Читать книгу The Lone Eagle of the Border, or Ted Scott and the Diamond Smugglers - J. W. Duffield - Страница 6
ОглавлениеOn the Wing
As Ted Scott ran up the steps of the Bromville House he heard voices on the porch raised in animated but friendly discussion.
“I tell you, Jed Shuman, the race is as good as over right now,” Eben Browning was saying.
“Now, Eben, you’re prejudiced,” replied the other, an old fishing enthusiast who had made the Bromville House his stopping place for years. “I ain’t saying that Ted ain’t a wonder and all that, but it stands to reason he’s going to be beat some time. It ain’t in nature that he should win everything he takes a hack at.”
“It’s in Ted’s nature, all right,” declared Eben. “There ain’t anything that walks on two feet who can beat that boy in anything. Has any one done it yet?”
“Not yet,” admitted Jed. “But that ain’t saying that nobody ever will. And there’s some mighty good men entered in this race, and don’t you forget it!”
“They may be good,” agreed Eben. “Stands to reason they wouldn’t be going in if they weren’t. But no matter how good they are, I’ve got money that says Ted is better.”
“Now you’re gitting me interested,” said Jed, drawing a wallet from his pocket. “Just how much are you willing to risk in that matter, Eben?”
“I ain’t much of a betting man as a rule,” replied Eben, as he in turn produced his pocketbook. “But, by gum, I ain’t going to let myself be bluffed by you, Jed Shuman, or—”
He stopped short and looked guilty as Charity, his wife, passed by. She stopped and looked at Eben severely as he strove hastily to return his wallet to his pocket.
“For the land’s sake, Eben Browning,” she said, “am I seeing you doing such a sinful thing as betting?”
“Just a little backing of opinion, Charity,” said Eben shamefacedly. “Jed here thinks that Ted ain’t going to win this race and he wants to make a little bet on it.”
“Ted not going to win!” exclaimed Charity indignantly. “Jed Shuman, I thought you had more sense. You ought to lose your money, making a fool bet like that.”
“That’s what I think,” put in Eben eagerly, while Jed grinned. “It would be a just punishment to take his money away from him. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Charity. I’ll turn all the winnings over to you. How is that?”
Charity visibly wavered.
“I can’t think it’s just right,” she said reluctantly. “But if you want to bet, I don’t suppose I can stop you. But I tell you right now that the winnings will go into the plate at church next Sunday.”
Having thus salved her conscience, she passed on, and Jed and Eben exchanged winks.
“Now that being settled,” said Jed, “just how much are you willing to put up?”
“Ten, anyway,” replied Eben. “Twenty, if you like. But I feel kind of ashamed, Jed, to be betting on a sure thing.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” replied Jed dryly. “Suppose we call it twenty and let it go at that.”
“Suits me,” declared Eben.
Ted had stood by with a grin on his face while the debate had been going on.
“I hope your confidence in me won’t be misplaced, Dad,” he said. “I sure want to see that twenty dollars go into the plate next Sunday.”
“You will,” Eben stated. “Don’t know but what I was a bit hasty in promising it all to Charity,” he added ruefully. “Might have promised her ten if I won and kept the rest for myself. Why did she have to come along just then, anyway?”
That night Ted Scott went to bed early and slept for a good twelve hours so as to get a reserve of sleep for the arduous task to which he had set himself.
The contest was scheduled to begin at one o’clock the next afternoon, and at that hour an immense crowd was assembled on the flying field. Automobiles were parked around the edges of the field by the hundreds and all the roads leading to the town were black with people and vehicles of all kinds from old farm wagons to the latest types of motor cars.
Ted was on the field some time before noon, so that he might have ample time to make one last inspection of his plane and look after his supplies.
“Any one been near the plane, Jackson?” he asked of his mechanic, as the machine was being trundled out of its hangar.
“Not a soul,” replied Jackson. “I’ve been on the watch every minute without a wink of sleep all night. Wouldn’t trust it to any one else.”
“You’re a brick,” said Ted appreciatively. “Is there food enough to last through the contest? You know I gave you a free hand in getting everything that was needed.”
“Well,” said Jackson, checking off the items on his fingers as he went along, “there are two fried chickens, two quarts of concentrated soup, a dozen hard-boiled eggs, two quarts of coffee, four gallons of water, a dozen assorted sandwiches, a dozen oranges, and—”
“That’s enough,” interrupted Ted, with a laugh, “if I go hungry on that, my appetite’s bigger than I think it is. Now let’s take a look at this beauty.”
A careful examination convinced Ted that the machine had never been in better shape. To convince himself beyond a shadow of a doubt, he jumped into the cockpit and took a brief spin around the course.
“Works like a dream,” was his verdict, as he came down and delivered the plane into the hands of Jackson. “I think, however, you’d better put in a little more gas. That reserve tank can hold a good many gallons yet.”
Jackson looked a little dubious.
“It’ll make the machine heavier,” he said. “There’s enough in now to keep you going for seventy hours, I’ve calculated.”
“Just as well, though, to have a little extra margin,” said Ted. “Fill the reserve tank to within three inches of the top.”
Jackson set about complying with the directions, and just then Walter Hapworth and Paul Monet strolled up to Ted.
Both were true and tried friends of the young aviator. What Hapworth had done for Ted has already been told. Monet was a cultivated Frenchman, who had insisted on sharing in the loan that had permitted Ted to go to flying school. Ted, on his part, had once saved Mr. Monet’s life by dragging him out of the path of an onrushing plane and had helped rescue him later when on a West Indian trip.
Ted shook hands with both warmly.
“How are you feeling, Ted?” asked Paul Monet.
“Fine and fit,” replied the young aviator. “Never in my life felt in better condition.”
“Going to win our bets for us?” asked Mr. Hapworth, with a smile. “Paul and I have each risked a thousand on your coming through with another victory.”
“I’ll do my best,” promised Ted. “I’d hate like thunder to have any of my friends lose because of their faith in me. Don’t forget, though, that it’s anything but a sure thing. A hundred things may happen that would turn the scale in favor of one or another. Every one of these fellows is a flier with a reputation. They’re not to be sneezed at.”
“Of course, chance enters in,” admitted Walter Hapworth. “Just the same, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my bet. How about you, Paul?”
“I feel the same way,” laughed Paul Monet. “Go in and win, Ted. We’ll be—what is it you Americans say?—rooting for you.”
In another part of the field Brewster Gale and Hardwick were standing near the latter’s machine.
“Have you got that thing we were talking about?” asked Gale, looking around to see that no one was listening.
“Surest thing you know,” replied Hardwick in the same low tone. “And if I’m not greatly mistaken, it will do the trick.”
“If it doesn’t, I’m stung for a good bit of coin,” growled Gale. “Since my talk with you yesterday I’ve picked up every bet I came across, and there have been many, for every fool in this town seems crazy to bet on Ted Scott. I figure that I stand to lose something like five thousand dollars if you don’t make good.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” said Hardwick confidently. “This thing I have in mind can be counted on as sure fire. You’ll have a cramp in your fingers from counting your winnings.”
“I hope so,” returned Gale, “Though that fellow has such fool luck that I’m almost superstitious about him,” he added. “No matter how tight a hole he gets into, somehow or other he seems to wriggle through.”
“He won’t do any wriggling through this time,” declared Hardwick emphatically.
“Of course,” suggested Gale, “you don’t want to play that trick too soon. Give him a chance to come to grief in some other way. He may smash, his plane may go back on him, or lots of other things may happen. Don’t use the ace you have up your sleeve until it’s seen that nothing else will do.”
The time for the test was now approaching, and the police who were in charge of the field began to clear it and force the crowd to a safe distance from the runway. This was difficult, for the throng was immense, but it was accomplished at last and a comparative hush settled on the throng while all waited for the starter’s signal.
The four contestants were called into the judges’ stand and given their final instructions. The course was to be an oval one and the competitors were to keep in a general way in constant sight of the field. The chief condition was that they were to keep aloft under all circumstances. The moment any plane came down and touched the earth the pilot of that plane was out of the contest.
“And I’m sure I need not say,” the chief judge, Albert Etterson, stated in concluding his instructions, “that any foul play on the part of any contestant will disqualify him at once. You are all good fliers and know the rules. I believe you are all gentlemen and sportsmen. That is all.”
He bowed their dismissal and the fliers left the stand and repaired to their respective machines.
They drew lots for the order of starting and Ted Scott drew number four. Stinson was to go first, then Hardwick, then Bagley, with Ted taking off last.
The starter’s pistol cracked and Stinson started down the runway. He gathered speed as he went and took off when he was about two-thirds of the way down the course. His heavily loaded plane faltered for a moment. The spectators were undecided as to whether it would go up or down. Then it slowly mounted into the air.
A cheer went up from the spectators as Stinson, at a height of about eight hundred feet, brought his plane to an even keel and began to follow the course marked out by the judges and indicated by pylons.
Hardwick came next and made his take off when about halfway down the runway. Ted was somewhat surprised at that, and his only explanation was that Hardwick was traveling light, carrying far less gasoline than he ought if he expected to beat the record. This seemed strange. Did Hardwick count on something less than endurance in order to win the contest? He remembered having seen Brewster Gale, Ted’s bitterest enemy, in earnest converse with Hardwick a short time before.
But he had little time to follow this train of thought, for now Bagley had wheeled his machine to the head of the runway and was ready for his start.
He had not gone far before it was evident that something was the matter, either with the machine or the pilot. The plane wobbled crazily from side to side and the spectators in consternation gave back from the ropes.
When half the distance had been covered, the machine rose from the ground. But instead of continuing its course, it turned almost at right angles and made straight for a group of hangars at one end of the field.
There was a shout of horror from the crowd that scattered in all directions. Straight as an arrow the plane made for one of the hangars.
There was a moment when it seemed that it might win clear of it.
But that hope vanished an instant later when the plane crashed into the structure and came to the ground in a broken and tangled mass!
