by Fitch C. Bryant, January 1911
Can a boy win an airplane race? Certainly this studious lad might be able to do it!"Mr. Andrew Hastings, Aviator. Personal."
Andrew looked at the special delivery letter, then at the messenger.
"Are you sure that's for me?" he asked, in an uncertain tone, as he gazed intently yet longingly at the front of the mysterious envelop.
"Ain't no other airyvator, or what you call 'em, round here," the messenger replied with confidence as he glanced at the curious collection of wheels, rods, and canvas in the far corner of the yard.
Andrew still hesitated, but the evidence seemed all in his favor, so he carefully cut open the envelop and unfolded the short note inclosed.
Rockport, June 16, 19—.
Mr. Andrew Hastings,
Cherryville.
Dear Sir: Can you arrange to come to Rockport at once? I have an important matter to discuss with you tliat may be for our mutual advantage. Wire me if you cannot be here this afternoon.
Very truly yours,
Christopher J. Martin.
"Christopher Martin! Great Scott!" Andrew exclaimed. "Why, he's the big aeroplane expert that we 're goin' over to Rockport to see start in the hundred-mile race to Georgetown next week. Wonder if he wants to borrow that," and he smiled wistfully at the miscellaneous pile in the corner of the yard that never had risen from the earth.
It did not take Andrew long to find his father, nor Mr. Hastings long to decide that the 2135 train was the one they were to catch for Rockport. Mr. Hastings had taken a great deal of interest in his son's experiments with an aeroplane of his own design, but he had not thought best to appear very enthusiastic, for fear the hobby would absorb too much of the time necessary for school work. Now that the vacation was at hand, the father felt more justified in showing his real interest in the experiments.
Everybody in Rockport already knew Chris Martin by sight and reputation, although he had been in town but four days. Mr. Hastings and his son followed the crowd to an immense open field a mile beyond the town, where some ten or a dozen aeroplanes of all shapes and descriptions rested on the ground or circled in the air above. Tents had been pitched at convenient intervals throughout the field, each flying a pennant emblazoning the name of some particular machine.
Mr. Martin was busily engaged testing some levers, while a crowd of half a hundred men and boys looked on in wondering admiration and awe. Near by another machine of similar build stood motionless, as though ready to start at a moment's notice. Mr. Hastings stepped forward and, holding out his hand, saluted the famous aviator.
"Mr. Martin, I believe. My name is Hastings."
Mr. Martin at once laid down his tools and turned to his visitor. "I am very glad to know you, Mr. Hastings. I have heard a lot about your work over in Cherryville ever since I struck town."
"Oh, no!" Mr. Hastings exclaimed quickly. "You 've heard about my son Andrew. Andy, this is Mr. Martin." The famous air-pilot looked at the boy critically and held out his hand, but a shade of disappointment was plainly visible on his face.
"Oh, a boy," he said, almost to himself. "How old are you, son?"
"Seventeen," Andrew answered, in as mature a tone as he could muster. He was living months in those few minutes, wondering what the outcome of it all was to be.
"Well, that 's not so bad," the aviator continued. "Rather small for your age. Maybe you 'll do, though, after all. Let 's step inside the tent and have a chat." As Mr. Martin led the way, Mr. Hastings caught Andrew's eye and smiled in a significant way that reassured the boy better than an hour's talk. Mr. Martin placed three camp-stools close together and bade his visitors be seated.
"Now I 'll tell you my troubles," he began. "I've got two machines entered in the race here a week from to-morrow, and, for reasons that I can't explain now, it 's very important that both of them fly in the race. I'm going to run the one you saw me tinkering with, but the fellow I brought along for the other one has gone back on me. His sister 's very sick out in Colorado, and he had to start West suddenly last night. So you know now why I sent that special delivery letter to Cherryville this morning." The aviator paused and looked smilingly at Mr. Hastings, then at Andrew. The boy was almost holding his breath, waiting for more of those precious words from the great man. Mr. Hastings tried to say something, but could not frame his thoughts into words. Mr. Martin continued his explanation.
"Yes, I want some one to fly that machine. I've scoured the country by telegraph for the last twenty-four hours, to get a man for the job, but there is n't one to be had for love or money. Our factory's got a dozen men on its list, but they 're all spoken for the whole of next week in various parts of the country, and here I am stranded like a shipwreck, with no one for that second machine."
Mr. Hastings gazed out of the tent at the two machines, then turned and asked quietly: "Do you really think Andrew would be available?"
Andrew, in telling afterward of this longremembered conversation, said: "I knew it was all settled when Father asked that question. He never would have given me the least bit of hope if he had n't made up his mind to let me do it."
Mr. Martin glanced at Andrew before answering Mr. Hastings's question, and his face was wreathed in smiles as he saw the intent, eager look on the boy's face.
"What do you think, Andy?" he asked, and Andrew for the first time had a chance to say a whole sentence to the man he had so greatly admired.
"I 've only flown a few times," he replied.
"I knew that," Mr. Martin laughed; "that is better than many who have been tinkering with flying-machines for a good many years. But you know the principle of the thing a whole lot better than some grown-up ignoramus who never saw an aeroplane."
"Do you really think I could learn in such a short time?" Andrew asked, in a tone that showed that he wanted to clear away every obstacle.
"That "s the question. The time's pretty short, but, after all, it's a simple operation when everything goes all right and the wind is n't strong. The race will be postponed if there's a wind, and I 'll see to it that everything's as nearly perfect as possible before the race starts. You 're a likely-looking lad. How far along in school?"
"Just out of high school, next I 'm going to a technical school."
"Good! A fellow who keeps up in his studies like that will grow up into a careful aviator."
They made an arrangement for Mr. Hastings to take a short and low trial trip with Mr. Martin that afternoon, and for Andrew to begin his training the following morning. If his father had harbored any misgivings about aeroplanes before he came to Rockport, they were all removed on that first trip through the air. and he returned to earth a confirmed devotee to air-navigation and with great confidence in Mr. Martin.
Andrew Hastings learned more during the following week than in any other one week in his life—at least about air-currents, weather-signs, and the manipulation of huge planes. The first few days were spent at Mr. Martin's side, watching every move of the experienced pilot and drinking in his words of clear and precise instruction, while they sailed gracefully over the surrounding country. Then came a trip when Andrew handled the levers and Mr. Martin was the passenger—very alert and extremely painstaking to make sure that the boy understood every move that he made. On the day before the race the young pilot was allowed to make several short trial trips by himself in order to become accustomed to starting and alighting and to give him plenty of confidence.
The weather on the day of the race could not have been more favorable. Not a cloud was in the sky and scarcely a breath of wind stirring. The race was scheduled to start at ten o'clock, but Andrew was up a little after six and was on his way to the field where the machines lay in readiness for the great event. He soon met Mr. Martin coming back to the hotel.
"Hello, boy!" he called; "where are you going?''
"Down to see if my machine is all right," the proud navigator replied.
"Sure it's O. K. Let 's go off and have some fun till it's time to oil up."
The next two hours were spent on a trolley ride into the country—the best preparation the inexperienced boy could have had to calm his nerves for the great day. As the pair neared town on the return trip, Mr. Martin, for the first time that day, began to talk about the race.
"Now remember, Andy, the race is a hundred miles from here to Georgetown, and every man must bring his machine to the ground once during the trip. Better postpone this stop until as late as possible, for fear you may have to come down for some reason or other. Keep your eye on the gasolene supply, and if you find you have plenty to spare, put on more speed toward the finish, but don't use top speed excepting in an emergency. I 'll stay as near to you as I dare, and I 'll give you a word now and then through the megaphone. Don't pay any attention to what any one else says, and keep your wits about you at all events. The prize is a thousand dollars to the man who wins, and two hundred dollars to every man that finishes."
When Andrew caught sight of the tremendous crowd that packed the temporary grand stand and swarmed outside the boundaries of the startingfield, his heart began to beat a few extra thumps; but he concentrated his mind on his machine, and busied himself with the final preparations. Mr. Hastings was already at the tent when the two retruend from their trolly ride, and gave his son such a greeting of assurance that the boy felt he must do his best, if only to please his father.
At fifteen minutes after ten, eleven machines were drawn up in various parts of the field, allowing plenty of room between, each facing twoard the goal a hundred miles away. Every naviagator was in his seat, with muscles rigid and ears alert for the starting-gun. Boom! went the cannon, and eleven machines began to roll swiftly along the turf on their bicycle wheels, and, catching the air beneath their broad planes, ascended gradually into the air. The long, thin propellers were buzzing furiously, forcing the air backward and pushing the machines forward and upward. Andrew was so busy starting and steering his own machine that it was several minutes before he dared to look around at the other aeroplanes. All the rest were ahead, and even Mr. Martin was circling around a little to bring himself within hailing distance of Andrew.
"Never mind, old boy," he called, in a cheery tone; "you got off finely. Let them run away if they want to. The race is just begun. Steer up a little higher, Andy."
The boy could have hugged Mr. Martin for those words of encouragement, but the time and place for expression of gratitude were quite two hours away. For the next twenty minutes the two machines sailed along within hailing distance of each other, apparently holiding their own with the nine leaders, each of whom had chosen different levels. Some of the navigators were soaring several hundred feet above the earth, while one or two seemed scarcely to miss the steeples of the churches in the towns they passed. Everybody along the route was in the open air looking upward, for the race had been widely heralded, and the sight was a new one for thousands that gazed skyward.
"Let's go a little higher, Andy. I believe there is a slight breeze up yonder that will help us," Mr. Martin called through the megaphone.
The young pilot instantly responded to the suggestion and turned to shift his guiding-planes. The sudden jerk was too much for the bolt at the foot of the wooden lever, and it snapped. The boy let go his hold on the useless stick and made a quick lunge for the dangling rod that had just escaped from its fastenings. In an instant he had the guiding-planes at the correct angle to keep the machine on a horizontal course, and, crouching on the bottom of his machine, was peering at the ground below.
"What 's the matter, boy?" came the quick, anxious greeting from the near-by machine.
"Bolt broken," Andrew shouted at the top of his voice, but the sound was lost in the buzzing of his own propeller.
"Any danger?" the voice asked again.
Andrew looked up and shook his head decisively, then drawing up his free hand, waved it several times in the direction of Georgetown. Mr. Martin of course understood that the signal meant for him to continue in the race and leave his companion to shift for himself, but this was out of the question with the boy up in mid-air in a disabled machine.
"Let her down easy," he called. "There 's a good level field straight ahead to the left." Together the two descended slowly and carefully until about fifty feet from the earth, when Mr. Martin began to circle horizontally, watching the young pilot bring his craft gently to the ground. Andrew turned off his engine, and, stepping out on the soft turf, again waved to Mr. Martin to continue his course.
"Good-by, Andy. Hard luck, my boy! Better success next time! Hire a team and take the machine back to Rockport," yelled Mr. Martin from his circling perch, and then, headed for Georgetown, he began to ascend swiftly and dexterously.
"Go back to Rockport in a mere wagon!" Andy muttered to himself. "Well, I guess not, so long as I've got a flying-machine and two hands." He had already pulled a roll of wire out of his pocket that he had quietly taken from the tool-chest in Rockport that morning. It was a simple matter to wind and twist a fastening that held lever and rod together even more securely than had been possible with a bolt. He also supplemented the other bolts with a few strands of wire and then tested each part to make sure of the strength of his repairs.
In less than ten minutes from the time he had alighted he was again in his seat, but he had stopped long enough to find himself surrounded by some two dozen astonished men and boys who had come running from all directions. Mr. Martin's machine was barely visible in the distance when Andrew again started his engine and arose easily, steadily, a few hundred feet into the air.
Now he felt an added responsibility, for the elder navigator was no longer close at hand to render advice or assistance in an emergency, and if he had any show of finishing the race and earning that two hundred dollars, it would be through sheer force of his own efforts. These thoughts stimulated him and urged him on to his best exertions. It was lonely work, with not a soul in sight to whom he could say a word, and only the throbbing engine and buzzing propeller for companions.
By half-past eleven he knew that he had covered forty-four miles, for he had passed over Stockton. Three shots from the village cannon greeted his ears, the only sounds heard from the earth in nearly an hour. They pleased him greatly, for he felt that some one was really talking with him. Another thing pleased him. In a field near the town he saw two of the aeroplanes that had recently been in the race. They were evidently out of the contest, for the pilots were busy taking them apart. New hope sprang into the boy's breast, and he shoved the throttle of his engine a notch wider open.
Shortly before twelve o'clock he caught sight of three specks on the sky-line, and again his heart beat in joyous anticipation. Was he really in the race, after all? Oh, it was too good to be true! By 12:20 he flew over Actonville, eighty-one miles from Rockport; about five miles farther on he saw another machine lying in an open field. Only one of those specks on the horizon was now in sight. He examined his gasolene supply for the hundredth time and figured accurately how much would be needed to carry him the remaining fourteen miles. Yes, there was ample for more speed, and he carefully opened the "throttle" two more notches, leaving him only one short of top speed. It was now a race against time—everything to gain, nothing to lose. Could he possibly catch that speck on the horizon? Were there still others ahead of that? His engine had responded splendidly to the call for harder work, and his machine shot through the air as if the spirit of its undaunted pilot had penetrated each rod and wire.
Three more machines were now on the ground just beneath him, but he could see that the pilots of two of them were ready to resume the race. Looking back, he saw that the machine which had stopped near Actonville was again in flight, less than half a mile away. Only four contestants ahead, and one of those was Mr. Martin! The boy clutched his levers with a tense grip as though trying to push the aeroplane forward with his own strength.
Grahamville lay beneath him, and he knew that the goal was only six miles away. But where were those two machines that had disappeared from the horizon a little while ago? Suddenly he saw them rise scarcely a hundred yards ahead of him, and with them a third that he had not noticed. In it sat Mr. Martin.
"Go it, old boy! Go it!" the elder pilot shouted as Andrew flew over his head. "Only one man ahead of you, and six miles to fly. You 'll catch him sure. He's got to alight yet."
Andrew held his handkerchief in the stiff breeze as a signal that he had heard, and kept up his terrific pace. Mr. Martin and his two mates were soon under way at great speed, but Andrew was already a quarter-mile in the lead. All five contestants in the chase after the leader had forced their engines nearly to the limit and were sailing along at almost the same rate.
The leader was no longer in sight, and each knew that unless he could be caught before he had gained full speed after his trip to the ground, the race would be lost. Five miles, four miles, three, two, one—the spires of Georgetown could now be seen in the distance. Andrew was watching the earth ahead with a tenseness almost painful.
Suddenly the leader appeared, rising skilfully a few hundred yards ahead of Andrew. Could he make it? Oh, could he win out? Andy shoved the lever over to the limit. He gaged every foot of that few hundred yards that separated him from the leader, and as he shot forward, he could see his machine diminish the tremendous handicap foot by foot. He well knew that if he could only catch the leader before he had regained full speed, the race was as good as his, otherwise he must lose and be content with second place.
Yes, he was still gaining. Inch by inch the progress grew now, but he was already ahead and pushing farther forward each second. Both machines were at top speed, and Andrew was scarcely a hundred yards nearer the goal.
"Easy now," he shouted to himself as they flew over the outskirts of the town; "I must work her down gradually and slow up for the finish. The other fellow will have to go easy." The sound of his own voice seemed to reassure him.
Andrew hated to touch the throttle, but he remembered his instructions to go slowly at the finish, and gradually the machine flew slower and slower, until at length he closed the throttle altogether, and the great aeroplane slid gently to the ground and rolled along on its wheels a short distance and stopped.
Ten seconds later his rival of the past three hours came to rest a hundred feet away. No sooner had the machine of the erstwhile leader come to a complete stop than the man at the wheel jumped from his seat and bounded across the turf to the boy's side.
"You 're the greatest ever!" he exclaimed, seizing the boy's hand. "I only wish they 'd make your prize ten thousand dollars. You deserve every cent of it."
"I'm sorry we could n't both win," Andrew replied, with a broad smile, trying to suppress the joy that was bubbling over inside of him.
"Who beat?" came through the megaphone from Mr. Martin's machine as soon as he was within hailing distance. Andrew looked to his late opponent to break the news, and the man waved his arm significantly toward the boy.
"Hooray! hooray!!" came the answer, and a moment later Mr. Martin had brought his aeroplane to a standstill a few rods away and was running across the field to greet the young winner. Throwing both arms around the boy, he lifted him off his feet and swung him around in a circle.
"Andy, you 're the winner, my boy!" he exclaimed, as he let go of him and turned to examine the machine.
"I 'd like to telegraph the news to Father," Andrew remarked quietly.
"Telegraph to Father! Why, boy, your father had the news as soon as your machine touched the ground. Thousands of people all over the country have been waiting hours to find out who won. You 'll have a telegram in about ten minutes."
Mr. Martin was right. Just fifteen minutes after he had brought his machine to the earth a telegram was thrust into the boy's hand:
Heartiest congratulations, my dear son. Your Daddy is proud of you.
Theodore J. Hastings.
"I 'd rather have that telegram than win the race," Andrew remarked.
"Possibly," Mr. Martin answered, with a laugh, "but you had to win to get it!"
