A DASH FOR FREEDOM.

To Ned's intense relief, the little cortege did not attract much attention as it passed down the street. Most of the town was at the circus, attracted, doubtless, by the prospect of a big, free aeroplane flight.

At last they reached the circus grounds. The performance had commenced, and the spaces outside the tents in which it was going on were almost deserted. Only a few canvasmen and hangers-on lounged about. From time to time a loud blare of music or a shout of applause came from the tent. Over by the main entrance Ned saw Professor Luminetti, still tinkering with his aeroplane. Some men were helping him. Among them was the man with the big moustache, who had addressed Ned so roughly when he pointed out the defective link.

"There, professor," he was exclaiming, as the constable came up, "that's done. I guess everything is all right now for the night performance."

"It all came from not paying attention to what that young chap said," put in one of them.

"Yes, the professor thought he knew it all," put in another.

"Hullo! There's the young chap now," said the black-moustached man, who was the manager of the show. "Say, young feller, you're all right. Any time you want a——"

He was about to shake Ned by the hand, when the constable interposed.

"You the manager of this sheebang?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Wa-al, I'm ther constable. Whar's that pickpocket yer telephoned about?"

"Right inside the sideshow tent. We put him in there under the guard of two canvasmen."

"All right. I'll come and git him. Two uv you boys guard the prisoner here while I'm gone."

He hastened off. Ned felt his face burn as some of the men who had been clustered about Professor Luminetti gazed curiously at him. The word "prisoner" had attracted their attention.

The professor was too busy with his machine to pay any attention. He was starting up the engine to test it. The motor burred wildly and emitted flashes of flame and blue smoke. Suddenly he looked around.

"Say, young feller," he said to Ned, "if you know so much about aeroplanes, just tell me what ails this motor?"

Ned looked at his two guardians. They, perhaps curious to see if the lad really knew anything about air-craft, nodded permission. After all, they argued to themselves, there was no chance for the lad to escape. Ned, forgetting his troubles for a time in his joy at again being able to "fuss" over an aeroplane, bent over the refractory engine.

"The trouble's in one of the footpedals," he announced before long.

"Have to climb into the seat to fix it?" asked Luminetti.

"Reckon so."

Ned looked at his guardians. They nodded.

"Don't fly away," cried one of them jokingly, as Ned seated himself, grasped the levers and placed his foot on the pedals to test the mechanism.

"It would be a good joke if——"

Professor Luminetti, standing by the machine, was suddenly brushed off his feet and rolled over on the sward.

"Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!"

A terrific whirring, like the voice of a multitude of locusts, filled the air.

Something huge and winged and powerful flashed by the amazed deputies, and launched itself into the air. Before they recovered their wits, it was out of reach.

"It's the aeroplane! He's stolen my aeroplane!" screamed Professor Luminetti.

"Hi! Come back!" yelled the deputies.

But so swiftly had the aeroplane shot into space that Ned was already out of ear-shot.

Hearing the babel of excited sounds, the constable came dashing from the tent. In the excitement, he let go of the pickpocket's collar, and that miscreant at once darted off.

"Get him! Bring him back!" shouted the arm of the Dundertown law.

"What do you think we are—a couple of birds?" demanded his deputies. "Get him yourself!"

The constable drew out his revolver and began firing into the air. He might as well have fired at the moon as at Ned. The aeroplane dwindled swiftly to a winged blot, then to a speck, and, finally, vanished altogether.

"I'll swear out a warrant for him!" shouted the manager.

"Well, don't do any more swearing, then," warned the constable, "er I'll arrest you fer usin' profane langwidge. I've lost two prisoners, an' I've got ter lock up somebody."

Luckily, at that moment, a small boy was captured as he was creeping under the canvas. In the act of giving him a sound spanking, the irate group left behind found some salve for their wounded feelings. Luminetti raved and tore his hair. The manager promised to wreak dire vengeance on Ned as soon as he got hold of him. As for the populace, when the story leaked out, some of them, among these being Sam, were so unfeeling as to laugh heartily. As for the quartermaster, he at once set about to report the constable to all the authorities in the United States, from the president down.

In the meantime, what of Ned?

If any of our readers imagine that he took the aeroplane on purpose, they are mistaken. What seemed like a cleverly executed plan of escape was, in reality, the result of an accident, pure and simple, but a fortunate one, as it proved.

When Ned had placed his foot on the starting pedal, to his astonishment the bit of machinery refused to budge. He pressed harder, and, suddenly something snapped. The next instant Ned felt himself being hurtled forward over the ground.

To prevent the aeroplane plunging into a tent or wagon and being wrecked, he had resorted to the only mode of procedure possible. He had set the rising planes.

Instantly the aeroplane responded. Behind him Ned could hear shouts and cries, and guessed that those he had left behind were imagining he was attempting to escape.

"If I land I'll have a hard job convincing them I wasn't," said Ned to himself.

But nevertheless, the lad tried with all his might to check the aeroplane's flight. But whatever had broken rendered this impossible. Try as he would, he could not stop the engine. His only safety, therefore, lay in keeping aloft. As the aeroplane rushed on through space, it gathered speed instead of diminishing the fury of its course.

It was all Ned could do to cling to the seat and control the frantic buckings and plungings of his aerial steed. The fact that though similar to the one he used, he was unfamiliar with the particular aeroplane in which he found himself, complicated his difficulties.

"I guess the only thing to do is to keep on till the gasolene gives out," he thought, after his twentieth attempt to check his runaway engine. "Reminds me of Don Quixote's ride with Sancho Panza to the palace of the magician in cloudland," was the whimsical thought that occurred to him. "Poor old Herc! It's not very complimentary to him to compare him to Sancho, but I wish he was here with me."

The fuel tank of the aeroplane must have been well filled, for the engine ran just as strongly at the end of an hour of aerial traveling as it had at the beginning of the trip.

"I'd turn round if I dared," thought Ned; "but I can't check the speed of the thing, and it would be suicidal to try to switch my course while going at this speed."

Ned's plight may be compared to that of a lad on a runaway bicycle on a steep hill. He did not dare turn for fear of disaster, and yet he didn't quite know what would happen if he kept on. However, he didn't have to be scared of colliding with a wagon!

Suddenly, to Ned's huge joy, the engine showed signs of slackening speed. He gently manipulated a lever, and found that he had partial control of the machine now. This being so, he decided to land as soon as practicable. From a clump of trees some distance ahead, the white spire of a church told him of a village. To his left hand lay the sea. Ned gazed at it longingly, as he dropped nearer and nearer to the ground.

He landed at the edge of a meadow adjoining a building which was occupied by the village post-office and telegraph office. A sign on a house across the way made his heart leap:

"Blackhaven Hotel."

Chance had actually brought him within close range of the fleet. It seemed too good to be true. But a crowd of villagers, who came rushing to inspect the visitor from cloudland, soon put all other thoughts but the safety of his machine out of his mind. If he had not watched it carefully, there seemed to be danger of its being ripped to bits by souvenir hunters.

A brief inspection showed Ned that a broken tension-spring had caused the runaway. It was soon adjusted. Then he peeped into the gasolene tank. It was almost empty.

"They sell gasolene in ther store there, mister," said a bright lad. "Gasolene gigs come through here onct in a while."

"When they's lost," struck in another lad.

This was good news to Ned. Leaving the lads to guard the machine, he entered the post-office. The postmaster imperturbably sold him five gallons of gasolene. Ned recollected that he couldn't pay for it. But, unfortunately, this did not occur to him till he had emptied it into the tank.

Hardly had he done so, and was starting back to the store with explanations, when the postmaster, who was also telegraph operator, appeared in the doorway of his emporium. He was waving a yellow telegram.

"Hold that feller, one of yer!" he shouted. "That thar's a stolen sky-buggy, and he's no better than a thief!"

A dozen men started forward to lay hands on Ned.

But a sudden determination had come to the lad. He was within striking distance of the fleet. It was his duty to warn the officers of the peril that menaced their vessels.

A rough hand seized his arm. Ned flung it off. At the same instant his fists drove full at a big fellow—the village blacksmith—who tried to bar his path, swinging a heavy hammer.

"Stand clear!" shouted Ned, as he sprang into the seat of his machine—or rather Professor Luminetti's—"this machine isn't stolen—it's borrowed on Uncle Sam's service!"

The next instant the machine skyrocketed upward, leaving behind it a trail of smoke, and sensation that furnished talk for the village of Blackhaven for more than a year.