  By the time Curt and Al got their bicycles and pedaled to the vicinity of Rocky Lake, Bob’s flare was out and they had no means of ending their suspense until they had looked around in the picnic grove and assured themselves that there was no burning airplane in sight. They rode along the highway. “Isn’t that a flashlight, in the old field?” “It looks like one, Al.” “It is!” They pedaled faster. Presently the pair reached the field; soon Bob, using a small pocket flashlamp, was telling his brother and his best friend how the electric spark had worried him. “I knew the brown airplane was gone,” he continued his explanation, “the only thing left for me to do was to head back to the plant. But I saw that quick little flicker close to the gas line and cut off the ignition switch.” “What are you doing now?” “Tracing the wiring,” Bob told his brother. “And here is a wire! It ought not to be run so close to the gas line! And here is another, away back under the dash instrument board. They cross!” “Crossed wires!” gasped Curt. “That isn’t right!” “Certainly not!” agreed Bob. “We’ve learned enough about airplane construction at the Tredway plant to know they don’t do such careless things as that!” “Then somebody deliberately did it,” concluded Al. “It’s part of the scheme to damage the crates.” “It’s worse than that!” Bob climbed to the ground and faced his companions. His face, hard to see in the dark, because he was saving his electric battery, was very serious. “It’s worse than just tampering! Fellows—this is Mr. Tredway’s own airplane!——” “I see,” commented Curt soberly. “Some one wanted harm to come to the owner of the plant.” “And the ‘some one’ made sure it would. In daylight,” Bob stated, “that spark wouldn’t be noticed. It was only by being out in the dark of night, that I could see it.” “But crossed wires ought not to rub enough to wear out the insulation in a short time,” objected Al. “Neither they did. Al—Curt—the insulation was scraped away!” They were silent for a long moment. The full wickedness of that deliberate act made each of the youths feel rather cold. They were dealing with something more sinister than an attempt to make away with small airplane supplies, to damage airplanes for the purpose of injuring the reputation of the manufacturers, as they had decided the conditions seemed to indicate. “Well,” Curt became practical, “you can’t fly that ship home, not in that condition.” “If we had some adhesive tape,” Bob said, “I could tape the wires and get back to the aircraft field.” “I’ve got bicycle friction tape in my little toolcase.” Al ran to get it. “The place is hard to reach,” Bob told Curt. “Maybe I could do it,” Curt responded. “My hands are thinner and my fingers are longer than yours.” As soon as Al brought the roll of pitched fabric, Curt, with the flashlamp set for steady burning, located the damaged insulation and began to work with strips of the tape, having some difficulty in winding it without pulling the wires too much. “This is going to be a slow job,” he called out. “Bob, somebody ought to go and call up Griff, to see if he has any news.” “I think so too,” Al agreed. “Why don’t you both go!” Curt urged. “One could stay at The Windsock and watch and the other could come back with news—or, Bob, you could ride back on my wheel, to The Windsock with Al, and then come on back here and we two could fly back to the hangars together.” “Would you trust yourself with me, in the dark, flying this ship?” asked Bob. “Something else may be wrong with it.” “That’s so. I’ll look it over. I know how they inspect them,” Curt suggested. Al and Bob agreed, and went to the two bicycles. Off they rode. “There’s that ‘plane again!” Al pointed to a tiny red flare high up over the roadhouse ground. “He has come back.” “I suppose I frightened him away,” Bob said. “He probably thinks whoever chased him has given up, and he has come back.” “One thing bothers me,” Al observed, forgetting his weary legs in the fresh excitement. “Why would a crate that has a pilot who flies away from pursuit come back to do stunts?” “I can’t answer that,” Bob replied. “Let’s get there. See! He is looping, and he has lighted some sort of rocket or bomb that makes a trail of fire to show his stunt off in the dark.” “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Bob agreed with his brother’s exclamation as the airplane, high above them, with fireworks leaving a comet’s tail behind it, made a series of loops, dived, zoomed, made a sort of “S” of fire by side-slipping first one way and then the other. When they got back to the roadhouse the display was over. Ground flares were going and it was clear that the pilot meant to land. “We’re going to see who it is, after all,” declared Bob, thrilled by the possible revelation that was to come. Curt saw the gyrating ship and its glowing trail of sparks. He watched for a moment and then went doggedly back to his work. If Bob needed this sport craft, Curt proposed to have it ready if careful, methodical work could get it so. Surprised, he heard himself addressed by a youth who came over from the farmhouse whose builder owned the field. “What’s goin’ on?” asked the farmer’s son. “Some display for the opening of the roadhouse dance floor,” Curt replied, tightening down the tape and clipping off the end with his pocket knife. “I don’t mean yonder. I mean here.” “Oh! A little trouble. Crossed wires.” The youth did not understand; but he accepted the explanation. “Ain’t you awful young to be a aviation flyer?” he asked. “I don’t—I’m not the pilot,” Curt stated. He explained. Then, his task finished, he clambered down to see the glow of the distant, concealed ground flares, and to guess that the sky rider was going to land. “This is gettin’ to be a regular aviators’ place,” said the youth to Curt. “Guess pa ought to put up signs, ‘Places to land for rent.’” “Do many crates land here?” Curt was surprised. “Well—look at them tracks!” Thus having the spot indicated, even in the dim light Curt was able to see that deep ruts had been made, not only in the soft, ploughed edge of the field, but also on the turf. “Hm-m-m!” he had no explanation to comment. It was unimportant. Something of greater concern was on his mind. “See here, buddy,” Curt said, “will you help me ‘warm up’ this ship?” He was searching for two stones or blocks big enough to hold the airplane still while the propeller revolved. “The pilot might want to take off now that I’ve fixed the damage.” The boy agreed. Curt, locating several rocks near where the brown ‘plane had once been hidden, set them under the wheels, and then, realizing that the ship must take off facing into the wind, he got the youth to help him drag the tail around, to pull the whole ship as far up at the end of the turf as possible. “First time I ever worked around a—er—‘grate’——” “‘Crate,’” Curt corrected, smiling in the darkness. “That’s a slang way of speaking of an airplane, and it means either a term of fondness, or of disgust, according to how the user feels about his ‘ship.’” “I see. Gee! Wisht I could be one of them aviator flyers.” “You can, if you are willing to study enough,” Curt said. “It means hard work. There’s a lot to learn. But a fellow who has ambition can get to be anything he likes.” “Not without being educated more than me.” “You can pick up some education while you’re studying in ‘ground school,’” Curt explained. “After you learn the parts of the airplane, the way each one works, what it is for, and so on, and how they are put together, you have to study about airplane engines—the principle of the internal combustion engine and what all the parts are for and how they work. There has to be study of—let’s see—oh, yes!—aerodynamics—how a ship flies, and why, and what different air currents do, and how to know their effects. There’s navigation, too—the beginnings of it, anyway.” “All that? I thought you got in and pushed something and——” “If there weren’t so many people who thought that,” Curt said soberly, “we wouldn’t have so many accidents. Flying is a science; and there’s more to it than getting into the air and going somewhere. It takes ground school study to learn the foundation part, and instruction flights to learn how things are handled, and solo flights and stunting to show you how to handle a crate in an emergency—and navigation in its practical applications, for long flights. But if you are in earnest, you can get all that, and pick up practical arithmetic and grammar and so on, in night school at the same time.” “Not without money!” “No—unless—you might come over to the Tredway aircraft plant and I’d introduce you to Barney—Mr. Horton, the manager. He might give you a chance to work as a ‘grease monkey’ in the field, for he is awfully nice. He helped all of us.” The youth agreed eagerly, and then, with the chocks set and the ignition switch off, Curt told him how to work the propeller around, and got him back to safety as the ignition switch followed the gas “on.” The engine took up its roar, and Curt knew enough to shut down the throttle to idling speed, allowing the slow revolutions to warm up the power plant. He knew little about oil pressure and instrument readings, but he knew that an engine, to function safely and steadily, in flight, must be warm. While he busied himself getting everything as nearly ready as his ability allowed, Bob and Al reached the roadhouse. The airplane had already “set down.” “It’s the brown one, and no mistake!” Al was thrilled. “Yes,” said Bob. “Now, Al, the pilot must have gone inside the roadhouse. I don’t see him around the dance place. You could go in to ask for his autograph. I see you still carry that little book. It ought to be easy to get a look at him, have him pointed out to you. That’s really all we need.” Al agreed. He had no difficulty in getting a busy waiter to jerk a thumb toward one of the private compartments. Al went to its door, pushed aside the curtains—and stepped back. What he saw stunned him! |
|
