seen the very person that was in many minds.

“I saw the old house and the smoke coming out of the chimney, but did not catch sight of a man, woman or child. Tell me how it was with you.”

“Nuffin ’ticular; we’d got a little way beyont and you wasn’t looking back when I took a notion to turn my head. Dere warn’t any man or woman in sight, but a little gal was standin’ in front ob de door, a wavin’ her handkerchief at me. I took off my cap and swinged it at her, but we was too fur off and de ingine made too much noise for us to hold a conwersation.”

“This is very interesting, Bunk.”

Remembering the instructions of Detective Pendar, Harvey gave no hint of why he felt so much concern over what had just been told him. The slow wits of Bohunkus were likely to cause trouble and probably defeat the delicate plans which the officer of the law had in mind. What the colored youth had told removed the last vestige of doubt from the young aviator as to the identity of the cabin of which he had caught a passing glimpse. He felt certain that the little girl whom Bohunkus saw and with whom he exchanged salutations was Grace Hastings, kidnapped weeks before, and for whose recovery her father was spending a fortune. Harvey knew the exact spot where she was a prisoner and could direct the detective unerringly to it. He was eager to do so, for his heart was enlisted in the sacred task.

In his desire to do something effective, Harvey was on the point of setting out again with his aeroplane and taking a course that would lead him over the cabin in the clearing. He wished to gain another view of it, and particularly of the child whose absence had plunged her parents in anguish more poignant than if they had looked upon her pale innocent face in death.

But the youth was impressed with the necessity of using the utmost care with every step he took. If he sailed over the cabin again, the fact was likely to be noticed by the men in the structure. If they had not already observed the aeroplane, they had learned of its flight from the chatter of the young captive, and should it return within a few hours would mean something out of the ordinary. It would cause a change of quarters at once and place the recovery of the child beyond attainment.

“There is only one safe thing for me to do,” was his decision; “I must take so roundabout course to Chesterton that no one in the cabin will know of it. I shall wait in the town till I can have a talk with Pendar. I have done all he asked of me and from this point forward, under heaven everything depends upon him.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CABIN IN THE WOODS

Twilight had come when Harvey Hamilton, with Bohunkus Johnson seated behind him, descended in the same spot in Chesterton that he had used upon his disastrous visit of the night before. A similar crowd greeted him, and he hired several of their number to drag the aeroplane to the primitive hangar in which the wrecked one had been sheltered.

He learned that Paul Mitchell had shipped the engine and other valuable parts to Garden City, while the shattered framework had been piled to one side to serve as kindling wood for the hotel. Thus vanished one aeroplane to be succeeded speedily by another. Harvey announced that he intended to stay until the morrow. He first engaged two reliable men, upon the recommendation of the landlord, to stay by the machine all night, with instructions to challenge any one who approached and to shoot if necessary.

“We’ll likely shoot first and challenge afterward,” remarked one with a grin; “I only hope the same fellow will try his hand on this that splintered t’other one.”

Nine guests were at supper, that being the name of the meal which was served at the close of the day. One of them was Simmons Pendar, who hardly glanced in the direction of Harvey Hamilton seated opposite. The youth made no attempt to catch his eye, though aware that the detective glanced at him several times. When certain the action would be observed, the young aviator committed a breach of decorum by deliberately scratching his head with one hand. While this was not the precise telegram that had been agreed upon the night before, it was sufficiently to the point, and Harvey was confident it had accomplished its purpose.

The two lads lingered at the table after Pendar and most of the others had left the dining hall. Then they strolled outside on the porch, where by that time the full moon was shining in an unclouded sky. The air was so balmy and soft that few lingered indoors. The gas had been lighted in the sitting-room to which Harvey sauntered, and mosquitoes and other insects hovered in the glare. Three men were seated in lounging positions, one smoking a cigarette, while the others nodded as if yielding to drowsiness. Harvey identified two as having been present when the bit of paper was flipped upon the pad he was using for his crude sketches. The three looked like drummers, but a couple were distinctively foreign in appearance. One had a black curled mustache, with eyes and hair of midnight hue, a second was almost as dark, while the third was an unmistakable blond. They appeared to be unacquainted with one another, but Harvey was almost certain that two if not the three were the men who were watching Pendar while he in turn was keeping them under scrutiny. The officer, however, was nowhere to be seen and the youth did not think it prudent to make any search for him.

“I think I’ll go to my room,” he remarked, rising to his feet with a yawn; “we have had a pretty strenuous day and shall want to leave early to-morrow.”