There was a wild scamper of natives as our flyers came down upon the smooth, hard sands of the beach. In this operation they had to use the utmost care to avoid striking the machine of their contemporaries, but it was accomplished without mishap, and the Sky-Bird came to a stop about seventy feet from theClarion.
They were immediately surrounded, at a very respectable distance, by a cordon of Samoans. These were splendid-looking fellows. Their dusky bodies were strong and stalwart, and their faces were intelligent-looking. It was plain to be seen that they had not the slightest hostile intentions toward the aviators. On the contrary their features expressed clear friendliness, although it was obvious that their experience with theClarionwas still too fresh to eradicate their natural timidity of such a strange thing as an airplane.
Our friends were very stiff and cramped from their long ride from Port Darwin. It seemed so good now to be able to stretch their limbs, to feel solid ground once more under their feet, and to see the blue sky all around their heads!
The morning was hot, but a cool breeze blew inshore, giving a delightful freshness to the air. Near at hand were rows of native huts, made of poles and bark, and back of these loomed fine groves of cocoanut trees and other tropical vegetation in the richest profusion. Even the elevations of this volcanic island had their barrenness alleviated by growths of greenery which seemed entirely to cover them.
No sooner had the boys sprung out of the machine than three white men approached them. These introduced themselves as Mr. Plusson, in charge of the local mission; Mr. Hart, a British trader; and Mr. Shoreman, the American trader who had been engaged to look after their fuel at this airport. These gentlemen expressed the liveliest cordiality in their welcome, and Mr. Plusson plead so hard for them to accompany him to his home and join him and his wife at breakfast that they consented.
They learned that their rivals had arrived about twenty minutes before. Ever since the dastardly attempt of Pete Deveaux and his crowd to wreck the Sky-Bird in the Indian Ocean, our flyers had been greatly incensed at them, or rather at Pete Deveaux himself, for they had no doubt but that it was he who had instigated the attack. Paul Ross was particularly inflamed at the French aviator's act, and had more than once declared since, that the first time they met Deveaux again he was going to thrash him until he begged for mercy. This was rather a bold statement for Paul to make, since he was but a youth of eighteen while Pete Deveaux must have been close to thirty; but the lad was strong and skillful with his fists, in addition to which his resentment was just. When justice is on one's side it goes a long way toward giving that person staying powers in any contest against wrong.
For these reasons, when Paul now declared that he could not bear to wait another minute before taking Pete Deveaux to account, his chums made no attempt to dissuade him, except in the matter of time. John pulled him aside, so that explanations would not have to be made to their new acquaintances, and asked him to defer the matter until after they should have had breakfast, to which Paul reluctantly agreed.
When they once more reached the field, it was to see their rivals also just arriving. Without further ado, Paul walked straight up to Pete Deveaux and said; "Deveaux, why did you drop those rocks down on us back there when we were overhauling you between Colombo and Singapore?"
The Frenchman's face paled visibly. He did not like the look in Paul's eye, nor the stern countenances of his friends. But he hoped to bluff his way through.
"Why accuse me of anything like this?" said he, trying to look surprised and hurt. "We had nothing to do with those stones falling. Their weight broke the catch off of the glass trap, and they went through before we could stop them; didn't they, guys?" He turned to his three flyers for support.
Crossman, Torrey, and Lane nodded their heads.
"Sure," averred Crossman.
"What did you have those stones on board for?" demanded John.
TheClarionmen were silent. Their leader was the first to reply.
"We got some kola nuts from the natives at one of our stops, and wanted the stones to crack them with," stated Deveaux.
"It's a lie!" accused Paul. "Stones do not accidentally fall as straight as those did. Pete Deveaux, you and your crowd did the best you could to wreck us, and I'm going to take it out of your hide right now!"
"Oh, you are, are you?" sneered the French aviator. "It seems to me I'll have something to say about that, you young whippersnapper! If these friends of yours will keep out of this, I'll promise my boys will keep out, and I'll give you all the show you want."
"Fair play; that's right!" cried Mr. Shoreman, stepping forward. He had heard enough to convince him that nothing but a fistic settlement of the controversy would be adequate, and, with the help of several white traders and sailors, he formed a ring.
Like lightning the word went out, and scores of natives came running up to see the encounter. An affair of this kind just suited their primitive instincts; it was even a greater treat than seeing an airplane land upon their fair island.
So by the time that Paul and Pete Deveaux had thrown off their coats, a great ring of natives surrounded them, and in its front were numerous whites from the ships in the harbor.
Pete Deveaux was inwardly very nervous, although he was careful not to show it. Had Paul not been so much younger, Deveaux would probably have made some excuse to back out of the fight. As it was, he had a sneaking hope of getting the better of Paul, now that the youth's friends had agreed not to interfere. He also hoped to injure the boy so badly in the encounter that he could not take his turn operating the Sky-Bird for the rest of the journey; at least, cripple him enough to delay his party in getting away from the island.
With these evil intents the French flyer conceived still another. He stepped aside and whispered something in Chuck Crossman's ear, then came back and faced Paul.
Mr. Shoreman gave the signal, and Pete Deveaux feinted and shot his other fist savagely at Paul's eye. But the boy was wary, dodged the blow, and struck his adversary a hard one in the chest. For a moment Deveaux was staggered; but he quickly recovered, and once more sprang forward.
Missing with his right, he succeeded in hitting Paul in the shoulder with his left. Wheeling like a flash, Paul shot out a fist before the Frenchman could recover his guard, and struck him a smash under the ear which sent him reeling back into his friends.
Pete Deveaux was now thoroughly alarmed. He had not expected such science, nor such force, on the part of his opponent. He approached Paul with much more caution, amid the howls of the natives, and decided to let him take the offensive.
Paul was willing. Encouraged by his success thus far, and bent upon ending the fracas as soon as possible, he met his adversary with a heavy swing which just cleared the man's ear. Deveaux struck, but missed also. Pressed backward, he clinched to save himself, and in this position, where nobody could see his movements, he viciously tried to put some short jabs into Paul's abdomen.
Fortunately for himself Paul succeeded in breaking away before he was doubled up by the blows, one of which had landed with sufficient power to make him utter an involuntary smothered exclamation of pain.
"No more of that, Mr. Deveaux!" warned the referee suspiciously, asPaul shoved his opponent back. "Keep out of the clinches! Fight fair!"
"Fair! Fair!" yelled the sailors; and the natives took up the cry in their own language.
Paul now advanced, and Pete Deveaux retreated. The latter was really frightened. Something was beginning to tell him that in this youth of eighteen he had met his superior.
"I think we'd better quit, Ross, before we hurt each other," suggested the French flyer cravenly. "This flight business of ours won't stand such delays as this. We can have this out when we land in Panama."
"No, we can't have it out in Panama!" cried Paul. "Stand up if you're a man and settle this thing right now. Watch out; I'm coming!"
By this time Pete Deveaux had retreated to the lower end of the improvised ring. He saw that he was cornered; that he must fight once more. Lunging forward like a trapped rat, he struck a wicked blow for his opponent's head.
Paul parried it, and as swift as a stroke of lightning his right hand streaked out and caught Deveaux under the jaw. The Frenchman reeled backward a few steps, and toppled over, full length upon the ground. What a cry went up from the onlookers! By this time the sympathies of every one, except Deveaux's own comrades, were with the youth. No one, even a half-civilized savage, at heart likes a coward.
For a few moments Pete Deveaux was dazed. But after his cronies had helped him to his feet, and started away with him, he still had enough spite left to shout back, as he shook a fist: "We're not done with you fellows yet!"
Paul was now the recipient of congratulations from all sides. Everybody wished to slap him on the shoulder or shake hands with him, it seemed, and the native populace gave him so many cocoanuts, bananas, and pineapples that he was literally hemmed in with fruit, and John, Bob, and Tom had to open up a pathway before he could get out of his sweet-smelling barricade.
Our flyers put as much of the gifts in the cabin of the Sky-Bird as they could find room for, including an abundance of nuts for the happy Grandpa, and then they turned their attention to the pressing business of overhauling the engines and storing fuel.
While they were thus engaged, theClarion'smotor was heard to start; and a few moments later she arose and took off to sea.
"Humph!" ejaculated Tom, "those fellows have beat us to it again."
"They ought to; didn't they arrive ahead of us?" asked Tom.
"We'll be out of here in fifteen minutes more," stated John.
But the words were no more than out of his mouth when Paul, who had been inspecting the rear end of the machine came dashing excitedly forward, crying:
"Fellows, hob is to pay! Those rascals have cut the wire braces that support the tail-skid, and it's lopping away over!"
Paul's announcement threw his friends into a state of consternation. As they viewed the wire braces, neatly cut with a pair of nippers, they recalled Pete Deveaux's act of whispering in the ear of one of his party just preceding the recent fight, and realized now its full import. This fellow had slunk out of the crowd, slipped over to the unguarded airplane, and performed the unprincipled trick without any risk of being caught at it.
Since there was no chance for immediate redress from the guilty party, who were almost out of sight to the eastward, all our flyers could do was to bend every effort to make repairs as fast as possible. After considerable skirmishing around, they managed to secure some wire from one of the vessels in the harbor. The severed strands were then removed and new pieces cut to length.
It was found that the weight of the machine upon the unsupported skid, had cracked the skid past repair; so they had to whittle out another from some tough wood, which the natives brought them from the nearby forest, before they could connect the new wires and were ready to start.
Finally they took off at a few minutes past noon, more than three hours behind their rivals. It was disheartening, to say the least—all the more so on account of the fact that their delay had again been caused by the sinister acts of the other crew. They made up their minds that if they should meet Pete Deveaux and his crowd at another stop, something worse than a single fistic encounter would take place!
As they soared away toward Nukahiva, with Upolu growing constantly dimmer, John, who had been studying the schedule, turned to his companions and asked:
"Do any of you fellows know what date this is?"
"Let's see," mused Bob, at the throttle; "we left Port Darwin the evening of the 26th; the evening of the 27th we were still at sea, and the next morning—the 28th—"
"You're ahead of time just one day," laughed John. "This is the 27th of the month."
"How do you make that out?" asked Bob. "Didn't we leave Port Darwin on the 26th?"
"Yes," admitted John.
"And the following evening we were at sea?'
"Granted. That was last evening—the 27th."
"Then any dunce can see that to-day is the 28th," said Bob witheringly.
"That's what I say, too," supported Paul.
But John only laughed harder, and this time Tom joined him.
"John's right," said Tom; "to-day is the 27th."
"Itcan'tbe," protested Bob. "You own up that yesterday was the 27th, don't you?"
"I certainly do," chuckled John; "but you forget one thing, young man: that same evening, all in a moment's time, we crossed the One Hundred and Eightieth Meridian—the date-line of the world—and while it was Thursday, the 27th on the west side of this line, it became Wednesday, the 26th the instant we crossed over to the east side."
"Oh, sure!" exclaimed Bob and Paul, feeling very silly. And the latter added: "That's where we gain a day in our lives—and to think that Bob and I were asleep at that auspicious moment!"
"I know an old maid who swears she is fifteen years younger than she really looks," commented Tom. "I think she must have done a lot of globe trotting, and always east!"
"There's no danger of the fair sex ever circling the globe in a westerly direction," laughed John, "for that would make them one day older every time."
The day could not have been better. Hardly a cloud was to be seen on the horizon, and the regular trade-winds blowing westward were soft and steady, and they were making excellent time.
Grandpa frisked about, perching on this object and that, and occasionally running back into some secret nook where he had hidden his supply of nuts. With one of these in his paw he would jump up on something, crack it in his powerful small jaws, and look very wise and serious as he picked out the meats with his slim fingers.
Finally the monkey had his fill, and hopped up into Tom's lap. He began to play with Tom's hair, smoothing it down pretty soon with the flyer's comb, which he discovered in a pocket. So handy was Grandpa with this utensil that the others went into peals of laughter. Tiring of this, the monkey's eye caught sight of several freckles upon the back of Tom's hand. He tried in vain to pick the freckles off; then he became excited, for he could not understand why they would not lift up. He chattered scoldingly at everybody; then tried again. Failing, he sprang down and went to a far corner, in a fine sulk. Evidently he thought Tom was playing a trick on him, and had glued the freckles down someway just to tease him; for Tom, it must be admitted, was greatly given to bothering Grandpa in some such manner.
Shortly before ten o'clock the following morning all hands were up to take a look at their next stopping-off place—Nukahiva, the main island of the Marquesas group, the place where they hoped to find a supply of helium-gas awaiting them.
A fine island this—as fine a volcanic upheaval as one will find anywhere. Sheer walls of cloud-capped rock 6,000 feet high, some literally overhanging the crystal-clear water, and all embossed and engraved with strangely patterned basalt. There are pillars, battlements, and turrets; so that, with half-closed eyes, it seems you are approaching a temple, a medieval castle, or a mosque of the East. And the valleys—deep, choked with the most rampant growths of luxuriant vegetation, in the heart of which silvery streams gurgle their way tortuously along—fade away into mysterious purple mists. Small wonder that this gorgeously beautiful island should have been the home for a century of one of the finest races of primitive people the world has ever known! Sad indeed is it that to-day the Marquesans are rapidly dying off from consumption and fever introduced into their fair domain by civilization itself.
Nestling in a good-sized valley near the harbor our flyers saw scores of native houses, as they drew nearer. These were constructed of yellow bamboo, tastefully twisted together in a kind of wickerwork, and thatched with the long tapering leaves of the palmetto. Here, too, was the big white T of their hopes.
In a short time they had safely landed, one hour behind schedule. Their rivals had left an hour and ten minutes before. But joy of joys! here were four tanks of helium, and with a filling of this they would show those fellows how to fly!
As fast as they could work, our friends overhauled their machine and put it in shape for the long trip to San Christobal. They would have given almost anything to have joined the many natives they saw swimming in the cool waters of the harbor, but felt that they could not afford to waste a single minute.
At twelve-thirty, with the sun at its zenith, they once more took to the air. This was Thursday. By Friday evening they should be at the Gallapagos Islands—their last stop before Panama. What a cheering thought it was!
Heading just a trifle north of east, they ran almost full-out. It was easy to note the difference in the behavior of the Sky-Bird since her helium tanks had been fully charged. She sped along as she had in the very beginning of their journey—like a long bullet fired from some gigantic cannon. How the engine did sing! The wind rushed by them like a hurricane, and they had to shout in order to be heard when they had anything to say to each other.
Satisfied that all was going right, Tom and John soon turned in, for they were very sleepy. When the operating crew awoke them it was dark. Bob then got into wireless communication with Panama, and delivered a message for Mr. Giddings. Following this, he and Paul also took to the hammocks.
When the two youths awoke it was morning, and the Sky-Bird was not behaving as well as when they had retired. Looking outside they saw the reason for this. The entire heavens ahead were hidden under dun-colored clouds which in places seemed to be gathering themselves together into formidable leaden arrangement. The gentle trade-winds had developed into a stiff wind. Down below, the sea was covered with whitecaps, while in the distance the water was swinging into immense swells with foaming crests.
John and Tom both looked worried. The two younger boys felt more uneasy when they noticed this.
"I guess we're in for a pretty hard storm," said John, as he gave the throttle up to Paul. "Tom and I will stay up a while and see how things turn out. The Sky-Bird's down to about a hundred an hour now. Better keep her there, Buddy. That's fast enough in a blow like this."
A few minutes later a fork of lightning split the sky ahead. This was followed by another off to the right, then by one off to the left. Then they heard the rumble of thunder, and a heavy gray haze slowly began to engulf the sea, rapidly approaching.
"That's rain," cried Paul. "Say, John, if you're not too done out maybe you had better take the stick again; I'm afraid I won't be equal to what's coming."
His brother complied. John did not wish to frighten his comrades, but the truth is he knew this would be the worst storm he had ever faced in his four years of flying.
"We'll try to get above those clouds," he said quietly. He did not like to tell them just what he thought—that if they did not get above the clouds without delay they would either be struck by lightning or torn to pieces by the terrible whirlpool of winds which he knew those churning black masses ahead contained.
John turned the Sky-Bird upward at as stiff a slant as he felt would be safe for them in that high wind. At nine thousand feet they emerged above the first layer; but eastward the clouds appeared to terrace up gradually, and in the distance there extended another great wall, towering several thousand feet higher.
Some of the rain was now beginning to reach them. It came pattering down upon the roof; and under the strong impulse of wind and their speed, it struck the glass windows in front with a smack like buckshot. The moisture on the panes made it difficult to see out.
"Take a reading with the anemometer, Tom," ordered John, straining his eyes hard ahead.
This little instrument was something like a miniature windmill. Its four wings were supplied with cups which, as Tom held the instrument out of the window facing the wind, caused the spider to revolve. The latter was geared to a small dial, over the face of which passed a hand, much like a clock, indicating the speed of the wind.
"She's blowing fifty miles an hour, and gaining every minute," announced Tom. "That's the hardest wind we've been in yet."
"If we stay down here it will be blowing sixty within ten minutes," was the pilot's grim response.
Just then there was a blinding flash of light a little way ahead of them, accompanied by such a terrific crash of thunder that their ears rang.
"Gee!" cried Bob, "that was a close call! I'll bet that bolt came within a rod of striking us."
"A miss is as good as a mile," shouted John cheerfully. He and the others found that they would have to yell in order to be heard, so great was the noise from engine and storm.
Zip!went a zigzagging livid streak across their range of vision. It seemed to be running straight for them, and instinctively they dodged—all but Tom and John. These old veterans continued to gaze coolly straight ahead as though nothing had happened.Crash-h!went a clap of thunder. It seemed as if the whole heavens were being turned topsy-turvy. Even the airplane, usually so steady, heaved and rode like a rocking-horse.
The two younger members of the party were not to be blamed for feeling pretty well frightened by this time. It was one thing to be cutting through the fleecy white clouds of a calm day, and quite another to go stabbing through murky black ones which were rolling angrily, ejecting both wind and rain, and spitting out vicious roars and jagged streaks of pale-blue flame. One moment they would be in gloom; the next instant a cloud would be rent asunder with a ripping, tearing sound, and the whole turbid, boiling sky-universe would be bathed in the ghostly light. What a weird, fantastic, chaotic world they were in!
But it was only for a few minutes that they were in the worst danger. Soon, to their infinite relief, they had reached their "ceiling." They were now 15,000 feet up—almost three miles,—and below them lay the vast sea of troubled cloudland, dark and forbidding, rolling tumultuously like an ocean of curdled ink. It was a novel experience to be running in the clear air over all of this infernality of sounds and sights, while above them the blue, star-studded heavens looked down upon them calmly and peaceably.
For almost an hour the furious storm continued in the lower regions. Then it began slowly to subside. First the lightning stopped, then the thunder. The banks of clouds took on a lighter hue, and began to drift apart; a pinnacle here and a crag there were swept off by the winds, until the masses of nimbus became flattened out into patches of sun-flecked foam as beautiful as fresh-fallen snow.
The anemometer spun slower and slower as the gale decreased in violence, and presently the airplane was gliding along with its normal smoothness. Here and there, between the patches of white cloud, they caught glimpses of the ultramarine sea, thousands of feet below them.
It was so cold up here, even with the windows closed, that all the boys were shivering in their warmest wraps. The air, too, was so rarefied that it was with considerable difficulty that they could breathe, for they had been in it for some time. Not one flyer in a hundred can live at an altitude of twenty thousand feet, as he bleeds at the nose and mouth; and our aviators were up to within five thousand feet of that height. It was now time to descend.
John shut off both engines, and they began to volplane down in a great stillness, sailing like an immense hawk. Lower and lower they went—fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten thousand feet. Now they were gliding through clear, thin air; now cutting a hole through a heavy cloud so impregnated with moisture that it sweat over the glass and the boys would have to wipe a sleeve across hastily to improve the vision. Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two!
That was low enough. All this time the propeller had been spinning from the rush of air alone. Now John threw in the clutch; the revolving propeller shaft grabbed the crankshaft of the engine, and once more it began its rhythmic purr. Just a little upthrust of the tail-elevators and ailerons brought them again into the horizontal in a huge swoop. Nothing could have been prettier. They had escaped the terrible tornado, leaving it still galloping westward far behind them, and were once more in normal position for continuing their flight toward the goal!
Below them, for miles around, they could once more see the ocean uninterruptedly. Its mountainous waves and deep gorges of a short time previous had probably swallowed up many an unlucky ship that morning; but its temper was expended, and all it could do now was to sulk in long, even billows which every moment became flatter and flatter.
How had their rivals fared? This question was in the minds of every one of our flyers as the Sky-Bird continued swiftly on her course. In their hearts was a vague feeling that perhaps Pete Deveaux and his crowd might not have come out of the storm as lucky as they, for not one airplane out of a score could have outlived it. Their own escape had been almost miraculous. But for the good generalship of John they surely would have met with mishap.
So now, as they went along, a sharp lookout was not only kept for their rivals in the sky ahead, but anxious looks were cast over the expanse of white-capped waters. Calculations told them that by this time the other airplane could not be far ahead.
Less than ten minutes later, Tom espied a small object far away on their port quarter. It was bobbing about on the waves, rising and falling. Bob seized a pair of glasses, and took a long look. He turned around with his face full of excitement.
"Heavens, fellows!" he cried; "that object looks like an airplane!"
All took a look. Then they, too, were excited, There could be no doubt about it—the object was a wrecked airplane. And as it was extremely unlikely that there were other machines in the vicinity than their own and that of their adversaries', they were quite sure that it must be the remains of theClarion.
John turned the Sky-Bird in the direction of the floating thing, and soon they saw what seemed to be the form of a human being clinging to one of the wings. John threw in both engines in an effort to get all possible speed out of the craft.
In a little while they were close enough to see that the wreck was really theClarion. But what a sad-looking sight was the former handsome craft! Her tail had been wrenched off, and only half of one of her long wings could be seen. Out upon the other, on hands and knees, clinging desperately to the aileron brace, was the hatless, water-soaked figure of a man. As they came closer still they could see him waving his hand frantically at them.
With a glass, Paul saw that this person was Oliver Torrey. Anxiously his eyes roved over the wreck in quest of other survivors, but none could he discern. Irony of fate! had all of the others been drowned?
John brought the Sky-Bird down to within seventy-five feet of the sea as they approached. Tom seized the speaking trumpet, and as they swept over theClarionhe bawled out: "Hang on, Torrey! We'll stand by, and save you if we can!"
But they were facing a herculean task, and realized it. They could not light upon the water. Nor could they stop in midair. How in the world could they effect the hapless flyer's rescue?
John circled at reduced speed while all of their minds were busy trying to work out the problem. In the meantime Torrey's frantic pleadings for them not to go away and leave him to his fate filled their ears. It was a trying, nerve-racking situation.
Bob Giddings struck upon the first idea.
"Why can't we trail a rope for him to catch?" he asked.
"He's probably too weak to climb a rope," objected Tom.
"I'll tell you what we can do," said Paul, with a happy thought. "We can take this coil of rope we have here and make a narrow ladder of it! That will be easy for him to catch, and easy to climb."
All agreed instantly that this was the only hope of rescue. So John kept the Sky-Bird slowly wheeling, while his three mates cut and tied until they had formed a narrow rope ladder about fifty feet long. One end of this they securely fastened in the cabin, while they let the other drop down through the glass trap in the floor.
To their dismay the rush of wind carried the light ladder out so horizontally behind that they saw they could never get low enough with safety for Oliver Torrey to reach it! What could they do now? It seemed they were destined to failure; that Torrey must be left to the cruel and hungry waves.
"I have it!" cried Bob. "We'll fasten Grandpa near the lower end of the ladder. His weight will be sufficient to keep it down straight."
This was a splendid scheme, surely. Accordingly, the monkey, wondering what new form of teasing was about to be imposed upon him, was fastened about three feet from the bottom end of the ladder, and Grandpa and his strange trapeze was then slowly let down until all of the ladder had been paid out. The crew were glad to note that it now hung almost perpendicularly.
Now the success of everything depended upon John. He must be skillful enough to bring the ladder across Torrey's position in just the right place for the flyer to grasp it as it swept past.
They shouted to the man below to stand up if he could, and comprehending in an instant his part of the program, he struggled to his feet, spreading them wide apart to brace himself, for the wrecked airplane was rocking somewhat from the action of the waves.
The first time John brought the Sky-Bird by he was too high; Torrey could not reach the ladder. The second time a sudden gust of wind blew the ropes too far to one side at the critical moment. The third time the machine itself was a trifle too far to one side. But on the fourth attempt success met their patient efforts; Torrey's hands seized the bottom rung of the ladder, and a few minutes later he had climbed up into the cabin and sunk weakly upon the floor. Paul then brought in the ladder, laughing nervously, and released Grandpa, who had not relished his part of the proceedings in the least, to judge from his excited chattering, most of which was bestowed upon the rescued man.
One of the first questions our flyers asked of Oliver Torrey, after they had helped him remove his wet clothing, was:
"Where are your friends?"
TheClarionflyer shook his head sadly. "They're done for—drowned. I'm the only one left of our crew. That was an awful storm, boys! I don't see how you ever survived it."
"We did it by flying over the greater part of it," said Tom. "How did it happen to get you fellows?"
"Pete and Chuck were operating," explained Oliver Torrey. "Sam and I both wanted to get above the tornado, but they said they thought it wouldn't amount to much. When they saw how bad it really was, it was too late. A whirlpool of wind struck us at three thousand feet, Pete lost control, and we went into a nose-dive from which we never recovered. When we struck the sea the force crushed in the front of the cabin, stunning Pete, and before any of us could grab him the waves had washed him out of our sight. Chuck, Sam, and I managed to get out and climb up on the fuselage; but the seas were running so high that half of the time we were buried in water. Coming out of one of these deluges, I looked around and saw that I was alone. Then the storm passed, and things looked better for me. But I was just about ready to give up when I saw the Sky-Bird coming."
Oliver Torrey paused a moment, wiped his haggard face, and then continued, as he looked earnestly at his rescuers:
"Boys, I never can thank you enough for saving my worthless life. It's awful to think that we guys let Pete Deveaux coax us into doing all those dirty things to hold you back. I guess we deserved this punishment. If I ever get back to Panama I'll certainly make what amends I can by telling the whole disgraceful story to the world."
Tom stepped in front of theClarionflyer, and shook his finger in his face. "Torrey," said Tom, "I think at heart you are all right; but listen! Mr. Wrenn, who hired you fellows, is a straight man through and through. If this story gets out it will be published broadcast, and people will think he abetted your crimes against us. So, for his sake——"
"I see; I hadn't thought of that," ejaculated Torrey. "I will keep still; as far as the public'll ever know, they'll think this was a fair and square contest—and so it was on your part."
It must be remembered that John and Tom had had no sleep since the day previous. They were so tired by now, especially John, that they were very glad to retire to the hammocks, leaving Paul and Bob to take care of the Sky-Bird. Oliver Torrey was also exhausted, and accepted with alacrity Paul's invitation to him to jump into the spare hammock. Within five minutes the two youths were the only ones awake.
It seemed good to the boys to feel that soon they would be at San Cristobal, their last stop before the final hop. They flew along with the throttle wide open for the next hour, eager to make up for the delay caused by the storm and the rescue of Torrey. Then they reduced the speed a little, to make sure they would not overheat the engine, but still they made good time.
Shortly before six o'clock that afternoon they sighted a blue haze which a little later developed into a group of several islands. These they knew, by consulting their chart, were the Gallapagos, the home of the largest land-turtles ever known, monsters so enormous that one of them could walk off with two half-grown boys on his broad back.
There are over two thousand volcano cones in these islands, and soon our friends were almost in the midst of them. On all sides and at all distances were rugged peaks one hundred to two thousand feet high, rising sheer from a rose-pink sea over which the declining sun played ravishingly. Along the shores pelicans soared above the shallow inlets, watching for unwary fish. Tiny birds darted in and out among the cliffs. Down in the crystal depths of the sea, over shelves of coral, vague shapes hovered and passed and repassed—sharks, dolphins, turtles, and grunts, even the ghastly devil-fish.
All life seemed confined to water and to air; never was dry land so desolate-looking as those myriads of barren volcanic cones. Yet one of these islands was peopled with human beings—San Cristobal.
Which one was it? The easternmost of the group, said the chart.
Circling that way. Bob gave a yelp like a pup which sees his younger master after he has been away all day.
"I see Dalrymple Rock!" he cried, with the binoculars to his eyes. "I see Wreck Point, too, and a bay between 'em, with houses on the beach. That looks like our number, all right. What more do you want, Paul?"
"Nothing," laughed Paul,—"except our landing field. Find that, wake up the other fellows, and I'll be satisfied."
In a moment Bob pointed out a flat field marked with the welcome white T, then he aroused John and Tom while Paul was bringing the Sky-Bird down. From a rickety old pier, also from the shores where they had gathered, a crowd of curious natives rushed forward to witness the landing of the most startling object they had ever seen. They were a mixture of South Americans, mostly Ecuadoreans, and not until our friends stepped out of the cabin did they summon up enough courage to get very close to the machine.
Among them was the owner of the island—a good-looking young Ecuadorean, highly educated, who was to look after their interests in the matter of fuel,—and the chief of police (presumably "chief," because there is only one representative of the law in the Galapagos).
The owner of San Cristobal informed the flyers in excellent French,—which all of them except Oliver Torrey could speak,—that he was delighted to welcome the first airplane crew to his little domain; that weeks ago the ship had brought gasoline and oil, which was now awaiting their pleasure in the little nearby shanty; that he and his police officer and the peons were eager to serve them in any way they could; and would the brave American aviators favor him and his police officer by joining them at the hacienda for dinner that evening?
Our friends graciously accepted this invitation, upon finding that their host would appoint a watch for the airplane. They then went with him to his pretty hacienda in the valley—a green, undulating country, dotted with grazing cattle and horses, patches of sugar-cane, coffee bushes, and lime trees, stretching away to a cloud-capped range of mountains.
Situated upon a hillock, in the midst of this entrancing valley, and surrounded by the peons' grass houses, was the owner's home. Here the flyers partook of an excellent repast, garnished with the best the island could afford, including tender wild duck from the surrounding lagoons and savory turtle soup. Then followed songs by their host, and jolly college melodies by themselves, accompanied by the sweet strains of a guitar in the hands of the police officer.
Out in the compound, the peons also celebrated the occasion. There were great oil flares, thrummings of guitars, gyrating dancers in bright-hued ponchos, merry cries, the laughing of children, the barking of dogs.
Everybody seemed thoroughly happy and contented. And, after all, what else matters? That is the Ecuadorean point of view, and who shall say it is a bad one?
It was difficult for the boys to remind themselves that here they were precisely on the equator, so positively chilly was it. And yet they were. It was the third time which they had touched that imaginary girdle of the earth in the past week or so; and it was to be their last crossing. How inspiring the thought that they were now within one hop of their goal; that sometime on the morrow they would probably reach Panama well within their time limit of ten days!
The fact is, they had only 650 miles ahead of them—a distance which could easily be covered, barring accidents, inside of five hours, and they had until one o'clock the following day in which to reach their destination. When they realized this, and were pressed most insistently by the owner of the island to spend the night, under the shelter of his roof, where there were two spare beds, the tired, bed-hungry flyers decided to remain over, Oliver Torrey going to the house of the police "chief." Torrey was really in no physical condition, as it was, to continue the flight immediately, for he had suffered a chill as the result of his exposure, and felt very weak.
Next morning they were up at the break of day, and at once began the task of refilling the tanks of the Sky-Bird and giving her machinery a general overhauling. Torrey felt much better, and assisted in these operations. His gratitude to the boys for deciding not to divulge the duplicity of the unfortunate crew with whom he had been connected was very great, and he spared no effort to help them on toward success—which goes to show that this fellow was not at all bad at heart but had simply gotten in with a bad crowd.
It was a good thing that the flyers went over their engines. John found a loose coupling in one, and a stretched fan belt in the other. Had they gone on in this condition trouble would have been sure to visit them. It was small wonder, however, that something should not be out of good working order, for these faithful pieces of mechanism had been given the hardest kind of usage day in and day out, each in its turn, and sometimes working together, in this long flight around the earth. Their final test had been the storm. More than once the boys had marveled at the remarkable efficiency of their motive power. What a tribute to the mechanical genius of modern man had these engines paid! They were almost human in intelligence, more than human in their untiring zeal.
The repairs were not difficult to make; the belt was cut and fastened again with a leather lace borrowed from the police "chief's" shoe, and the careful use of a wrench and other tools out of their kit finally fixed the loose coupling. But these operations had consumed unlooked-for valuable time, and when they had had breakfast with their friends and were ready at last to go, they found that the watch of their host indicated the hour of nine.
Setting their own watches to this local time, as had been their custom in all towns upon arriving or leaving, our flyers once more thanked their entertainers for courtesies extended, wished them good-bye, and got in their machine.
As they taxied swiftly down the course, the rush of wind from the big propeller sent more than one Ecuadorean's wide-brimmed hat flying from his head, and to the enjoyment of all, a native who was perched precariously upon an up-ended cask was blown heels-over-head backwards.
No sooner had they straightened out upon their northeasterly course than Bob sat down to his instruments and called up the Panama wireless station. In about ten minutes he got it, and told of their position and the accident to theClarion. They all knew that when the news of this catastrophe reached the American newspapers there would be the greatest excitement, and that Mr. Wrenn would not only be grievously disappointed but horrified at the fate of the three members of his crew.
They now had just four hours in which to reach their goal. That meant they must travel at an average rate of better than 160 miles an hour. Since they had gone considerably faster than this when the occasion had warranted it in the past, they felt no anxieties now. John, who was at the throttle, opened the Sky-Bird up to 165, and at this gait they skimmed swiftly along over the blue-green waters of the big Pacific.
"This speed ought to bring us in by twelve-thirty—a good half-hour ahead of our limit,—so there's no need of rushing matters," said John, to which sentiment his comrades agreed.
By eleven o'clock all were keenly on the look-out. Each flyer coveted the honor of being the first one to see the coastline of Central America, the resting-place of Panama.
Paul, with the binoculars to his eyes, was the one to win. It was just exactly 11:25 when he shouted in true mariner's style: "Land ho, my hearties!"
Taking the glass, one by one his comrades gladly echoed the announcement.
But suddenly Bob's face turned chalky. "Jiminy, fellows," he cried, "what boneheads we are! We have been figuring on San Cristobal time all the while. Panama's close to an hour ahead!"
"And we've only got thirty-five minutes in which to land!" said Tom. "Huckleberry pie! Boneheads we are! Boneheads, boneheads! I repeat it—boneheads, boneheads! It's all off now."
Tom actually wrung his hands in his misery, and the others felt just about as humiliated and disgusted with themselves.
"Here's where our prize goes a-flickering," groaned Paul. "We never can make Panama in thirty-five minutes!"
"I don't know about that," declared his brother grimly. "Here goes for the effort, anyhow. I'll make the Sky-Bird fly as she has never flown before!"
With that he brought the throttle wide open, and two minutes later threw the second engine into commission.
They were not beaten yet! The wind whistled, shrieked, and roared as it swept aft along the smooth body of the Sky-Bird. The propeller whirred, and the engines purred like two huge twin cats. So great were the noises combined that the voice was completely overwhelmed, and no effort was made by the flyers to talk with one another.
With their pulses beating wildly and hearts thumping in accord, they watched the hazy streak on the horizon line ahead rapidly develop into the unmistakable rugged form of land. As they drew closer, they could even see the glint of water on the other side, and knew without the shadow of doubt that what they were looking at was the long belt of earth connecting the two Americas—the Isthmus of Panama itself. And down their backs ran a new thrill at the recognition.
Larger and larger loomed the brown and green strip in advance. Presently, amid the checker-board of nature's colorations, they could make out a bay and on a tongue of land a considerable collection of buildings. It was Panama City! Five minutes later they could even distinguish the American flag—how glorious the sight!—fluttering at the staffhead of the courthouse, and could see the streets and ships in the harbor thronged with people who were evidently waiting to welcome them.
The excitement of the throngs increased as the airplane drew closer. People jumped up and down, yelled, and waved their hats. It had been only a few minutes before that Bob had received the radio admonition from the Panama station; "Town gone wild; but hurry in. You only have six minutes left!"
Now they were circling high over the heads of the populace, with one engine shut off and the speed of the other much reduced. In graceful, pretty circles the Sky-Bird began to spiral her way downward, John's eyes fastened upon the big white T of the familiar airdrome. As they came down, people in the outlying districts rushed madly toward the field, and the streets everywhere were choked with the concourse pouring toward the center of attraction.
Scores of others had previously posted themselves in the airdrome; but all were kept back by a cordon of ropes and a guard of Zone policemen. Inside of the barrier were a favored few Government officials and distinguished personages, newspaper men, photographers, and Mr. Giddings and Mr. Wrenn themselves. Colonel Hess, the judge of the contest, was also present, ready to receive the flyers' affidavits of stops.
As the flyers stepped out of their machine many a camera clicked, and the air was filled with the cheers of the multitude.
Colonel Hess stepped quickly up. In one hand was a watch; the other was extended.
"My heartiest congratulations, boys!" he exclaimed, as he received their paper. "You have arrived just in the nick of time. Panama time, it is now exactly fifty-nine minutes after twelve!"
They had won by one minute! The flyers were so tickled that they also felt like cheering. But they were sobered instantly when Mr. Wrenn came forward and they saw how sorrowful he looked in spite of the brave smile with which he greeted them.
"Young men," said the publisher of the Clarion, "as the loser in this contest I also wish to congratulate you. We have suffered a heavy blow ourselves, but you deserve full credit for the good work you have done, and I am not the kind of a contemporary to withhold compliments so fairly earned. I trust my men conducted themselves as true sportsmen, poor fellows."
Noticing that Oliver Torrey was on the point of making reply, John gave him a warning look, and a moment later pulled him aside and said in a low voice: "Mr. Wrenn should not know that you fellows did not conduct yourselves otherwise than fair in this race. That would make him feel all the worse. Keep mum toeverybodyabout this, and we'll do the same."
Oliver Torrey nodded—tears in his eyes as he saw how desirous the Sky-Bird's crew were of protecting his own interests as well as the good name of his former associates. What fine fellows they were! How he wished he could have been allied with them on this cruise, instead of with Pete Deveaux and his bunch!
The hardships and perils of the past ten days were forgotten in the excitement of the present. Our flyers hardly knew what they were doing, so great was their joy. They shook hands with scores, hearts swelling with those emotions invoked by achievement and the glamor of the moment. It was—and always will be, perhaps,—the supreme hour of their lives.
Almost reverently they looked over the Sky-Bird. Through every possible climatic rigor the airplane had passed, and practically without any attention. Not once, from the time they had left this very airdrome until they had reached it again, after traversing close to 25,000 miles, had she been under shelter or sulked on them through deficient construction. Given a few days to overhaul her engines, they felt they would be quite capable of repeating their world record-breaking achievement, if it were necessary.
These reflections were of brief duration, however; for the crowd, having forced its way past the barriers, and having satisfied its curiosity over the machine, directed their attention to the flyers. Brimming with enthusiasm, they lifted every one of them shoulder high, laughing and cheering, and conveyed them to an extemporized platform made from a large box. From this elevation, each flyer in his turn was called upon for a speech. The boys made these quite brief, but were vociferously applauded; and then the two famous publishers were asked to contribute. Following came the governor of the Zone, who very eloquently expressed the pride the little Republic felt in starting off and witnessing the finish of this memorable event, and he said the keys of Panama were at the disposal of the young aviators until they should feel it incumbent upon them to leave for the States.
For three days our friends remained, and during that time they were the almost constant recipients of honors from civic clubs and associations of the city, as well as from the English-speaking citizenry in general. They were entertained at dinners, at the theater, and at sporting events out-of-doors—and not a penny were they allowed to spend themselves.
To the aviators it all seemed like a festival snatched from the covers of "Arabian Nights." Had genii and fairies, elfs and goblins, appeared before them bearing gifts of gold and jewels they would hardly have been surprised, so unreal did everything appear to their tired minds; and tired bodies only grew more tired under the stress of the social demands.
Strange indeed were their feelings when, upon looking at back files of newspapers, they read the history of their exploits, recorded with a degree of detail which must have taxed the imaginative resources of editorial staffs to gray hairs; and saw picture after picture taken with their own camera and sent across many a continent in the form of undeveloped film, now to bring before their eyes once more the realism of the moment when they were taken. There were photographs of themselves collectively and individually in many a place now far distant; views of the machine at rest, and of parts of it among the clouds and above them; two views of the fight with the condors; several of Grandpa in various amusing positions; many pictures of foreign places and of natives; illustrations showing the battle with the devil-fish; storms as seen from below, and storms as seen below when flying above them. Even pictures of the wreck of theClarion, and of Oliver Torrey climbing up the rope ladder, were not missing.
Before the flyers left Panama, Paul received many offers to sell Grandpa to various admirers, but no amount of money could have induced him to part with this faithful little mascot. Oliver Torrey particularly felt that he owed a great debt of gratitude to the monkey.
When the party finally reached New York City, after a non-incidental flight of one night and the major portion of a day, they were given another ovation—one which far outrivaled in volume the one they had received at Panama. The mayor and city officials wished to fête them, but the boys were too exhausted to stand more of such doings; they wished to get home as soon as possible, hide from everybody but those in their immediate families, and just rest—rest—rest. They didn't think they would even care to see their dear old Sky-Bird again for several months.
It would be hard indeed to comprehend the feelings that surged through the flyers as they landed the airplane in the fair-grounds of their own native town—Yonkers—and were greeted by hundreds of familiar faces and voices, to say nothing of the hand-clasps of many old-time friends.
But, after all, the reunion with their own relatives was the cause for the greatest thanksgiving, as we may assume. Both Paul's and Bob's mothers had prepared the choicest of dinners for their famous sons, and that evening the Ross and Giddings families were the happiest and merriest ones in town.
Mr. Giddings and Mr. Wrenn both realized more out of the advertising than the contest had cost them. The former met his agreement by giving each of his flyers five thousand dollars, and his business rival did likewise by Oliver Torrey. Later on, Bob and the Ross boys sold their patents on the Sky-Bird to a large airplane manufacturing company for a sum which promised to make them independent for the rest of their lives.