For one moment, a feeling of doubt swept over Bud—not fear of an accident—it was only the first dread of all amateurs—apprehension that his performance might not go off all right. When he glanced out over the thousands waiting to see what was he going to do and realized that all these people were waiting for him—it was enough to give a youngster stage fright. While he paused, he felt Madame Zecatacas’ ring, her good luck charm.
“What more does a fellow need?” Bud said to himself. “All ready,” he exclaimed aloud, suddenly reassured, and springing to the center of the aeroplane frame between the engine section and the rear rudder struts, he directed the others in the shed to places along the truss. Then as gently as if moving a man with a broken leg, the long, wiry white planes of the airship were carried out into the full view of the crowd.
The “Ohs” and “Ahs” were soon lost in the noise of the shuffling, eager audience. Men and women crowded forward, clouds of dust arose, and the rope barrier broke before the clamoring spectators. Those carrying the machine could only call out threats until the aeroplane had been deposited over the starting track and the landing skids fitted into the greased grooves. Then Bud sprang onto the fragile frame work. Waving his hand at the people, he shouted:
“The aeroplane is going to shoot straight along this track fast as an engine. If any of you folks get in its way, you’ll be smashed. There ain’t goin’ to be no start until you all get back and stay back.”
Then he sprang to the ground and for five minutes, he, the president, superintendent and the others helping, struggled with the slowly receding flood of people. At last the rope barrier was re-established and Bud, hot and perspiring, felt that the trial might be safely attempted. As a precaution, he went into the shed and put on his coat. This one act seemed to calm the crowd.
“Goin’ to be cold up in the clouds?” inquired one facetious onlooker.
For answer, Bud fastened the right-angled hook attached to the end of the starting rope to the lowest cross brace of the forward rudder frame and then, with the help of the carpenter and the superintendent, pushed the aeroplane backward on the two tracks until the rope was taut. The bags of sand weighing 1500 pounds were already at the top of the derrick, and the release cord was ready for President Elder’s manipulation.
“Don’t forget the program,” whispered that official, as he stepped by Bud.
“I’ll go you one better,” answered the boy, with a smile. Then, recalling what he had often seen in circuses, Bud stepped a few paces forward and looked the car over critically. This was wholly for effect, but with a most concerned face, the young aviator squinted at the ship of the air from two or three angles. Then he mounted the end of the starting rail and looked critically into the sky, even holding up his hand as if to test the air.
“Purty resky business,” volunteered one man in the front line.
“Ain’t agoin’ to take no chances,” suggested another.
Then, Bud ignoring, but drinking in with great satisfaction these and many other nervous comments, walked rapidly to the aeroplane, and, with well assumed professional rapidity, felt and shook several braces.
“I reckon he knows what he’s about, all right,” Bud heard some one say, and the boy, losing his smile for a moment, wondered if he did.
“Ain’t no use puttin’ it off longer,” he said to himself, and he waved his hand toward the fair president. Mr. Elder at once ascended to the derrick cross brace, and removing his hat with a flourish, shouted:
“Ladies and gentlemen: Mr. Wilson announces that all is ready for his daring flight into the clouds. I must ask that each and every one of you maintain complete silence. Any undue noise may divert the attention of the operator and the slightest disturbance may mean his instant death.”
The mob seemed to sink back in awe. Bud and President Elder were perhaps the only persons present whose hearts were not, figuratively, in their mouths. The bareheaded president raised his hand. You might have heard a pin drop.
“When you are ready, Mr. Wilson, say ‘Go.’”
Throwing on the ignition and giving the balance wheel a turn, Bud saw the white propellers begin to revolve. As they gathered speed and the engine was fully in motion—the car beginning to tremble under the impact—Bud sprang into the little seat, thrust his feet into the hanging supports and grasped the levers.
As his lips framed themselves to give the final signal, a flying figure shot into his sight. A man panting, and with his hat in his hand was rushing across the cleared space closely pursued by one of the special policemen. Hardly able to speak, his arm wildly gesticulating, the new arrival was shouting:
“Stop, stop. I just got here. What are you doin’?”
“Get out o’ the way,” shouted Bud in reply. “Get off that track.”
“I’m Dare,” panted the man. “Who’s tryin’ to run this? Stop!”
“Get off that track,” shouted Bud again.
“You’ll break your neck,” the breathless man managed to get out. But he saw the car trembling for the start, and he began moving aside.
“Where’s Mr. Elder?” he cried. “Wait a minute. I’ll make the flight. Hold on!”
“Go,” rang out from the boy in the aeroplane.
It came like a pistol shot, clear and distinct. But President Elder at the weight rope hesitated.
“Go,” came once more.
There was a note of command in the one word that startled the official. Whatever his judgment was at the moment, President Elder mechanically jerked the cord. With a crashing creak of the derrick and a thud of falling sand bags, the starting rope whipped over the pulleys; there was a spray of melted tallow thrown fifty feet into the air by the flying skids; five thousand spectators gasped and fell back as if panic stricken, and the aeroplane smoked forward as if rushing into a vacuum.
Half way along the track, the rocking aeroplane seemed to lose headway for an instant. The pressure of the air in front and the force of the propellers behind had equalled and overcome the force of gravity. As the starting rope hook fell from the frame, the two great planes, like a kite in the wind, darted into a giant leap ahead.
Hundreds of spectators, still lingering in the path of the airship, threw themselves onto the ground just in time. The aeroplane almost touched the earth as the leap seemed to slacken, but this Bud had been anticipating. He did not know whether the first dart of the car would be up or down, to the right or left. But he did know that there was not one chance in a thousand that the flight would be straight ahead and upward. What professional aviators had learned by long experience, Bud knew he had to get by sheer cool headed pluck.
He had thought over this idea so constantly that his muscles were set and ready like springs. Not even the narrow escape of the people in front of him rattled the boy. His body was cold from a realization of the great risk he was taking, but this did not disconcert him. When Bud shouted the word that was to hurl him into the air, he dismissed every thought from his mind but this: “up, down, right, left.”
It was all done in a second, but Bud’s thinking apparatus responded. “Down,” his whole being cried out, and his muscles responded like a spring. Almost before the boy could realize what he was doing, he had thrown the front, horizontal rudder up. In another instant he knew he was going to fly; the ground dropped beneath him, and then a tremendous roar sounded in his ears. He gasped. But the sound was only the wild cheers of the multitude beneath. He was flying—the aeroplane was soaring swiftly upward. It was like falling in a dream. With nervous dread, the boy looked about. Then came his third shock—the fair-grounds were already behind him. He had passed beyond the territory in which he was to operate. He was at least three hundred feet in the air.
Suddenly all fear, apprehension and nervousness left Bud.
“It’s all over now,” he said to himself. “These things don’t fall like rocks. If the engine stops, I’ll come down like a parachute. Here goes to do my stunt.”
A minute later, Bud was directing the aeroplane along the back stretch of the race track about one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. It all seemed so easy that he wondered why he had had any apprehension. In the midst of a chorus of yells and hurrahs from the hundreds who were vainly trying to keep pace with the aeroplane, Bud at last heard one positive voice:
“Get nearer the ground, you fool.”
The boy could not distinguish the man calling, but he recognized the voice. It was that of the stranger—the expert, T. Glenn Dare. So far, Bud had not time to think over the sudden appearance of the long waited for man. But he smiled as the episode came back to him.
“That must have been the Gypsy Queen’s ring,” he thought to himself. “Any way, I got my chance. I’m satisfied.”
Then he wondered: “What will Mr. Dare do when he makes a flight to-morrow. I wonder if he’ll stay close to the ground. He’s only jealous,” concluded Bud.
Prompted by that foolish idea and more than eager to take full advantage of his opportunity, the gritty boy decided that he was not satisfied—he determined, on a wild impulse, to test the airship to its limit.
Circling the half-mile track, he dropped down nearer the ground as he passed the crowded grand stand, but he was too intent on his work to give any heed to the applause that greeted him. The dusty track was packed with spectators throwing their hats into the air and shouting: “Let her out,” “Gimme a ride,” “Good boy, Bud,” and such expressions rang in his ears, but they did not draw even a smile.
Again, the wonderful craft, true to her steering gear and responding to her propellers in the almost dead calm, circled the track. But this time, as Bud reached the lower turn, he veered off to the left. As the inclined planes moved forward toward the center of the track, Bud put his indiscreet resolution into effect.
By the time he reached the far end of the track he was five hundred feet in the air. Then, instead of turning, he held his course beyond the enclosure out over the adjoining fields and pastures. Here, with a long sweep in the air, he turned and headed over the grounds once more. By the time he had passed the grand-stand again, he was at least a thousand feet in the air.
At that moment, the boy began to regret his foolhardiness. To turn at that height, with the sinking swing that always followed such an operation, was enough to try the nerve of the most experienced. And, to make matters worse, Bud perversely held to his ascending flight. When the limits of the grounds had been again passed, the novice was, it was afterwards estimated, fourteen hundred feet in the air.
“Now,” muttered Bud, “it’s sink or swim.”
Closing his eyes, with one hand he threw the vertical lever slowly over for the turn, and at the same moment, he threw up the plane tips with the warping lever. It was almost sickening, the long swoop that followed, but, as Bud felt the warped surface checking the dip, he breathed again. Then he opened his eyes. The airship shed fell on his vision dead ahead and not far below.
Gritting his teeth to keep up his courage, the youngster made ready to complete his program. As the aeroplane steadied, Bud pushed the horizontal planes downward, and as the bird-like craft began to descend, he turned and shut off the engine.
“They say any one can fly,” said Bud to himself, “but that it takes judgment to make a landing. I’ll either make or break right here.”
As the swiftly whirling blades of the propellers stopped, the aeroplane’s flight slackened. Then the ivory-winged truss began to settle like a softly falling leaf. A mass of black heads appeared beneath. Suddenly, they separated, and Bud saw the ground rising as if to meet him. It was the crucial moment. The horizontal rudders sprang up, the airship seemed to pause, then with a feeble response to her steering gear, it rose a few feet and drifted along over the trodden grass. Then the landing skids touched the ground—there was a slight rebound, and Bud’s flight was at an end.