Читать книгу Porson's Flying Service - George E. Rochester - Страница 5

Table of Contents

“Binns!”

“Sir?”

“Bring me a map, Binns—a large map—at once!”

Binns coughed discreetly.

“An hatlas, sir?” he murmured. “An hatlas from the library?”

Colonel Blenkinsop snorted.

“No, fool! I mean a map of the county. Bring me my hunting map from the gun-room.”

“Very good, sir!” replied Binns.

He proceeded to withdraw his sleek and portly form from the luncheon-room, but a bark from the colonel pulled him up short.

“Oh—and Binns!”

“Sir?”

“Tell the first and second footmen to stand by. I shall require them in a few moments. And tell Jobson to fill up the petrol-tank and radiator of that aeroplane standing in the deer park. He’ll find plenty of petrol in the garage.”

“Very good, sir!”

The luncheon-room door closed quietly on the retreating Binns.

“Look here, uncle”—Algy Blenkinsop, the colonel’s nephew, turned from the window—“are you really going to hunt this beastly tiger by aeroplane?”

“Certainly I am, by George!” snorted the colonel. “The brute is a man-eater. It escaped from the circus at Luvdale in the early hours of this morning, and I have ascertained by telephone that it has not yet been recaptured. It’s one’s duty, by Jove, to do everything in one’s power to hasten the capture of the dangerous animal. Confound it—it might tear some of my tenants limb from limb and—and devour little children—hmph!”

He blew his nose violently.

“But what about Porson?” demanded Algy, indicating a good-natured-looking boy about seventeen years of age, clad in oil-stained flannel bags and well-worn school blazer. “It’s Porson’s old bus you’re going to use, and if you do sight this beastly tiger and happen to have a forced landing near it, it might jolly easily be you and him who’ll be torn limb from limb. It’s not fair on old Porson, dash it!”

“Not fair?” barked the colonel. “What the dickens do you mean, Algernon, by not fair?”

“Well, Porson’s full of a most frightfully fruity scheme for building up a thumping big air passenger service!” explained Algy. “He’s only got that old Maurice Farman out in the deer park, as yet. But when he’s made enough money by carrying passengers on it, he’s going to buy another machine, and then another, and—and so on. Aren’t you, Porson, old bean?”

“Yes, I am!” replied George Porson confidently.

“Well, then,” went on Algy, “you ought to jolly well think twice, uncle, before you risk your neck and Porson’s neck and Porson’s machine in going chasing about the country hunting for a tiger like that. Why not go on foot?”

“On foot?” snorted the colonel. “Confound it, it’s the sport of the thing I want. There’s no sport to be had in going about with a crowd of armed country yokels, who might shoot you in the back, by George, if one of their guns goes off accidentally. Also, we will be able to discover the whereabouts of the brute the sooner by aeroplane, and dispatch it before it has time to do any further damage.”

“But how do you intend to dispatch it?” inquired Algy.

“I’ll shoot the brute, of course!” retorted the colonel. “I shall take one or two guns up with me, and when we spot it I shall quietly put a bullet through its head.”

“From the air?”

“Certainly from the air. You do not imagine I am crass enough idiot to land near it, do you?”

“No!” admitted Algy. “But it’s Porson I’m thinking about. He brought me home this morning after my pals had stranded me in convict’s dress, and—and, dash it, I think we ought really to consult him as to whether he’s keen on this tiger hunt.”

“Oh, I’m keen enough!” replied Porson. “Colonel Blenkinsop says there is a fifty-pound reward, and I’m frightfully keen at having a shot at that, you know!”

“Good lad! Good lad!” replied the colonel heartily. “We’ll find the brute all right; and, by George, I’ll give him short enough shrift. Ah, here you are, Binns!”

He took a folded map of the county from the butler’s somewhat flabby hand, and, spreading it on the table, said to Porson:

“Now, my boy, let me explain the district to you, so that you will be able to follow my directions as to where to go when we are in the air!”

Colonel Blenkinsop, having duly conned over the map with Porson, bustled off to the gun-room. Porson collected his flying kit and, accompanied by Algy Blenkinsop, walked across the deer park of Slopperton Grange towards where his old Maurice Farman biplane was standing.

“Great, isn’t she?” demanded Porson enthusiastically, as he and Algy approached the old relic. “She’ll stand any amount of knocking about for a good bit yet!”

“Yes, of course she will!” agreed Algy; then added: “That is, if she’s treated properly. Look here, old bean,” he went on hastily, “I want to give you a word of warning. Uncle thinks he’s absolutely wonderful with a gun. He is. He can do things with a gun that would make a blessed comedian feel sick. If he doesn’t trip over it, he fires it off accidentally, or nearly brains somebody with it. Last grouse-shooting he winged two gamekeepers and shot an ear off a black Labrador—the best gun dog we ever had!”

“Sounds cheerful!” grinned Porson.

“He’ll probably riddle your machine for you,” went on Algy, “or fall out and break his neck, or something. But he’s set his mind on this bally tiger hunt, and nothing will jolly well dissuade him now.”

“I don’t think we’ve much chance of getting near the brute,” remarked Porson. “The noise of the engine will scare him and keep him under cover. So perhaps, after all, Colonel Blenkinsop won’t have any cause to use his gun.”

“Yes, that’s all right!” objected Algy. “But once he gets a taste for this sort of fatheaded, hedge-hopping hunting, he’ll probably want to do a bit of rabbit shooting from the air. Dash it, he might commence flying to hounds instead of riding to hounds when the season opens, and——”

He broke off and stood goggling in the direction of the Grange. Porson, following his gaze, gasped.

Colonel Blenkinsop, arrayed for the chase, was striding across the park towards the machine. His stout person was encased in a deer-stalker hat, Norfolk shooting jacket, baggy plus-fours, stockings, gaiters, and brogues. But what drew the astonished gaze of Porson and Algy was the two footmen who followed the colonel. Between them they carried two shot-guns, two fowling-pieces, one elephant gun and a punt gun. Behind them staggered Joe, the boot-boy, with a box of assorted cartridges.

“Great pip!” ejaculated Algy. “Uncle’s bringing a bally arsenal!”

“Well, are we ready? No time to lose, you know, George!” panted the colonel, stalking up and mopping his brow. “I think we’ll land near Luvdale village first, Porson, my boy, and find out if any trace of the tiger has yet been found!”

“But, uncle,” protested Algy, “you can’t take all those guns with you. This isn’t a bally air liner, you know.”

“Confound it, I must take ’em!” snorted the colonel. “How the dickens do I known which gun I’ll want till I sight the brute? I must take a selection of weapons with me!”

“Pity you hadn’t got a spare bomb or a harpoon to add to the collection!” remarked Algy dryly.

“I don’t want any confounded levity, sir!” barked his uncle. “This is a very serious matter. Tenants torn limb from limb—little children devoured, by Jove!”

He wheeled on the grinning Porson.

“Well, I’m ready—I’m ready!” he snorted. “Shall I sit in the back seat or the front?”

“Better sit in the back one, sir!” replied Porson.

Colonel Blenkinsop scrambled up into the canvas box-like arrangement which did duty as a cockpit. Seating himself heavily on the low wooden seat at the rear, he bellowed for his guns.

The footmen handed them up, and he stowed them away as best he could on the floor of the cockpit. Then the box of cartridges was handed up and he stowed that away on the seat beside him. He couldn’t move his fat little legs for the cumbersome elephant gun and punt gun, so he shifted the weapons and sat hugging the two heavy calibre guns between his knees.

Porson struggled into his flying kit, then swung himself up to the forward seat with its weird-looking dashboard, and switched on the engine. Dropping to the ground again, he swung the big four-bladed pusher propeller. The engine picked up with a banging, nerve-shattering roar, and the old Maurice Farman quivered and shook in every strut and flying wire.

“Well, what the dickens are we waiting for?” roared the colonel as Porson made no effort to clamber up to the pilot’s seat.

Porson did not heed. He was watching a small black-and-white body coming hurtling towards him from the rear of the Grange.

“Why, Bill, old fellow!” he said, dropping on his knees beside the little black-and-white mongrel which came dashing up. “I thought you were making new pals round at the kennels. I wasn’t going to take you on this flip, but you can come if you like!”

He straightened up, gesturing towards the forward seat. Bill understood the signal, and leapt up, to snuggle down beside Porson as that cheerful youth clambered up after him. Porson opened the throttle, and the old Maurice Farman began to move slowly forward. He kicked on the rudder to bring it into wind, then opened the throttle to full. The old biplane commenced to lumber gallantly forward, swaying and bumping over the rough, uneven ground.

But the going was slightly downhill, and the speed increased till it was rocking along at a full forty-five miles per hour. Porson pulled on the control-stick. The Farman lifted into the air, then bumped heavily.

“Great Godfrey!” ejaculated the colonel in the rear seat.

Again Porson pulled on the control-stick, and again the old Farman took the air in a long, lumbering hop.

“What the old Harry are you playing at?” roared the colonel, as the barrel of the punt gun hit him a jolt under the chin.

Porson did not appear to hear the inquiry. His every effort was concentrated on getting the bus into the air. For the third time he pulled on the control-stick, and, with engine banging and spluttering for all it was worth, he lifted into the air, the patched wheels of the under-carriage missing the park wall by inches as the machine floundered onwards and upwards.

“Well, good luck to ’em!” remarked Algy, watching the departure. “They’ll need it. Poor old Porson!”

·····

Porson flattened out at seventy feet, and the Maurice Farman went clattering across country towards Luvdale village.

Skirting Luvdale Plantation, Porson headed towards the stretch of common which fronted the straggling main street of Luvdale village. He glided earthwards and made a more or less smooth landing. Throttling down till the Farman had lost way and the engine was barely ticking over, he turned to Colonel Blenkinsop.

“What now, sir?” he inquired.

“Not a soul in sight anywhere,” grumbled the colonel, staring about him. “Looks like a confounded village of the dead, by George! I say, you wait here and I’ll go and make inquiries.”

“You stay and I’ll go, sir!” volunteered Porson. “The village people seem to have shut themselves up in their houses. The tiger might be lurking about here, you know.”

“D’ye think so?” Colonel Blenkinsop stared about him harder than ever. “By Godfrey! Perhaps you’re right. Yes, you go. I’ll stay here and defend your machine for you in case the brute appears and attacks it. By George! I wouldn’t like your machine to be damaged, you know. Here, take the punt gun!”

Porson suppressed a grin, and, with the loaded punt gun on his shoulder, set off for the village with Bill capering joyously at his heels. Colonel Blenkinsop spent the next few minutes in overhauling his armoury, keeping, however, a good look-out for a black-and-yellow striped body.

“Well, what’s the news?” he demanded, as Porson returned.

“I saw the innkeeper,” replied Porson. “The tiger has been traced to Luvdale Plantation, and the circus men are in the plantation now beating the undergrowth and trying to drive the brute from cover. It killed a cow and a calf this morning. If they can’t net it they’re going to shoot it. All the villagers have locked themselves in their houses.”

“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the colonel. “We’ll take off and hover about over Luvdale Plantation. If the brute breaks cover and takes to the fields we’ll dive on him and I’ll finish him off—what!”

“But won’t the noise of the engine scare him, sir?” remarked Porson.

“Of course it will,” replied Colonel Blenkinsop triumphantly. “That’s what I want. He’ll turn tail and bolt. We can go as hard as he can, confound him, and I’ll get an absolutely sitting shot at him! I’ll dish him first go—you see!”

Porson had plenty of nerve; he required every whit of it at that moment.

“Right-ho!” he replied; and clambered back into the forward seat, wondering which would get him first—the tiger’s fangs or the colonel’s guns!

Twice Porson completed a circuit of the plantation at a height of one hundred feet. But nothing stirred in its depths, and no sounds were audible above the spluttering roar of the old Green engine. With an occasional anxious eye on the dashboard in front of him—for he never knew what whim as to heating up or choking the old bus might develop—he peered downwards as he swung the machine on its third circuit.

Then it was that from the southern side of the plantation a big, lithe, yellow-and-black striped body broke cover and went loping away across the fields towards Little Slopperton.

“H-o-o-ick!” roared the colonel. “Tally-ho! Gone awa-ay!”

“F-o-o-rr-ard! F-o-o-r-rard!” he screamed, for all the world as though he were away after hounds, as Porson shoved forward the control-stick and went diving down after the loping tiger.

Men had broken from the woods, but they halted in astonishment as they saw the rickety old Maurice Farman go roaring away in the wake of the now thoroughly-scared and wildly-running tiger.

Porson had never dived at such a rate in the old Farman before, and he was wondering, apprehensively, how the old bus would stand the strain. Wind shrieked through the multitude of flying and bracing wires, and the unvarnished struts quivered and shook protestingly in their sockets.

But the spirit of the chase was in his blood now, and the old Green engine banged and spluttered away gallantly, as though it knew what was afoot. Porson glanced over his shoulder. Colonel Blenkinsop had slithered the heavy barrel of the elephant gun on to the side of the makeshift fuselage. His finger was curled round the trigger, and his eyes were gleaming excitedly behind the goggles which Porson had lent him.

Porson turned again to view the quarry. The Farman was now no higher than thirty feet from the ground. Two hundred yards ahead the tiger was doing its utmost to put as much distance as possible between itself and the terrible thing which was roaring down on it. As Porson watched, it cleared a low hedge in its stride and swung towards the wall of Slopperton Grange deer park.

BANG!

Porson was almost deafened by the thunderous explosion of the elephant gun. The only immediate result of the colonel’s shot was that a couple of flying wires parted and commenced to slap madly against the upper plane. An instant later Porson saw the heavy weapon slither past him on the lower plane and go hurtling to the ground below.

Wildly he looked round. The colonel was lying on his back in the cockpit amidst an assortment of weapons, his fat little gaitered legs waving frenziedly in the air. It was obvious what had happened. The recoil from the gun had knocked him flat on his back! It was also perfectly obvious that unless he was released from his unfortunate predicament, he might at any moment tumble out of the bus, or get mixed up with the propeller.

There was only one course open to Porson, and he acted promptly. He switched off his engine and kicked on the rudder-bar to circle for a landing.

“Well, where’s the body?” demanded Colonel Blenkinsop, the landing having been effected and he himself extricated from his unfortunate position by Porson.

“The body, sir?” echoed Porson.

“Yes, the body of the tiger! I got him, of course?”

“No, sir!” Porson shook his head. “You missed him, sir! Last thing I saw of him he was making towards your deer park!”

“Great Godfrey!” snorted the colonel. “D’you mean to say I missed him? Me?”

“I’m afraid so, sir!”

“But I winged him, at least. Confound it, I must have winged him!”

“Not even winged him, sir!” mourned Porson sympathetically.

“Oh, confound it! I always said the sights of that dashed gun were wrong—always! And the brute’s gone towards my deer park, you say?”

“Yes, he was heading that way.”

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’m not beaten yet, by George! I’ve got a jolly fine Boche tank gun. I got it in France. It’s a thing just like a big rifle mounted on a thin tripod stand. We’ll fix it on your machine, and I’ll blow the brute’s head off with it. Couldn’t possibly miss with it, you know. Not me!”

“But won’t it be a bit difficult to fix?” protested Porson.

“Difficult? Pooh—no! Not a bit difficult. Jobson will fix it. Come on, let’s get home and get it done. Then we’ll rout around and find this beastly tiger again. He can’t have got far. Pick up the elephant gun, yonder, and we’ll take off.”

“Right-ho!” replied Porson good-naturedly.

He retrieved the elephant gun and, switching on, swung the propeller. With the colonel ensconced in the rear seat and Porson and Bill in the front seat, the old Maurice Farman lumbered up into the air and headed for Slopperton Grange.

Algy Blenkinsop, Jobson, and Joe, the boot-boy, were waiting to welcome the two adventurers.

“Jobson, come with me to the gun-room!” commanded the colonel. “You, Joe, take those guns and ammunition out of the machine.”

He stalked off, and whilst he was gone Porson explained to Algy what had happened and what Colonel Blenkinsop now intended to do.

“Oh, crumbs!” groaned Algy. “D’you mean to say he’s going to mount that Boche tank gun on your bus?”

“That’s the idea!” grinned Porson, hands thrust in the pockets of his school blazer. “He’s determined to get the jolly old tiger by hook or by crook, but I can’t understand why he doesn’t use an ordinary rifle!”

“Because he couldn’t hit a barn door with one, that’s why!” replied Algy. “He’s a dear old chap, but dash it, somebody ought to stop him. This blessed tank gun of his will drive a bullet through armoured plate. It’s frightful to think of him flying about loose with it.”

“Oh, we’ll be all right!” replied Porson good-naturedly. “Here he comes with Jobson and the gun!”

Under the colonel’s fussy supervision, the tripod stand was firmly lashed to the lower plane of the Farman and the gun mounted on it so that the colonel could manipulate it as he sat in the rear seat.

“I’ve got six cartridges to fit the gun!” he boomed, as he shoved them into the chamber. “But I’ll only require one, by George!”

“Better take the six, though!” advised Algy Blenkinsop hastily. “You never know——”

He broke off as from a clump of beech-trees some little distance away a tall fellow in velveteens came running madly towards the machine.

“The tiger!” gasped the man—one of the colonel’s underkeepers—as he dashed up. “It’s got into the deer park where—where the wall is breaking away!”

“Jumped it, by George!” roared the colonel. “Whereabouts is the brute, man?”

“Over yonder!” replied the fellow pointing.

“Then let’s be off, Porson, my boy!” bellowed Colonel Blenkinsop. “We’ll get him this time!”

Porson swung the pusher propeller of his biplane, and clambered up to the forward seat where Bill, his little mongrel, was waiting unconcernedly.

“All right, sir?” he inquired, over his shoulder, of Colonel Blenkinsop.

“Absolutely!”

Porson turned to his controls. Opening the throttle, he waited until the old bus was lumbering forward, then swung her into wind. He went swaying and jolting along with increasing speed. It was when the speedometer needle was flickering at forty-five miles per hour that he pulled on the control-stick. Twice the ancient Farman hopped into the air, to bump again, but the third time it rose heavily and went banging its way along towards where the underkeeper had indicated the tiger to be.

“There it is!” howled the colonel, pointing wildly towards where a black-and-yellow striped body was slinking along by the side of the park wall.

Porson tingled with excitement. Swinging the bus so that he was flying parallel with the wall, he closed the throttle to half, and, pushing forward the stick, took the machine past the animal in a long, smooth glide.

Bang! He heard the German tank gun bark viciously. The tiger halted snarlingly. Almost crazed by the chivvying it had received, the brute scarcely seemed to know which way to turn. It backed against the wall, fangs gleaming cruelly, tail switching.

Bang! Crack! Again the tank gun barked into life, and simultaneously there came a sharp, whiplike crack audible above the clattering of the engine, which had begun suddenly to race madly. The machine lurched madly.

Porson switched off his engine, and, holding the Farman on its gliding angle, glanced over his shoulder.

“Great Scott!” he gasped.

That second bullet from the tank gun had gone right through the propeller, snapping off one of the blades like a carrot. The flying piece of propeller had crashed through the tail plane. Colonel Blenkinsop was hanging on to the butt of the tank gun, goggling in dismay at the havoc he had wrought.

But Porson had little time for thought in that direction. He had to get the machine down somehow without crashing. He glanced downwards. The ground was less than twenty feet below. Again the old Farman lurched sickeningly, and he whipped over the stick to bring the opposite aileron control into play.

It did not occur to him in those hectic moments that he was bound to land close to the tiger. But somehow that seemed a secondary consideration. All he wanted was to get his dear old Maurice Farman to earth with as little damage as possible.

The ground was only a few feet below him now. Ahead was a clump of trees, and he had no space for a run when he landed. With jaw set grimly, he pulled the control-stick back. Up came the nose of the machine, then the old Farman dropped like a stone in a beautiful pancake landing.

Colonel Blenkinsop was catapulted out of his seat, to fall heavily to the ground. Porson looked around. The tiger, eyes, blazing, tail switching, was advancing towards the machine.

“Don’t move!” roared Porson to the prostrate colonel, and scrambled for the swinging tank gun.

But Bill hurled himself from the forward seat and rushed, with doggy devotion, to keep this strange animal from his lord and master. Barking defiantly, he came to a halt full in the path of the brute. Frenziedly Porson swung the tank gun. There came a deep-throated snarl, a sweep of a paw, and Bill was hurled aside. Porson had a vision of red, blazing eyes, of long, cruel fangs as the brute sprang at the machine.

Bang! With a scream which was almost human, the tiger seemed to leap upwards in mid-air. Then it crashed against the lower plane and slumped heavily to the ground. Its lithe body quivered an instant, then was still.

A head appeared above the opposite end of the lower plane, and the hoarse voice of Colonel Blenkinsop inquired “Is it dead?”

“I—I think so,” replied Porson unsteadily. “Yes, it is.”

Then he was out of the machine, and, with something approaching a sob in his throat, was running towards where lay the little black-and-white body of the faithful Bill.

·····

“He’ll pull through!” said the veterinary surgeon that evening, as, with tender hands, he finished his examination of the little black-and-white mongrel.

“I’m glad of that, by George!” boomed Colonel Blenkinsop, blowing his nose violently. “A dashed plucky little fellow!”

He turned to Porson.

“And you’ll stay with me, my boy, until he’s better, and until we get your machine repaired. Hallo! Who the dickens is this?”

A fast little Blackburn Bluebird came roaring low over the stable yard. The noise of the engine died away as it dropped its nose for a landing in the deer park.

“He’s got a fine little bus, whoever he is!” remarked Porson. “I wouldn’t mind having a flip in it.”

A wish, by the way, which was to be gratified within a very short time under circumstances undreamt of by young George Porson!