Читать книгу Jerry Todd and the Flying Flapdoodle - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 4

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Red Meyers is the noisiest kid in Tutter. Everyone who knows him says that. Boy, the way he can bellow when he gets that bazzoo of his cranked up is nobody’s business. Oh, oh! Dad laughingly calls him the little squirt with the big squawk.

I used to hate him at first—when we were little kids. For every time I passed his house, in the middle of the block, he pitched stuff at me. His aim was almost perfect too. But we sort of patched things up after a bit. And now we’re the best of pals.

His pa runs a picture theatre. So I see a lot of free shows. And in the same way we often trade meals back and forth. For instance, if he has fried chicken at his house he always lets me know about it, so that I can hang around. And in the same way I always invite him over to my house when we have something special in the oven. Mum and dad like to have him come over too. They think he’s all right. And he is all right. He’s one of the best fighters in my gang. But I’ll have to admit that he’s nothing to look at, unless you like red hair and freckles. And when I say freckles don’t imagine either that I mean a skimpy little spot here and there. Not him! He’s got enough freckles for ten ordinary boys. And his hair is so red that you can almost hear it sizzle, like his temper. But, just the same, he’s a swell kid.

Other members of my gang are Scoop Ellery, the leader, and big Peg Shaw. Scoop has a lot of clever ideas. And when we get mixed up in a mystery it’s usually him who gets us out of it. Peg is better at fighting. He’s big and strong. So we always let him take the lead when we get into a fight with the Stricker gang. Boy! One time we even put on a gunboat battle in the big canal wide-waters at Oak Island. I told about that in my “Pirate” book. And did we have fun! Oh, oh! But the best part of all was where we plastered the Strickers with rotten eggs.

The final two members of my gang are Poppy Ott and Rory Ringer. But you won’t find them in this story. For they went off on a hiking trip. And the stuff that I’m going to tell you about happened while they were gone.

And now just a word or two about mum and dad. Gee! I suppose every boy thinks that he’s got the best ma and pa in the whole world. That’s natural. But I can’t conceive that any boy, rich or poor, could have a better home, or better parents, than me. It isn’t a swell home. It’s just an ordinary home, like the most of the homes that you’ll find in small towns like ours. There’s an upstairs and a downstairs. And outside there’s a big grassy yard filled with trees and bushes. But it isn’t the upstairs or the downstairs that makes my home what it is. It’s my swell dad himself. And my swell ma. When I get up in the morning I know they’re thinking about me, and sort of wondering what they can do to make that day happier for me. They think about me all day long. And if I’m away from home at night, on a detective case, or something like that, I know they’re wishing I was there. But they never stop me if I’ve got work to do. For they trust me. And that’s why I always try to do the square thing.

Dad owns a brickyard on the west side of town. He got it from his father. And that’s where I’ll be some day. But just now I’m more interested in detecting than I am in brick-making.

The first mystery that I helped to solve (under Scoop’s leadership) was about a strange “Whispering Mummy.” Next we got mixed up with a lot of cats. An old man hired us to help him start a cat farm. Then along came that strange “Rose-Colored Cat!” Gee! We never dreamed at first that this cat was in any way connected with Mrs. Kepple’s stolen pearls. Solving that mystery, my chums and I fixed up an old clay scow, so that we could run it up and down the Tutter canal. We put on a show too—a boat show. It went over so well that we decided to take a canal trip to Ashton, ten miles away. And from there we went on up the canal to Oak Island, where we hid a treasure. In the dead of night, mind you!

After that we solved the mysteries of the “Waltzing Hen” and the “Talking Frog.” The hen belonged to a circus; and the frog was a radio toy, which would have been stolen from its inventor if we hadn’t stepped in. Then came more mysteries—the “Purring Egg” and the “Whispering Cave” (that’s another Oak Island story). Nor was that all. The strangest mystery of all came to light in the “Bob-Tailed Elephant” case. A boy vanished into mid-air. It sounds like magic. After that we got mixed up with a crazy newspaper man—“Editor-in-Grief” is the title of that story. And then, not satisfied with our earlier adventures on Oak Island, we went back there, as “Cavemen,” to solve the mystery of a “singing tree.” Which also sounds like magic. But you’ll find there’s no fairy-story stuff in any of these stories.

And now to get back to the baby airplane.

Red saw me coming.

“Hi, Jerry!” he yelled happily.

And then he did something in the cockpit that set the back edge of the wings to flapping.

“Is it yours?” says I, wonderingly, as the airplane came to a halt in the middle of the street, with kids milling all around it.

“Sure thing,” says he proudly.

And then the rudder started to jiggle.

“When I turn it that way,” says he, “it flies to the right. And when I turn it that way, it flies to the left.”

“How do you do it?” says I.

“With my feet. See? There’s a couple of bars down there.”

I peeked into the cockpit. But I didn’t get much of a peek. For just then a gust of wind caught the left wing of the little ship and socked it against the back of my head.

“Ouch!” I squawked.

Peg Shaw pulled me back.

“What do you think of it, Jerry?” says he, with dancing eyes.

“Is it really Red’s?” says I, with growing wonderment.

“He says it is.”

“Where did he get it?”

“From his pa.”

“I didn’t know that his pa had an airplane,” says I.

“It isn’t an airplane, Jerry—it’s just a glider.”

“But where’s the motor?” says I.

“It hasn’t got a motor—yet.”

“But what good is it,” says I, “without a motor?”

“It flies like a kite.”

As though I would believe that!

“Oh, yah!” says I, turning up my nose.

“Honest, Jerry. We’ll have to pull it to get it up. But once we get it up in the air the wind’ll keep it up—just like a kite.”

“I’ll have to see it,” says I, “to believe it.”

“Well, you come with us,” says he, “and you’ll see plenty.”

“And do you mean to tell me,” says I, like one in a dream, “that Red is actually going up in that blamed thing?”

“Nothing else but.”

“Then I better go over and kiss him good-by,” says I, “while he knows about it.”

For I had sense enough to realize that a kid like Red Meyers couldn’t fly an airplane or glider or anything else like that. It takes experience to fly. And if Red dared to try it, he’d probably end up in a neat little pine box with a fancy glass top.

Peg gave me a confidential nudge.

“Between you and me,” says he, with a broad grin, “I don’t think Red’ll even get off the ground. But he says he’s going up. So I’m helping him all I can.”

The street was full of cars now. They were honking to get by. And pretty soon along came Bill Hadley, the village marshal, in his old car.

“What’s the matter up there?” he boomed, in his gruff way, as he started through the jam.

And then, as he caught sight of the glider—sitting right there in the middle of Main Street, mind you!—he almost swallowed his tonsils.

Red was jiggling up and down like an itchy jumping jack. And every minute or two the wind would catch the glider and swing it around like a top. For it was balanced on a couple of baby-buggy wheels. Boy! It sure was a nifty little outfit, all right. And I didn’t blame Red for being all puffed-up about it.

The kids had told him that they’d pull him down hill, so that he could take off into the wind. But they skinned out when the marshal came. And for a minute or two I felt like skinning out myself. For Bill was madder than a wet hen.

But Red was too happy to notice that.

“Hi, Bill!” he yelled. “You’re just in time to see me go up.”

“Yep,” growled Bill, “an’ you’ll go up on the toe of my boot too, if you don’t git that confounded thing out of here, an’ quit blockin’ the street.”

“It’s a glider,” beamed Red.

“Wa-al, try your hand at glidin’ it back into your own yard,” growled Bill, “an’ see that you keep it there.”

Red gave a squawk.

“Aw, heck! I can’t make it go up there. I’ve got to have a hill.”

The cars were still honking to get by. So Bill took the glider and stood it on end. For it didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.

And out tumbled aviator Meyers on his snoot.

“You big crumb!” he bellowed, in his fiery way. “If I had a brick I’d heave it at you.”

Bill held the glider up till the cars all got by. And then he towed it down the street and heaved it into Red’s front yard.

That brought Mrs. Meyers out.

“Goodness gracious!” says she, as the glider took a header into her pet pansy bed. “Where did that thing come from?”

“It’s mine,” cried Red. “And that old buzzard tried to wreck it on me.”

“The street ain’t no place fur flyin’ machines,” says Bill, as he started back toward his own car.

“But how can I fly it,” squawked Red, “if you don’t let me get a hill?”

“Git a balloon,” says Bill.

And jumping into his car he drove off.

Red followed him with blazing eyes.

“I’d like to get a baseball bat,” says he, “and cripple a couple of flies on that thick dome of his.”

“Why pick on the poor flies?” laughed Scoop.

“Huh!” Red further growled. “He thinks he’s a king—with that police badge of his. And he skinned my nose too—the big egg!”

Mrs. Meyers stopped beside the glider.

“Of all the foolishness,” says she. “An airplane without a motor. It’s a wonder you wouldn’t rig up a coaster wagon without wheels!”

“It’s a glider,” says Red, as he lifted it out of the pansy bed.

“But where did you get it?” quizzed his mother. “And what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to fly it, of course.”

“Did you make it?”

“No. Dad got it off a guy who owed him money.”

Mrs. Meyers thought that the glider was just a toy. She hadn’t the slightest idea that it would really fly, or that Red would try to go up in it, as he said. For he often bragged that way around the house.

“I don’t mind roller skates sittin’ around,” says she, as she repaired the damage in the pansy bed. “And I can even stand a pup tent in the front yard. But I can’t see the sense of having that silly thing stand around.”

Red gave me a wink.

“Help me carry it around in back, Jerry.”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Meyers, “take it around in back and keep it there.”

Horse Foot tagged behind as usual.

“W-w-what is it?” says he, when we set the glider down beside the barn.

“A Norwegian pancake,” says Red.

Horse Foot looked at the glider on one side. And then he labored around to the other side.

“I thought it was a a-a-airplane,” says he.

Peg jumped into the cockpit.

“All aboard for the grand take-off,” says he, as he jiggled the levers around.

We all took turns then working the levers back and forth. There was a stick, right in front of the pilot’s seat, that made the glider go up or down. The stick worked an elevator near the rudder. And when the same stick was pushed sideways, it worked the ailerons. Red knew the names of everything.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to fly it?” says I.

“Why not?” says he, in his chesty way.

“I’d hate to be you,” says I, “if you caused another traffic jam on Bill’s beat.”

“Yes,” put in Scoop, “and I’d hate to be you if the blamed thing ever turned upside down in the air.”

“Why should it?” says Red. “For the guy who made it took it up. So why can’t I? All you’ve got to do is to sit there and move the levers. There’s nothing hard about that.”

“I bet you’d be scared stiff,” says I, “if you saw the ground dropping out from under you.”

“I don’t think so. For I’ve always liked airplanes. I’ve told you all along that I was going to be a pilot. So why not start in now?”

I took another look at the glider.

“Whoever made it,” says I, “certainly did a swell job on it.”

“You know the guy, Jerry—that cross-eyed operator of dad’s—in the moving-picture booth.”

“And did your pa really take it away from him?” I quizzed.

“I’ll tell the world! For he took money on us at the theatre.”

“I didn’t know that he was an aviator,” says I.

“He took the glider out last Sunday. A friend of his towed him in a car. And he was up for more than ten minutes.”

“Gee!” says I, as I stood back and looked at the glider. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

Red then showed me some brackets over the cockpit.

“He was getting ready to put a little motor up there. And that’s what got him into trouble. For he had to snitch money out of the safe to fix the motor over—it was an old bicycle motor. And then is when dad caught him.”

“But why did he want a motor,” says I, “if he could stay up for ten minutes without one?”

“A lot of gliders have little motors. They’re easier to fly that way. And you can stay up longer.”

“Did you get the motor too?” says I.

“No. But I know where it is. It’s down in old Emery Blossom’s rag shed. He’s got some machines down there, you know. For he’s pretty handy with machinery. He makes more money that way—tinkering with stuff—than picking up rags. And if I had the price I bet I could get the motor and install it myself.”

“Gee!” says I, as I reached into the cockpit and pulled the stick back and forth. “I wish we could try it out.”

“I’m going to,” says Red, with increased determination. “But we’ve got to be mighty quiet about it. For dad would have seventeen cat-fits if he thought for one moment that I’d really try to fly it.”

“But if he didn’t want you to fly it,” says I, “why did he give it to you?”

“To tell the truth, Jerry, he doesn’t know yet that it really will fly. He thinks it’s a big lemon. But he was so mad at that fellow over the money, that he took it anyway. And I suppose he thinks I’m going to put it on stilts, like a two-year-old. But instead, I’m going to slip it out of town to-night in the dark. That’ll fool Bill Hadley. And when the sun comes up to-morrow morning, and there’s nobody around, I’m going to take off in old Emery’s pasture. For there’s a slick hill there. And if you fellows’ll pull me down, I know I can go up, just as easy as pie. For that’s where the cross-eyed guy took off.”

“Who told you?” says I.

“Old Emery. He and the fellow were working together. Sort of secret-like. Thought they could get a patent, I guess. But the cross-eyed guy had to skin out when dad took after him about the money. And now the glider is mine.”

Peg was listening.

“Does old Emery know that you’re going to take off in his pasture to-morrow morning?”

“No. But he told me that I could use his pasture to-day. So what’s the difference if I wait a few hours?”

Peg laughed.

“If I remember right,” says he, “there’s a big bull in that pasture.”

“Poof!” says Red. “Who’s scared of a bull?”

There was a sudden squawk from the barn. And when I ran inside I found Horse Foot hanging by his head through a crack in the hay-mow floor.

“I always thought that my h-h-head was bigger than my f-f-feet,” says he, when I finally got him down.

“Yes,” says I, “bigger and emptier too.”

Scoop was standing in the doorway.

“What happened?” says he, with a grin.

“Oh,” says I, “Horse Foot wanted to find out which was the biggest, his feet or his head, so he dropped through that crack up there.”

“And did you take him down?”

“I had to. For I’m his nursemaid now.”

And I told the other fellows what a mess I was in. Jane Rail had the measles, I said. And Horse Foot was going to live with me till she got well.

We spent the most of the day in Red’s back yard. For it was fun to fool with the glider. And all the time I kept wondering to myself if he really would be able to take it up.

It was our plan now to run the glider out of town just as soon as it got dark. We were going to carry blankets, too, and sleep in old Emery’s rag shed. For, of course, we wouldn’t dare to leave the glider down there all alone. That cross-eyed guy might come back and steal it. Or old Emery himself might slip it out of sight for his own use. It was better, we agreed, to watch it. And then, when daylight came, we’d try it out.

We often sleep out like that. So our parents thought nothing of it. But you can bet your boots that Red was mighty careful not to mention the glider to his mother.

Mr. Meyers himself was too busy to think about gliders. For he had to run his own picture machine now. He buzzed in at six o’clock for his supper; and out again at six-fifteen. The only thing he talked about was his own hard luck. And the only thing that Mrs. Meyers talked about was her trip to Ashton. She and mum had a big time, I guess.

And now I’ll tell you what happened in old Emery’s pasture.

Gosh! We expected to see a grand take-off. But what we saw instead was a crazy bull fight. And the wonder is that poor Red didn’t get a horn punched clean through him.