Thursday and Friday were usually the big days at the fair in point of attendance; but, owing no doubt to the novel exhibition so widely advertised to begin this day, long before noon it was apparent that the directors had made a wise investment when they spent eighteen hundred dollars for an aeroplane. The pike leading to the fair-ground lay beneath a cloud of dust, the hitch racks were full, and, on the basis of number of visitors, the exhibition was really in full blast a day ahead of time.
The last touches were hastily put on the exhibits in the Agricultural, Floral and Machinery Halls; the ice cream, candy, peanut and red lemonade stands made a brave show of their wares; the “nigger baby” and cane rack barkers began appealing to young and old alike to try their luck, and by noon, thousands of pushing, tired and perspiring people attested that the fair was already in full swing.
The “three minute” trot and “free for all” running races were carded for the afternoon, beginning at two o’clock; and the big event, the startling, stupendous and spectacular flight of the “Twentieth Century Marvel,” the aeroplane, was to occur about three o’clock between heats of the races.
The curious spectators did not bother themselves about the airship until after the dinner hour. But, just about the time President Elder announced to Bud that Lafe would not be able to operate the airship, the crowd began to drift toward the field within the race track. By two o’clock, the pressure became so great that Bud, the talkative carpenter who was yet with him, and a special policeman detailed by Superintendent Perry, were forced to drop the canvas side over the front of the house, and devote their time to protecting the starting track or rails.
When the carpenter learned that Lafe was sick and would be unable to direct the flight, he did not hesitate to express his opinion.
“Humph!” he exclaimed. “I guess he’s sick, all right. And he began gettin’ sick right after that old Gypsy spoke her piece. I don’t blame him, neither.”
“What’d you mean?” asked Bud, apparently surprised. “You don’t mean the old woman scared him?”
“She nigh scart me. You bet she did. Mr. Pennington ain’t sick o’ overwork. The Gypsy Queen jes’ nacherly scart him into a chill.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Bud. “He may be scared—I rather thought myself he was weakenin’ this morning, but he’d be a fool to let a woman put over such a bluff.”
The carpenter shook his head.
“I don’t know no law agin’ his bein’ a fool,” he added.
Bud made no answer. He knew well enough that the carpenter’s theory was right. Whether Lafe had the physical courage to trust himself in the aeroplane Bud had no way of knowing. But his own eyes told him that Pennington had not the moral courage to throw off the prophecy of Zecatacas, the Gypsy Queen. In his heart, he felt sorry for Lafe, for he himself had a most distinct and disagreeable recollection of the Gypsy’s depressing prediction.
The first thump of horses’ feet on the race track when the “three minute” trotters came out to warm up and the “ding,” “ding,” “ding,” of the warning bell in the judges’ stand took away a part of the crowd, but enough remained to put the starting track in constant danger. Finally, Bud managed to secure a long rope, and the carpenter staked off a pen in front of the shed. This protected the apparatus, but it made Bud conspicuous, and the crowd began to hail comment on him.
“Hey, there, Bud Wilson,” shouted a young man. “They’re a givin’ it out over yender that you’re goin’ up in the airship.”
Bud smiled and nodded his head. The crowd pushed forward.
“I reckon yer likely to come down right smart faster nor ye go up,” exclaimed a rural humorist.
“Not none o’ thet in mine,” added another voice. “Not fur love nur money.”
“What won’t they be a doin’ nex?” exclaimed a fourth.
Bud smiled and said nothing. But, just at this time, seeing a familiar figure in the crowd, he sprang forward, lifted the rope and beckoned Madame Zecatacas, the Gypsy Queen, to come inside. She did so, and, while a hubbub of protest and inquiry arose from the crowd, Bud led the picturesquely bedecked fortune teller to the airship shed, lifted the canvas flap and signed to her to enter. The old woman had now none of the creepy, malignant look she exhibited the night before. She was rather fawning than otherwise.
“Look a’ here, Madame Zecatacas,” Bud began at once. “I reckon you don’t know what a commotion you made last night. They say you scared my friend sick.”
“The Gypsy Queen sees all things—knows all,” began the old woman in her usual singsong. “He who spits on—”
“Oh, see here,” interrupted Bud. “He didn’t spit on you, and didn’t mean anything agin’ you. You’re a little touchy ain’t you?”
Madame Zecatacas gave him something like the look she gave Lafe the night before. Then her face relaxed into a smile. She ignored the question.
“The young gentleman has a good hand. Money, and the Gypsy Queen will bring him good fortune.”
“I ain’t got but ten cents,” laughed Bud.
The Gypsy scowled.
“Here,” he exclaimed hastily. “Don’t begin that with me. Don’t put any high sign on me. I ain’t got time to have a chill.”
“The Gypsy Queen can do much.”
“I can see that, good enough,” answered Bud promptly, thinking of Lafe, “but I haven’t the price. If I had, I’d try you a whirl. I never had my fortune told. See here, Mrs. Zecatacas, what do I get for lettin’ you in here free gratis for nothin’? Right next the airship, too? I’d think you’d tell me a few good things just to show there’s no hard feelin’.”
The Gypsy tried to scowl again, but Bud’s exuberance was too much for her. She reached forward and took his hand.
“Look out now,” urged Bud. “Nothin’ bum. Don’t give me the willies. I got to do my flyin’ stunt in a few minutes.”
“Long life,” began the Gypsy.
“Bully for you,” exclaimed Bud. “Now, just tell me I’ll get an education and travel, and have money enough to buy an aeroplane, and we’ll call it square.”
“And much trouble—”
“Shut her off,” interrupted the boy, with assumed concern. “Come to think of it, I don’t need my fortune read. I’m goin’ to make my own.”
“A strange man will bring you much trouble—”
“Beware of a dark stranger,” laughed Bud. “That’s all right, Mrs. Zecatacas, I’ll watch for him. Now, I’ll show you around a bit and then I guess you’d better be going.”
For a few minutes, Bud explained, as well as he could, the general features of the aeroplane. In the midst of this, he heard animated talk just outside the canvas door, and, as it was quickly thrown aside, the Scottsville Chief of Police, Matthew Marsh, or Mat Marsh, as he was universally known, stepped inside the tent.
“Hello, Bud,” he began. “Heard you was in charge here. An’ got company, too. Don’t want to make no disturbance, but I’m lookin’ fur your friend.” He looked at Madame Zecatacas, and motioned her toward him. “I want you,” he added officially. “I got a warrant for you.”
The old woman gazed at him in astonishment, and then appealingly at Bud.
“Got a warrant for her!” exclaimed the boy. “What for?”
“Assault and battery,” answered Chief Marsh laconically.
“Who’s she assaulted?”
“Judge Pennington issued it on complaint o’ his boy.”
“Lafe?”
“Yep. Lafe says the old lady jumped on him las’ night and assaulted him. Guess it’s right. He’s home in bed.”
“That’s a lie,” retorted Bud angrily, “and I don’t believe Lafe ever said so. I saw it all. It’s a lie.”
“You seen it?” commented the Chief.
“All of it—right here. But there wasn’t any fight. Nothin’ like it.”
“I reckon the old lady and her son-in-law better subpoena you fur a witness.”
“Has the man been arrested, too?”
The Chief nodded his head.
“When’s the trial?” asked Bud indignantly.
This time, the Chief shook his head the other way.
“You let me know,” exclaimed Bud. “I’m beginnin’ to get onto this deal. I want to be there and testify. These people didn’t do a thing out of the way. There’s four of us’ll swear to it. This is Judge Pennington’s doings.”
The Chief wiped his perspiring bald head.
“How do ye figure that?” he said at last.
Bud was silent a few moments, and in each one of these he became more angry. Finally, he burst out in his indignation.
“I ain’t blamin’ Lafe,” he said, “but he talked pretty raw to Mrs. Zecatacas last night, and she handed it right back. An’ gypsy-like she talked about hard luck and trouble and things like that ’til Lafe kind o’ got cold feet on reskin’ anything to-day. That’s what I think anyway. Now he’s home in bed, sick or scared or both. An’ when he told his father about what took place out here, the Judge didn’t do a thing but fake up this complaint just to get even. He’s sore because I’ve got the chance an’ Lafe ain’t. I didn’t expect to do no knockin’, but that’s just the way it’ll all figure out. You can take it right straight from me.”
The Chief looked knowingly at Bud, and then closed one eye.
“Bein’ an officer o’ the law, I ain’t takin’ sides an’ I don’t have no opinion. But I heerd what you said. Come on, old lady.”
Madame Zecatacas straightened up and glared at the policeman. Bud stepped over and patted her on the shoulder.
“You can’t get out of it—now—Mrs. Zecatacas. Go along quietly, and if you want me for a witness or any of the men who were here last night, you tell Mr. Marsh. I’ll come and testify for you.”
The gypsy caught his hands in hers, pressed them, and then with a swift movement laid two brown fingers on Bud’s forehead. With another swift motion, she pointed to the aeroplane and exclaimed:
“The Gypsy Queen gives you good luck.”
This happened in an instant, but before Bud could recover from his surprise, the withered dame reached forth her hand once more, and forced into Bud’s palm a small object. Then, without further word, she followed the Chief of Police.
In his fingers, Bud found a heavy ring—dull of color, and yet, apparently not brass. Sunk in the top of it, was a worn, opaque, green stone in the shape of a bug. Bud did not know it, but the stone was a sacred Egyptian scarab.
“Good luck from the Gypsy Queen,” repeated Bud, a little upset. “Well, anyway, good or bad, here goes,” and he slipped the worn ring upon his third finger.
Outside the shed, Bud found the waiting crowd almost too much for the men on guard, with a new stream thronging toward the aviation grounds from the race-track. At the head of this, marched President Elder, Superintendent Perry and the other officials. Bud knew his part of the day’s program was due. He glanced skyward. There was almost no breeze.
“Everything ready?” asked Mr. Elder, in a quick businesslike tone. “It’s just been announced from the judges’ stand.”
“Ought to hear ’em yell when I told ’em how Mr. Bud Wilson, a product of our own city, would operate the machine,” added the Superintendent.
Bud was too busy to parry personal compliments. While Superintendent Perry and the President lifted the canvas front and drove the crowd back, Bud tested the ignition battery, re-oiled the shaft bearings, looked a last time for possible leaks in the gasoline reservoir and then for an instant only, set the engine in motion. As it stopped and the vibrating frame settled back on its trusses, he knew of nothing more to be done.
Outside he could hear the President and the Superintendent shouting commands and exhortations.
“Git back there, now, all o’ you, ’at don’t want to git hurt. Mr. Wilson’s got to have room. Anybody ’at gits hit’ll be killed. Git back there, everybody. You can all see. ’Taint no horse race. Stand back! The aeroplane will circle around the track. You kin all see. Give us room here,” the superintendent kept crying.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” added President Elder, mounting the lower brace of the weight derrick. “It is only proper for me to announce once more that we are only able to make this exhibition to-day through the kindness of a Scottsville boy, Mr. Bud Wilson. The expert who was to operate our aeroplane disappointed us. But, rather than disappoint you, Mr. Wilson has volunteered to risk his life in exhibiting this wonderful invention. I hope you will help him by giving us ample room, and that you will refrain from rushing forward, if there happens to be an accident. We must have no interference, and, on behalf of Mr. Wilson, I ask absolute silence while he is adjusting the aeroplane for its hazardous plunge into space.”
A murmur ran through the crowd which, in a moment, died away into an awed silence. The speech and the silence that fell immediately upon the thousands present attracted Bud’s attention. He turned from his lingering look at the craft that meant so much to him just in time to find President Elder motioning to him. He stepped to the official’s side. As he did so, Mr. Elder sprang from the derrick and laid his hand on Bud’s shoulder.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted the president in a voice that could be heard at the far edge of the expectant jam, “I take great pleasure in presenting to you Mr. Bud Wilson, our aviator. Good luck and success to you, Bud,” he added, melodramatically taking the boy’s hand.
A woman in the crowd sobbed and Bud, red with embarrassment, hastened into the shed.
“What’d you do that for?” exclaimed Bud, as the President joined him.
“Do what?” laughed Mr. Elder.
“Why shake hands that way and say that. I ain’t no circus.”
“Excuse me,” answered the fair official. “That’s just what you are. This is a show. And we want to make it worth our eighteen hundred dollars.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And that isn’t all. The real performance is yet to come. You don’t suppose you’re just going to shoot away in silence. Did you ever see ’em ‘loop the loop’ in a circus? Well, we’ve got that beat a mile. Listen. I’ll release the weight that starts you. When you are ready to get into the car, I’ll get up and tell ’em that any sound may distract you and cause a fatal accident. When they are absolutely still, you’ll take your seat and I’ll take my place at the weight cord. Then I’ll say in a solemn voice: ‘When you are ready, Mr. Wilson, say Go.’ You’ll look about, settle yourself, wait a few moments and then, sharp and quick, shout ‘Go!’ Then if you do go, the crowd’ll feel it has its twenty-five cents’ worth.”
Bud laughed.
“Funny you didn’t bring a pair of tights,” he commented.