The Stolen Aeroplane

OR

How Bud Wilson Made Good

BY

ASHTON LAMAR

Illustrated by M. G. Gunn

Chicago

The Reilly & Britton Co.

Publishers

COPYRIGHT, 1910,

by

THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE STOLEN AEROPLANE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[9]

The Stolen Aeroplane

OR,

How Bud Wilson Made Good

CHAPTER I AN IDLE BOY GETS A JOB.

“Here she comes.”

Doug’ Jackson, the driver of the Scottsville House ’bus, rose from the edge of the depot platform, hitched up his trousers, and motioned the usual depot loungers back to safety. All were waiting for passenger train No. 22, west bound, due at 11:15 A. M., and late, as usual.

“She’s made up seven minutes,” Doug’ announced authoritatively after consulting a large silver watch. “She’s fannin’—git back there, you kids.”

No one else yet saw or heard the approaching train, whose proximity was only detected by Doug’s long experience in such matters; but all necks were craned toward the grade east of town and the curve at its far end.

[10]

One of these anxious watchers was Mr. Josiah Elder, a man just beyond middle age, who shaved every morning down to a round patch of whiskers on a prolonged chin, and whose white starched shirt and heavy gold watch chain proclaimed him a person of affairs. Just at present, a heavy coat of dust on a new, black, soft hat and on his dark trousers suggested that the morning had been spent out of doors, where the September drought had coated the town and country with suffocating dust.

Mr. Elder was president of the Scottsville First National Bank. He was also president of the Scott County Joint Stock Agricultural and Trotting Association. And this was Wednesday morning of fair week. The president was hot, dusty, and had an anxious look.

“Hello, Mr. Elder,” exclaimed Doug’ hastily, lifting his cap with his badge as “runner” on it, and glancing hastily along the track to be sure that his announcement had not been premature. “Train’ll be here right away.”

“Morning,” replied the anxious fair official, looking toward a dusty, side-bar buggy and a lively looking horse hitched just beyond the ’bus. “Keep your eye on my rig, Doug’.”

Just then a hollow whistle sounded far up the[11] track, and a moment later, beneath a puff of white steam that drifted around the curve, a billow of black smoke told that No. 22 was “fanning” down grade toward the town.

“I’m lookin’ for a man named Dare—T. Glenn Dare. If you see him, he ain’t goin’ to the hotel. He’s goin’ with me.”

“What’s the prospec’s fur fair week?” asked Doug’, indicating that he understood. “I reckon that airship’ll bring out a fine attendance ’bout Thursday.”

“We hope so,” replied Mr. Elder impressively. “It is a novel attraction of great educational value. And it is an expensive feature. The people o’ Scott County should recognize our enterprise and turn out liberally.”

“I reckon it’s goin’ to kind o’ crowd you to git everything in shape on time, ain’t it? All the boxes and the injine is over there in the freight house yit.”

“We are waiting for Mr. Dare. He’s the manufacturer’s agent and operator.”

The oncoming train was already pounding over the switch track frogs at the town limits. Doug’ mustered up his courage, crowded a little closer to the disturbed fair official and exclaimed, nervously:

[12]

“All right, Mr. Elder, I’ll keep my eye out fur him. And your rig’ll be all safe. Say, Mr. Elder, you couldn’t spare me a ticket fur the fair, could ye?”

But this appeal was lost. The mogul engine, hissing as if annoyed at its enforced stop in Scottsville, slid to a grinding stop, panted a few times, and then with a sharp clang of its bell and a deep snort, was off again. The crowd, always anxious to see the train come in, edged forward, fell back and grouped itself about a dozen arrivals. Two traveling men, or “drummers,” Doug’ captured. The others were either not strangers to the depot crowd or easily identified by their luggage and costume as visitors from near by towns. Mr. T. Glenn Dare was not among those who alighted.

Having made sure of this fact, President Elder’s strained look at once turned into one of complete annoyance.

“I reckon yer man didn’t git here,” remarked the talkative ’bus driver. “Maybe he’ll be on seventeen.”

One look at the official’s face convinced Doug’ that it was not the time to renew his request for a free ticket. Mr. Elder hurried into the depot, and with no attempt to restrain his anger, called[13] up the ticket office of the fair association on the telephone.

To some one, he rapidly explained that Mr. T. Glenn Dare, the expert who was to set up and operate the aeroplane for the fair directors had not arrived. The boxed and crated airship had been in the depot freight house for a week. It was now Tuesday of the week of the fair, and a flight had been advertised for Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock. Operator Dare, who was to make this at the rate of fifty dollars a day, had been expected Tuesday morning.

“Yes, I know,” answered the president to the person with whom he had been talking, “we’ve saved one hundred dollars, but that ain’t it. We’ve got to exhibit our aeroplane to-morrow, or let the people know we can’t. We’ve paid one thousand eight hundred dollars in good money for the thing, and it ain’t worth a nickel to us over there in the freight depot.”

There was more talk, and then President Elder ended the conversation by announcing:

“There isn’t any use to haul the boxes out to the ground, if the man don’t come. We’ll wait until the night train. If he ain’t on that, we’ll send out bills callin’ the show off. Then we’ll ship the machine back East and sue the company[14] for failure to keep its contract. They agreed to have a competent man here, and they’ve thrown us down.”

As the perspiring Mr. Elder came out of the hot ticket-office of the musty-smelling station and paused on the platform to wipe his red face, his eye fell on the freight-house across the tracks from the station. He glanced at his horse to see that it was all right, and then sprang across to the freight-depot. He had not yet seen the valuable crates consigned to him. The freight-agent had already gone to dinner. Entering the long shed, he glanced inquiringly about. It was half dark.

“Lookin’ for your aeroplane, Mr. Elder?” exclaimed a pleasant boyish voice from somewhere in the gloom.

The banker and fair president traced the sounds to their source. At the far end of the room and opposite a rear door stood a mound of carefully packed and braced skeleton-like frames. On the edge of a heavy square box bound with steel bands, sat a boy of perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Although it was hot, the lad was wearing a heavy blue flannel shirt, a red neck tie, and a cheap, sailor hat. His low shoes were worn and old, and his socks gave signs of[15] needing a mother’s care. He was slowly fanning himself with a big blue handkerchief.

“If you are,” added the boy, springing to his feet, “here it is; and it looks like the real thing.”

Instead of examining the aeroplane crates, Mr. Elder’s eye swept the boy from hat to shoes.

“Aren’t you Bud Wilson?” he asked at last.

“Yes, sir. Attorney Cyrus Stockwell is my foster father.”

“I thought so,” rejoined the banker tartly. “I’ve heard of you. Lafe Pennington, of our bank, has told me about you.”

The boy laughed—he had already taken off his discolored hat.

“Then you didn’t hear much good about me, that’s certain.”

“No,” soberly answered the elder man, “to tell you the truth, I’ve never heard much good about you.”

The boy laughed again, but in an embarrassed way, showed his confusion, and then said:

“Lafe and I never got along. But, he may be right. I’ve got a bad name.”

“What are you doing here? You are old enough to be at work.”

“That’s it,” went on Bud, “I ought to be. I[16] have a job promised me when I want it, out in the country. But I’ve been waitin’ to see this.”

He pointed toward the dismantled airship.

“What do you want to see? You haven’t any business loafing in here. Have you been monkeyin’ with the machinery?”

“Oh! I know ’em around here. And I ain’t hurt nothing. No fear o’ that.”

“Well, what’s your interest?”

“I want to see it. I’ve been waiting every day since it came. I want to be here when you move it. I want to help unpack it.”

“You? What do you know about aeroplanes?”

“Nothing—that is, almost nothing. But I guess I know a little. You know I ran Mr. Greeley’s automobile nearly all summer. I understand motors. And—well, I do know something about aeroplanes. I tried to make one this summer.”

A look of sudden interest showed in the banker’s face.

“Oh, I remember now, you are the youngster that nearly broke his neck trying to fly.”

“I suppose Lafe Pennington told that,” answered Bud, looking up. “Well, I didn’t. I[17] fell, but I lit on my feet, and I didn’t even harm my aeroplane.”

President Elder was looking over the big crates, and peering through the frames. Suddenly, he turned to Bud again.

“What do you mean by your aeroplane?”

“It wasn’t really an aeroplane. That is, I didn’t have an engine; but I made the wings; and I flew one hundred and fifty feet in them, too, out at Greeley’s gravel pit.”

“Then you know how an aeroplane is made?”

“I think I do. They are all pretty much alike. When I see this one, I’ll know a lot more.”

An idea was plainly working in President Elder’s brain. He made a searching examination of the lad before him. Then he asked:

“Didn’t you and Lafe Pennington work on this airship idea together?”

Bud laughed outright.

“Hardly,” he answered, “Lafe wouldn’t work with any one. He knows too much. I worked alone.”

President Elder looked at his watch. It was just noon.

“Do you think you could put this airship together?”

“Certainly, I put my own together.”

[18]

“Bud, meet me here at one o’clock. I may have a job for you.”

While the banker’s smart rig went clattering up the brick street, Bud started for home on a run.

Long before one o’clock, Bud was at the freight-house again. In a short time, a dray and an express wagon appeared. About the time that a large farm wagon, drawn by two horses, came in sight, Mr. Elder reappeared. In the buggy with him was the young man referred to several times by Mr. Elder and Bud an hour before—Lafe Pennington. As they sprang from the vehicle, Bud was on the freight-house platform. Lafe passed the boy with a condescending smile; but Mr. Elder stopped.

“Bud,” he began, “I had a kind of a notion that I had a job for you, but I guess that’s all off.”

“I hoped you had. I hurried back.”

“Well, it’s this way. I forgot that our clerk, Mr. Pennington, had some knowledge of aeroplanes. We are in a sort of a box, and after I talked to you, I decided to try to get this machine ready. The man who ought to do it isn’t here. Even if he comes to-night, he won’t have time to set it up. So, while I talked to you, I decided[19] to try to put it together and have it ready when he came. I was going to get you to help.”

“Can’t I?” asked the boy eagerly.

“I don’t think we’ll need you now. I’ve got Mr. Pennington. He says he can do it without any trouble. And you know he’s in the bank, and I know him. He’s one of our clerks.”

“I reckon he can do it, perhaps,” answered Bud in a disappointed tone, “but I’d like to help too. I’d work for nothing.”

“I suggested that, but Mr. Pennington says he’d rather work alone.”

Mr. Elder was about to pass on when Bud touched his sleeve.

“Mr. Elder,” he said, “Lafe said that because he knew I was the only person in Scottsville who could help. I haven’t anything against Lafe, but you ought to know the facts—I know more about aeroplanes than he does. He may be able to do what you want, and he may not. You may think I’m knocking Lafe, but I’m not. I’m just giving you the truth: he thinks he knows more about airships than he really does.”

“You seem to feel sure you know it all,” almost sneered the banker.

“I should say not,” answered the boy[20] promptly. “I know hardly anything, and Lafe knows less.”

“Well, if we get stuck, I suppose we can call on you.”

“I’ll be right there, waiting.”

“Pshaw,” exclaimed the banker laughing, “we need plenty of help. Mr. Pennington may not want you, but I do. Turn in and give us a lift. Between us, we’ll see what we can do. We are going to move these boxes out to the fair-ground, and see if we can put our aeroplane together. You’re hired to help.”

[21]

CHAPTER II THE HERO OF THE GRAVEL PIT.

The Scott County Fair-grounds were a mile and a half from Scottsville. A little after two o’clock, the “aeroplane” cavalcade was on its way there from the freight-house. In front, rode President Elder of the fair association, with Lafayette, or Lafe, Pennington, the bank clerk and amateur dabbler in aeronautics, by his side. Then came a dray with the four-cylinder, 25-horse power, 190 lb. Curtiss engine elaborately crated. Next was an express wagon with boxed engine accessories, such as gasoline tank, water cooler, chain drives, and the dismounted propeller blades. In the rear, in the big farm wagon, rode proud Bud Wilson, busy preserving the balance of the spruce sections of the aeroplane surfaces.

In the excitement attendant upon the fair, the procession attracted little attention. Buggies and passenger hacks raised clouds of dust in which wagons laden with belated exhibits made their way toward the great enclosure within whose high white fence Scott County’s agricultural[22] exhibit was fast getting into final order. At the sight of President Elder, the gate attendants threw the white portals wide open, and Bud had a new joy—he was working for the fair, and didn’t have to pay to get in.

“I never did pay,” laughed Bud, speaking to the driver of the wagon, “but this is the first time I ever went in at the main gate.”

Winding their way among the plows, self-binders and threshing-machines already in place, and then directly between the two lines of peanut, pop, candy, cider and “nigger baby” stands—already making a half-hearted attempt to attract trade—the aeroplane wagons passed through the heart of the grounds. Near the “grand stand,” where for ten cents extra, one might view the trotting and running races, President Elder alighted and personally superintended the unlocking of the gates leading onto the race-track. Across this, the three vehicles made their way.

At the far end of the space within the smooth half-mile race-track was a newly built shed, made according to directions forwarded from the aeroplane factory in New Jersey. In front of this, the wagons halted. There were not many persons in attendance that day on the fair, but[23] there were enough to make an audience of several hundred at once. The aeroplane shed was a temporary structure—a shed with a board top and canvas sides. Willing hands soon had the different sections of the car either in the house or near by in front.

Lafe Pennington’s coat was off, and he superintended the unloading with a great show of authority. By this time, a carpenter and a machinist had arrived, and the officious bank clerk announced that spectators had better be dispersed in order that he might work undisturbed.

“What do you want Bud to do?” asked President Elder.

Lafe smiled feebly.

“Nothing just now,” he answered. “He can stay outside and see that we are not disturbed. I don’t think it will take us very long.”

The confident clerk started to enter the shed.

“How about the starting track and the derrick for the drop weight?” asked Bud innocently. “I don’t see any material here for those.”

Lafe stopped suddenly, and looked up in surprise.

“Yes, of course,” he faltered, “where are they?”

[24]

“I don’t know what you mean,” said President Elder. “I guess everything’s here.”

Pennington made a quick survey.

“Oh, they are not here,” explained Bud. “I discovered that some days ago.”

“You’re right,” conceded Lafe. “They must have forgotten them. We’ll have to telegraph for them.”

“Telegraph nothing,” blurted the president. “We’ve no time for telegraphing. They can’t get ’em here in time. If it’s something you have to have, I guess we are stuck.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Bud, “the manufacturers expected you to make this apparatus on the ground. The ropes and automatic release block are here.”

“How can we do that?” sneered Pennington, already irritated at the turn affairs were taking.

“Very easily, I imagine,” replied Bud, “if they sent specifications. The manufacturer sent word how to build a shed and how big to make it. Didn’t they send a letter?” he asked, turning to President Elder.

“Letter? Why, yes—I forgot that—a big letter,” exclaimed Mr. Elder, reaching into his inside pocket.

[25]

Pennington took it, glanced it over hurriedly, and exclaimed:

“Sure, here it is, sketch, measurement, and all.”

“Couldn’t I look after that?” asked Bud turning from the president to Lafe.

“That’s carpenters’ work,” answered Pennington at once. “We’ll have the carpenters see to that. They can order the stuff by ’phone at once.”

He turned again to begin the work of uncrating the aeroplane.

“How long do you figure it’s going to take to put the car together, Lafe?” asked Bud.

“I don’t know,” retorted Pennington sharply, “but I’ll get along all the faster if I’m not stopped to talk about it.”

“It ought to be done to-night, shouldn’t it?” queried Bud, turning to the president and showing no irritation.

“Certainly, if possible.”

“Then we ought to get some lights—three or four gasoline flares. That work can’t be done before dark. It’s going to take all night. It’s a tejous job. And after the frame is set up and made fast, the engine must be tested and anchored and the shafts set.”

[26]

“Hadn’t we better get the lights ready?” asked Mr. Elder of Pennington.

“Of course, we’ll need them,” answered Pennington, who had in reality not thought of them. “Better let Bud go to town for them.”

“All right. Here Bud, take my horse and buggy and go to town, and get what’s needed at Appleton’s hardware store. I’ll be at the ticket office when you get back.”

Pennington had disposed of his rival temporarily, but Bud took his defeat cheerfully. However, he could not resist the temptation to turn the tables once more.

“Want anything else?” he asked casually as he climbed into the rig.

“Nothing more now,” answered Pennington, turning away for the third time.

“You want gasoline for the lamps, don’t you?” suggested Bud.

“Certainly—and matches, too,” said Lafe with another sneer.

“Well, how about some gasoline for the engine?”

Lafe grew red in the face, and turned away impatiently.

“And some oil for the engine?”

“You don’t expect a fellow to think of everything[27] at once, do you?” snorted Lafe. “I haven’t been hanging over this thing for a week. I’ve had something else to think about.”

“Seems as if Bud had done a good deal of thinking,” suggested President Elder. “Hurry back, Bud, we may need you again.”