The workmen assisting Lafe and Bud did not wait for the coffee. The last of the appetizing sandwiches had disappeared when the male member of Madame Zecatacas’ outfit came shambling along with the pot of neither very fragrant nor very strong coffee.
“Help yourselves, boys,” suggested Bud, offering the workmen their only drinking vessel—a tin water cup. “We’ll try to have a better breakfast.”
Lafe, who had worked steadily and energetically all night, was sitting on a box taking a breathing spell. Bud, as a further reward to the coffee bearer, was attempting to show the sour-looking stranger some details of the aeroplane and hastening in his explanation, for there was plenty of work to be done. About the time he had finished, there was a sharp exclamation just outside the shed.
“Move on. What are you doing hanging around here?”
It was Pennington speaking in a brusque voice.
“Twelve o’clock, the good-luck hour,” a woman’s voice responded. “I see good fortune in store for the young gentleman. Let the Gypsy Queen read your fate. Cross Zecatacas’ palm with silver. I see good fortune for the young gentleman.”
“Get out, you faker,” exclaimed Lafe.
“She’s all right,” interrupted Bud. “She’s the Gypsy Queen. She’s Queen Zecatacas, and she made the coffee for us.”
“Well, it’s no good anyway,” retorted Lafe. “And I reckon we’ve had enough visitors for one day.”
The old woman seemed not to hear the words. She was looking beyond Pennington and into the brilliantly lighted airship house, where, in the glare of the torches and lanterns, the fragile and graceful frame of the aeroplane had at last assumed shape.
“Beat it,” added Lafe authoritatively, “and don’t bother us any more. We’re busy.”
The aged gypsy did not take her eyes from the skeleton of the airship. To Bud, the shadowed fortune teller seemed like a person in a trance. Without replying to Lafe or moving, she spoke, suddenly, in a strange tongue, to the man with her. He answered angrily in the same language. She stretched forth a bare, lean arm and pointing toward the aeroplane spoke again. The man replied, more at length this time, and as if in explanation.
“She wants to know what it’s all about,” volunteered one of the carpenters who was nearest the apparently transfixed woman.
The man laughed with a sort of sneer.
“Don’t you fool yourself. She reads. She knows. But she never seen one.”
“Well, we ain’t on exhibition now,” spoke up Lafe. “You and the old lady have your pay. We’ll excuse you.”
“What you so sore about, Lafe?” interrupted Bud. “I don’t see that they’re doin’ any harm. I think we ought to thank ’em for makin’ us a pot of coffee at midnight.”
Before Pennington could make reply to this, Zecatacas, the Queen of the Gypsies, took a step forward. Something seemed to make her look bigger—perhaps it was the light, which now fell full on her face. Bud stepped back. It was a face full of creepy power. Chanting, the woman spread her long fingers before her and mumbled:
“The old Gypsy Queen has read the Book of Fate many years. Across the seas, she foretold how man would soar like a bird. What she foretold has come to pass. Not for gold nor silver did the Book of the Future open to her. She dreamed the dream of what would come to pass. To-morrow Zecatacas will look upon what she foretold across the seas.”
“Sure,” interrupted Bud, anxious to change the subject, “come to me, and I’ll get you a front seat—free. When did you predict that there’d be airships?”
“Rubbish,” exclaimed Lafe, glaring at the old fortune teller. “If you feel better now, you’d better duck and get to bed.”
To neither of these speeches did the gypsy seem to give the slightest heed.
“What is written in the Book of the Future will be. I see men flying over forest and mountain. Faster than birds they mount into the clouds. The clouds are dark, the sky is black. I see—the Gypsy Queen sees death.”
“Get out, you old hag,” roared Lafe, angered at last beyond control, “or I’ll fire you out.”
With a cat-like spring, the gypsy leaped forward, caught Lafe’s extended arm in a vice-like grip, and before the young man knew what she was doing, or could prevent it, she had opened his clenched fist and shot a lightning-like glance at his exposed palm. As the half frightened and trembling Lafe jerked his hand from her grasp, the fortune teller hissed at him:
“You spit upon the Gypsy Queen. She puts upon you no curse. But the Line of Fate tells much. Beware! Zecatacas tells nothing. For him who spits upon her, she sees all evil and woe. There is more, the sky is black, but old Zecatacas tells nothing. Beware!”
With the last word, the old woman disappeared into the darkness. Before Lafe could make reply to her, the man, picking up his coffee pot, exclaimed:
“I was just goin’ to hand you a swipe for your freshness, young fellow, but I guess the old woman has given you enough to think about.”
“What do you mean?” blurted out Lafe, making a show of resentment and swaggering up to the man. The latter reached out a brawny hand and pushed Pennington aside.
“I mean what I said. I ain’t no Romney. But, I don’t cross the old lady. She ain’t handin’ out no hoodoo curses; but—well, the long and short of it is, she’s got her fingers crossed on you. Them gypsies has sure got somethin’ up their sleeves we ain’t an’, whatever it is, I wouldn’t give you a nickel for your luck while she’s sore on you.”
Then he too was gone. The same talkative carpenter, for all had suspended work while the incident was taking place, felt called upon to make a remark.
“I knowed a Gypsy ’at put a charm on a feller I worked with onct an’ he fell off’n a roof an’ purt nigh kilt hisself.”
“And I heard of a colored voodoo doctor,” broke in Bud, “who put a curse on a coon, and the doctor himself was arrested for chicken stealin’. So you see there ain’t much to be scared about.” He attempted to liven things with a peal of laughter. But no one joined him. “And as for this old Zecatacas, or Gypsy Queen as she calls herself,” he went on, “she makes me tired. Give ’em a quarter and you’re goin’ to have good luck and money; turn ’em down, as Lafe kind o’ had to do, an’ they make an awful bluff about doin’ you dirt some way.”
“She don’t scare me a bit,” remarked Pennington, who was yet white and trembling.
“You’d be a fool if she did,” added Bud consolingly. “Any way, it’s all over now. Let’s fall to and get busy.”
Pennington had already worked nine hours, and it was not strange that he was tired and nervous. He was restless and irritable, and every now and then took occasion to say how little he cared for old Zecatacas’ words. Bud did what he could to belittle the gypsy’s disturbing speech. At three o’clock, Lafe lay down and slept until six, when he, Bud and the three men closed the shed and, on another advance from Lafe, managed to secure an early breakfast at a boarding tent erected for the stock attendants. Newly fortified with food and a wash up, they were back to work at seven o’clock.
Pennington had grown a little more affable, and as the end of their labors now came in sight, he was even at times in a good humor. But Bud saw that either old Zecatacas’ speech or something else disturbed Lafe. At eight o’clock, when President Elder arrived, it was seen that, whether expert Dare arrived or not, the aeroplane would be ready by about eleven o’clock.
“How did you young fellows settle it?” were Mr. Elder’s first words, after a gratified look into the airship shed.
“Mr. Pennington has it,” answered Bud promptly.
“No hard feelings?” added the official with a smile.
“Smooth as pie,” explained Bud. “Only, if the chance ever comes, I’d like a try at it—when I ain’t in any one’s way.”
“Still think you can sail her?” said Mr. Elder, turning to Pennington.
“Yes,” replied the latter, “it looks easy enough. Of course, there is a certain risk, but I’ll chance that. Only,” and he spoke as if the thought had just come to him, “I wish I’d had more rest last night. I’m pretty tired, and you know a fellow ought to be at his best.”
“Yes,” explained Bud, “he worked a good deal longer than the rest of us.” He didn’t say anything, however, about Pennington’s three hours’ sleep. “Of course, he feels it more.”
“Perhaps you’d better wait until to-morrow, Lafe, when you’ve had a good night’s sleep. How would it do for Bud to make the first trial? He seems fresh enough.”
“Oh, I’m all right—I guess,” answered Pennington. “You can count on me. By the way, you didn’t hear from Mr. Dare, did you?”
“Not a peep.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Before nine o’clock, two more directors appeared, almost together. They were Lafe’s father, Judge E. Pennington (in reality only a Justice of the Peace), and Bud’s foster father, Attorney Cyrus Stockwell.
“Bud,” began Attorney Stockwell angrily, “why didn’t you send us word you were going to stay out all night?”
“To tell you the truth,” answered Bud without any great alarm, “I didn’t know it when I left home, and after I got out here, I didn’t have a chance.”
“They tell me you offered to go up in this thing,” continued the attorney, jerking his thumb toward the now practically completed air craft.
“Offered!” exclaimed Bud. “I begged to. But I got left. Lafe beat me to it.”
“Lafe?” exclaimed Judge Pennington. “Lafe going up in the airship?”
“I agreed to,” exclaimed young Pennington. “If the operator don’t come, they’ve got to have some one. And I know more about it than any one else around here.”
“And you’ve promised to commit suicide in that death trap?” added Judge Pennington hastily.
“I—I didn’t see what else I could do,” faltered Lafe.
“Well, I can,” broke in his father, “and mighty quick. You can stay out of it.”
“Judge,” interrupted Attorney Stockwell, “I don’t see any cause to worry. Bud tells me he is anxious to take Lafe’s place.”
“Bud Wilson?” sneered the Judge. “What call has he to try such a thing?”
“Oh, none, except he’s been up in one once. I never heard that Lafe had,” retorted the piqued lawyer. Attorney Stockwell had no particular concern for Bud and certainly no affection for him. Later, Judge Pennington said he reckoned the lawyer rather wanted Bud to turn aviator and break his neck in the bargain. But, this morning, the lawyer resented Lafe’s superiority.
“I guess if Lafe had tried to fly, he wouldn’t have tumbled out on his head,” snorted the Judge. “I don’t approve of sending boys up just because we made this fool arrangement. But, when it comes down to who’s entitled to do the thing and who’s got the real grit, I guess it’ll be my own boy.”
Bud was watching Lafe. He expected to see his rival swell up with pride and elation. On the contrary, he was sure that he detected signs of disappointment in young Pennington.
“He don’t seem to be hankerin’ after the job,” was the attorney’s next shot.
“Lafe,” exclaimed his father belligerently, “did Mr. Elder select you for this work?”
“He did.”
“Then you do the job, or I’ll know why.”
“I thought it was all settled,” interposed Bud in a calm voice. “I ain’t makin’ any fuss about it. I ain’t claimin’ the right.”
“Then you won’t be disappointed,” snapped the judge, and he bustled angrily away.
“Bud?” asked the Attorney in a low voice, as Lafe walked away, “how much are you to get for workin’ all night?”
“Not a cent. It’s like goin’ to school to me.”
“You’re crazy. Workin’ all night for nothin’? Why that’s expert service, an’ it ought to be double pay, too.”
“I did it for fun,” explained Bud, with a laugh.
“Fun?” snapped the lawyer. “You wouldn’t think it so funny if you had to pay for your board and clothes.”
“I never asked you to do either,” replied Bud. “I don’t know why you do. You just took me in. If you’re tired of me, I’ll stay away. But I haven’t any money to pay you.”
“Stay away,” sneered the lawyer. “Where’d you stay? You haven’t a home.”
“Wherever there’s aeroplanes,” answered Bud calmly, “that’s my job now.”
“Still,” said the Attorney in a milder tone, “I don’t want to be hard on you. You had better come back to us until you are able to care for yourself.”
“Thank you,” answered Bud. “I hope that won’t be long.”
When his foster father had followed after Judge Pennington, Bud turned to Lafe. The latter was lying on a long packing case.
“Sleepy?” asked Bud.
“Pretty tired,” replied Lafe. “Do you think you can finish up now? I believe I ought to go home and go to bed for an hour or so before afternoon. I’ve got to be on edge, you know.”
“Sure,” said Bud sympathetically. “You do that. I’ll put the last touches on everything. If you get back here by two o’clock, that’s time enough?”
Just before twelve o’clock, President Elder drove up to the airship shed.
“Well,” he announced, “he didn’t come. Our expert failed to arrive. It’s up to Lafe. Where is he?”
“He’ll be here,” answered Bud. “We’re all ready, and he’s gone home for a little rest.”
About one-thirty o’clock, President Elder visited the aeroplane headquarters again. Bud was greasing the starting grooves.
“Bud,” began the fair official with a faint smile, “I knew it all the time. It’s you or no exhibition. Lafe Pennington is in bed, sick. He’s got a nervous chill.”