Читать книгу The Lone Eagle of the Border, or Ted Scott and the Diamond Smugglers - J. W. Duffield - Страница 3
ОглавлениеA Test of Skill
“If any airman can beat the record already made, that man is Ted Scott,” declared Mark Lawson, as he stood in a group of young men on the flying field of Bromville.
“You seem to be pretty certain of it,” remarked one of the bystanders, with a smile that indicated that he himself was not so sure.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” returned Mark. “It’s the safest bet in the world that that lad can do whatever he sets out to do. No job’s too tough for him to tackle.”
“He sure has the victory habit,” chimed in Breck Lewis. “He never yet has come out second best in anything he’s undertaken.”
“Oh, I grant that he’s good,” said the first objector. “But there’s no man in the world so good that he may not at some time come up against a man that is better. It’s so in every line of sport or achievement. The champion prize fighter may some day lose his crown, the tennis or golf expert be dethroned.”
“That may be true in some lines,” admitted Mark. “But it won’t apply to Ted Scott. You’ll see, Farley, that he’ll make all the rest of these fellows look like thirty cents.”
“Sure he will,” echoed Jack Forrest. “The thing’s already in the bag for Ted.”
“Look at the way he copped that altitude record!” put in Breck Lewis. “Got further toward heaven than any man that ever stood in shoe leather. Gee, that was some stunt! Cylinders exploding, bolts whizzing through the wings, plane turning topsy-turvy, air tube blown from his mouth, yet keeping his nerve through it all and bringing his plane to a perfect landing when any other man would have been smashed to bits! Take it from me, there’s no airman living that’s in the same class with Ted Scott.”
“He carries my money every time he starts,” vouchsafed Mark Lawson emphatically.
“I don’t know,” said Farley, shaking his head dubiously. “He’s got some pretty tough birds to contend against. There’s Hardwick and Bagley and Stinson, and none of them is a slouch when it comes to any kind of flying. Then, too, just on the law of averages, I’ve a notion that Ted Scott is due for a tumble.”
“You think so, do you?” returned Mark. “Well, every man has a right to his own opinion. Care to risk any money to back up your judgment?”
“Well, maybe so,” drawled Farley. “But of course you ought to give me odds on the strength of Ted Scott’s reputation.”
“Whom do you want to bet on?” asked Mark.
“Of the other three, I think that Hardwick has the best chance,” replied Farley, “but I don’t want to pick out any special one. I’ll simply bet that one of the three will beat Ted Scott.”
“What, then, do you mean by talking about wanting odds?” asked Mark. “That gives you three chances to win, while we have only one chance to win if we bet on Ted Scott.”
“Right enough,” agreed Farley. “But if you fellows are sure that Ted has it already in the bag, I should think you’d be willing to give me the edge on the betting. His reputation makes him a natural favorite.”
Mark pondered for a moment.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “If you’ll pick out any of the other fellows, Hardwick, Bagley, or Stinson, I’ll bet you three to one on Ted. But if you want to include all three, I’ll bet you even money that Ted beats them all.”
“That last proposition hits me hardest,” said Farley. “How much do you want to put up?”
“How about twenty-five dollars?” suggested Mark, who had little else than his weekly wage to depend upon.
“All right, though I’d rather you’d make it a hundred,” returned Farley.
“Don’t let that bother you,” said Breck Lewis. “I’ll take another twenty-five on the same terms.”
“I’ll take another slice of twenty-five,” added Jack Forest eagerly.
“And you can put me down for the rest of your hundred,” declared Bill Ellison.
“Done!” exclaimed Farley. “And may the best man win.”
Similar wagers were being made all over the field, some in much larger amounts, as many of the visitors were men of wealth who had come either as participants in or spectators of the golf tournament that was being held that week on the superb links attached to the Hotel Excelsior, the most palatial caravansery in the town of Bromville.
But far eclipsing the golf tournament was the endurance flight for airplanes that was scheduled for the day following that on which the above conversation took place. The whole town was ablaze with interest and excitement, and this was shared by thousands in all the other places within easy reach of Bromville. The town was already crowded with visitors and there was every indication that Bromville had never had such a throng as would be present on the day the contest was slated to begin.
The endurance contest was a matter not only of national but of international interest, for the pride of America was enlisted in the attempt to bring the coveted record from overseas. At the time it was held by two German fliers, who had achieved the feat of remaining in the air for more than sixty-five hours. It had been a noteworthy feat and had set up a record that would be hard to beat.
Four contestants had entered, all being among the most noted airmen of the country. But what stirred Bromville to the depths was the fact that its famous townsman, Ted Scott, was entered in the competition.
Ted Scott, the idol of America, the first man to fly the Atlantic from New York to Paris, the gallant aviator about whom all the world had gone mad! They fairly worshipped him in Bromville. He was without dispute the town’s first citizen.
To his initial exploit he had added many others. He had flown from San Francisco to Honolulu across the Pacific in the best time ever made by man, and later had spanned that mighty ocean to the continent of Australia. He had broken the world’s record for altitude flights. As Breck Lewis had said, he had never come out second in anything he had undertaken, and in this present flight for the endurance record, Bromville was behind him to a man. Whatever wagers were laid against him were made by visitors. A Bromville man would have felt himself guilty of treason if he bet against Ted Scott.
“Well, we’re in for twenty-five apiece,” remarked Mark Lawson as, with Breck, Jack, and Bill, he made his way over the field to a spot where a young fellow was carefully going over an airplane that had been rolled out from its hangar.
“Twenty-five juicy berries,” agreed Breck, “and I count the bet as good as won already.”
“Same here,” observed Jack. “I wouldn’t take twenty-four in cash if Farley offered to settle right now.”
“It’s almost a shame to take the money,” averred Breck, with serene confidence. “Hello, Ted!” he called, as the group came up to the young aviator above mentioned. “How’s tricks?”
“Hello, fellows!” replied Ted Scott, straightening up from the machine over which he had been bending.
He was tall and lithe with wavy brown hair and eyes of the same color. His powerful frame had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on it and his supple, gliding muscles were those of a panther. He was slightly flushed from his exertions and his face bore the inimitable smile that won all hearts.
“Going to win the endurance test?” asked Mark.
“Who knows?” replied Ted. “All I know is that I’m going to do my best.”
“You’ve just got to win now,” declared Jack, grinning. “You’re carrying a hundred dollars of our money.”
“Is that so?” laughed Ted. “You boys are getting reckless with your cash.”
“I almost feel unsportsmanlike,” observed Bill Ellison. “Like betting on a sure thing.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” warned Ted seriously. “It’s by no means a sure thing. A lot of chances enter into any competition like this. The engine may go wrong, the gas may give out, there may be a leak in the tank, a collision may take place. Any one of a hundred things may happen.”
“True enough,” admitted Mark. “But we’re betting that things that happen to other men won’t happen to Ted Scott. Or, if they do happen, he’ll find a way to counteract them. A hundred things have happened to you before, but you’ve never come to grief.”
“Had great luck so far, but there’s no knowing when old lady Fate may throw me down,” said Ted modestly.
“Luck!” snorted Mark. “The world doesn’t call it luck. They call it pluck, nerve, genius—”
What other qualities Mark would have added to his enthusiastic tribute to his friend will never be known, for just then the whistle blew and Mark and his friends trooped into the aero plant where they were employed and which adjoined the flying field.
Left alone, Ted resumed his work on his machine, a new creation which embodied the latest devices in aviation and that had been constructed under his own personal supervision. He had named it the Browning for his foster father, and was inordinately proud of it. As far as the machine itself was concerned, he felt sure that there was nothing in the race that could compete with it in buoyancy, stability, speed, and power.
Now he was giving it the last inspection before the race that would take place on the morrow. He examined it with the same detail that a jeweler gives to the delicate works of a watch. He was determined that it should be in as perfect condition as human care and skill could make it.
He opened the control wires and oiled the hinges on the control surfaces. He examined the cooling system and connections. Not a part of the landing gear, wheels, fittings, and shock absorbers escaped his eye. He tested the main plane external bracing, including fittings and struts, external wires, cables and turnbuckles. The engine exhaust manifold and exhaust pipe extensions received his attention. He insured the proper functioning of carburetors and fuel-feed lines. He saw that the cowlings were properly secured and safetied. He saw to the propeller alignment. He ascertained that every part of the engine installation was in perfect order. He went over every inch of the fuselage.
Hard work and exacting it was, but he loved it. The plane was his sweetheart. To him it seemed a living thing. He identified himself with it. It was a part of himself, his companion in all daring and glorious enterprises. It seemed to him a living, breathing pulsing entity. At times he found himself talking to it as though it were a sentient being that could respond.
Engrossed in his work, he failed to notice the approach of a little group of persons until they were comparatively close to him. Then he looked up and his eyes encountered those of Hardwick, one of the contestants in the coming race.
Hardwick was a thickset man with features that were a trifle flabby, while marks of dissipation were beginning to show about his eyes.
He was a skillful flier, however, and had achieved quite a reputation in aviation circles. Ted had met him several times, but had never cultivated his acquaintance. There was something about the man that he did not like, and he had heard some things about Hardwick that were hardly consistent with good sportsmanship.
Still, Ted nodded to the man pleasantly enough and resumed his work on the machine. Hardwick nodded rather churlishly in response, and, with his companions, removed himself to a little distance.
Not so far away, however, did the party go but that some scraps of their conversation floated to Ted’s ears.
“He’s just a false alarm,” sneered Hardwick. “Has had a lot of fool luck and people look upon him as a little tin god. I’m going to make a show of him in this race. He’s got a swelled head, but his cap will fit him when I get through with him.”
