CHAPTER XXIV
HOMEWARD BOUND
Ben beckoned to the Indian, but the latter refused to come beyond the protecting fringe of bushes. Ben approached him and pointed to the island.
“I want to go there,” he said.
The guide professed great concern and terror. He was genuinely frightened. Nothing could prevail upon him to accompany the boys. In a disconnected way and with numerous gesticulations, he made it clear that bad white men were somewhere about the island waiting to annihilate all intruders.
“Why, the place is all shut up and looks practically deserted,” said Bob.
“Except for the person waving at that window,” added Ben. “Hark! he is shouting again. Let us descend to the river bank.”
No demonstration of any kind greeted their exposing themselves to full view from the island. At first it looked as though they would have to swim over. Then Bob discovered a light canoe hidden in among some high reeds. He and Ben got into the craft and paddled over to the island.
As they approached the log structure at its center, it suggested to them more of a fort than ever. It was built solidly, had port holes here and there in its sides, and marks in the logs showed where at some time or other musket balls and even larger projectiles had evidently assailed its staunch timbers from the mainland.
“No one seems to be moving about,” said Bob. “Even that man in the cellar has got out of sight.”
They walked about the building until they came to a door letting into the cellar. This was protected with a simple hasp and bolt. Ben opened the door, Bob followed him into the cellar.
A somewhat remarkable sight greeted them. Seated on a sawbench with an upturned barrel before him was a man dressed in aviator costume. He had a comb and some other toilet articles on the barrel. With these he was arranging tangled disordered beard and hair. He tidied up a very much neglected collar and tie. He waxed his long mustachios with a stick of cosmetic.
“Gentlemen, I welcome!” he cried, and with graceful agility he sprang to his feet and made a bow like that of some courtier. Something jangled as he did this, and quick-sighted Bob exclaimed in dismay:
“Ben, one foot is secured to a log chain running to that center post.”
“Who are you?” began Ben, but guessing.
“I am the Count Eric Beausire,” came the pleasant-toned response, “but, greater than so, an aviator, as you are, gentlemen,” and he looked up and down the garb of the visitors.
“Yes,” responded Ben, “we have just made a long distance flight on our monoplane, the Dart.”
“I greet you as brothers,” cried the count with a glad gracious wave of his hand. “Ah, it is a pleasure profound after weeks of confinement. Can I be released?”
“We shall see to that at once,” declared Ben, and he and Bob made immediate inspection of the chain that held the count a captive. It was fortunate that they had some of the tools used in the monoplane in the bag which Bob still carried. With even this help and all Ben’s mechanical skill it took them nearly two hours to get the count free.
The rescued man urged haste as they paddled over to the mainland. They found the Indian cowering and uneasy, and immensely relieved at their safe return. Several allusions had been made to the wrecked Meteor.
“I must see my beloved child of the air once more—a sad farewell,” declared the count.
The boys led him to the swale brake. The nobleman looked over the scattered ruins of the monoplane. He selected a small piece of one of the planes, lifted his cap reverently, pressed his lips to the little piece of wood, and placed it inside his breast as a cherished memento.
“Vandals!” he exclaimed, taking a last look at the wrecked airship and then shaking a clenched fist towards the island.
The party now took up the march for the settlement, much to the satisfaction of their Indian guide.
“I assume that the Meteor arrived in good condition here originally,” began Ben, interested in learning the story of the refugee who was now their companion.
“Except for a dead motor, yes,” responded the count. “I sought help. Misfortune led me to the house on that island. Ah, the banditti!”
“Who are they?” asked Ben.
“As I learned later, merciless outlaws, the proscribed of the commonwealth. There are ten of them. Immediately I was viewed with suspicion. Unfortunately I wore a star bearing secret symbols upon it—a testimonial from a foreign court where I had made an aero exhibition. These rabble took it for a badge of a detective. They refused to listen to explanations. I was chained up as a spy, the Meteor ruthlessly destroyed. Ah, the vampires!”
“They were outlaws, you say.”
“I learned from what I heard and observed that they were proscribed men with a price on their head, the terror of the district. They have defied and even held at bay the government for years. They have resisted a bombardment in their numerous fastnesses, of which the island fort is one.”
“But we found you alone.”
“Yes. It seems they anticipated a visit from the mounted police, and abandoned the island two days ago. They promised to send a person to release me after they had gotten over the border line.”
By this time the boys knew that they were over two hundred miles over the American line in a wild part of Canada. Their spirits rose as with their new comrade they talked over all kinds of aviation events, told their own experiences, and listened to some thrilling stories of the count.
At last their Indian guide led them into a regularly traversed trail. They had not followed this any great distance when a trampling sound caused them to draw aside. In a few minutes a cavalcade dashed into view—the mounted police.
There were speedy explanations. The captain of the party became immensely interested in the strange stories of the refugees. He eagerly questioned the count as to details concerning the outlaws. Then he paid full attention to the story of the Dart from Ben’s lips.
The latter explained to the official that he had plenty of ready money provided by John Davis to pay rewards and expenses. The result was that the police were divided into two parties.
“If the outlaws have really gone, good riddance, and we won’t follow them,” said the officer. “Let one party visit the island and burn the old shack to the ground. The rest of us will look for your lost airship, Mr. Hardy, and report to you at the settlement. We’ll be glad to have a hand in helping out you aviators. There is a big interest in airships everywhere, and we may get some helpful notice in the newspapers.”
It was a decided satisfaction to Ben, Bob and the count to sit down to a good meal in a comfortable little hotel at the settlement two hours later. The Indian guide was handsomely rewarded. A courier had been hired to ride on horseback across country to the nearest telegraph station with messages for New York, Blairville and Woodville.
Before nightfall the captain of police came in with a report of the findings of the Dart. Ben immediately secured the services of a man owning a large broad wagon, and the next morning the monoplane was taken apart and packed on the vehicle.
Count Beausire took charge of the barograph and distance register, sealed both, and announced that he would accompany the boys to Blairville.
“My declaration as a representative of the international aero clubs, will be accepted as to the veracity of your exploit,” he observed, somewhat grandly.
Ben paid liberally all those working in his behalf. Arrangements were made to ship the Dart to Blairville. The motor and some other parts of the wrecked Meteor were also to be sent forward, at the request of Count Beausire.
The news quickly spread that the young aviators had made a truly wonderful flight, and many came to see Ben and Bob.
“I’ve got an extra telegram to send home,” said Bob, and went off, leaving Ben alone at the hotel.
A little later our hero received a letter, asking him to call at a certain address in the town, to see a new invention of an airship. The letter added that Ben would regret it if he did not pay attention to the communication.
Curious to know what the invention might be, the young aviator started off alone. Quarter of an hour’s walk brought him to the address given. It was a large, dilapidated house, and looked to be vacant.
“It doesn’t look as if the inventor was very prosperous,” commented Ben to himself. “But I guess none of them are when they’re working on flying machines.”
He rang the bell, but no one answered. He looked up at the front of the house. Many of the windows were broken, and there was no sign of life.
“Guess I might as well walk right in,” he said. “I’ll probably find him in one of the back rooms puttering over some of his machinery.”
He went into the hall, his footsteps echoing through the empty house. He made a tour of the first floor, and soon came to the conclusion that the inventor must be in one of the upper stories. He got all the way to the top one before his search was successful. Then a voice hailed him from one of the rear rooms.
“Who is there?” a man called, speaking with a slight German accent.
“I’m Ben Hardy,” called our hero, not observing his questioner. “I came to inquire about a flying machine. Are you the inventor?”
“I am, my young friend. I am glad you have called. I am just about to make a flight, and you shall see it.”
A big man, in his shirt sleeves, and with a ragged pair of trousers on, stepped into view. He stood in the door of a room far down the topmost corridor. Ben advanced toward him, noting that the inventor was of great strength, as indicated by his powerful arms and shoulders.
“I shouldn’t think you could go up very far in a place like this,” said Ben pleasantly. “What sort of a flying machine is yours, an aeroplane or the gas-bag variety?”
“Neither,” replied the inventor. “Mine is on an entirely new system. It is the screw principle, as old as the world, but applied in a new direction. I am the greatest inventor in the universe. My name is Hans Voller. Come in and see my machine. It is about to fly.”
He held open the door of the room. Ben could make out a mass of machinery, and a curious contrivance like a big auger.
“We are about to fly!” exclaimed Hans Voller, as he took our hero by the shoulder and shoved him into the dingy apartment, following himself and quickly locking the door. “We must have no spies, for there are many who would steal my ideas,” the man added.
Ben sized him up for a harmless crank, though he did not like the locked door, nor the manner in which the eyes of the German glared at him. Still, the young aviator reflected, the man might be only out of his mind on this one subject of flying machines, and he had been in just as much danger, and more, dozens of times since becoming a “bird-man.”
“Now attend!” exclaimed the inventor, as he put the key of the room in his pocket. “I will explain the principles on which this most wonderful machine works, and then I will demonstrate it to you. You will write it up for your aviation club, and I shall become famous. Do you see that screw?”
Ben nodded to show that he did. It was a curious contrivance of a double spiral, about seven feet high and half that in diameter at the top, tapering down to a point. It was made of woven basket work, covered with cloth, and painted white. Our hero compared it to two spiral stairways twined about a centre pole, similar to one he had seen in a circus once, and down which a man, shut up in a ball, had rolled from the top of the tent to the ground.
“That screw solves the problem,” the inventor went on. “I revolve that thousands of times a minute. It forces the air down, just as a screw of a steamer forces the boat ahead through the water. That lifts my machine up, and then I start my engine and we go ahead. I have not yet made a big machine, but I have tested this one by making it lift heavy weights. I want it to lift a person. I am too heavy for this little model, but you would be about right.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t care to try it,” spoke Ben with a laugh.
“There is no danger! You must try it!” the German exclaimed. “See, I rotate the screw by this electric motor I have installed. Sometimes it gets going too fast and something breaks. Then I must look out. I hide behind this wooden screen,” and he pointed to a strong one near the mass of machinery. “Now I have a chance to try my machine on a live person. I have long wanted to. I have made some improvements to-day, and you are just in time. You will fly!”
Before Ben knew what was happening the inventor had grabbed hold of him, pinning his arms to his side, and was advancing toward the big screw, which now began to revolve at a rapid rate.
Ben struggled to free himself, but the big German held him tightly. His face was close to that of the young aviator, and the youth could see a strange gleam in the blue eyes. The hum of the motor as it increased in speed sounded loudly in the room. The big rattan screw was hissing as the blade cut the air.
“Let me go!” cried Ben. “I don’t want to try your flying machine!”
“But you must!” insisted the inventor. “This is an opportunity I have long waited for. All the other airship men would not come in when they got as far as the door. They were afraid of me, I guess.”
Ben wished he had been more discreet, for he realized that the man was a dangerous lunatic.
“You will soon be sailing through the air; right up through the roof,” the German went on, still holding Ben in his arms, while with one foot he pushed over a lever on the floor, thereby increasing the speed of the motor. “You will soon be among the birds. Then you can come down and write an account of it for the paper, and Hans Voller will be famous.”
Ben was very much frightened. The man was fairly crushing him in his terrible grip, and, as he approached closer to the machinery, the youth saw that the apparatus was strongly constructed and was revolving at a speed so great that the spiral looked like a thin white streak. The blades were not visible.
He could not imagine what the insane inventor was going to do with him, unless he intended to toss him into the midst of the whirling screw. In this event, though the material was only light rattan, our hero was likely to be seriously injured, because of the great speed. Also, there was danger that he would come in contact with a live wire or part of the big motor, the vibrations of which shook the whole frail building.
But the German soon showed that he was not going to do any immediate harm to the boy. He suddenly laid the young aviator down on an elevated platform, which Ben at once saw was part of a scale for weighing big objects. The scale was connected to the screw, and the arm, with the weight on, was oscillating up and down.
Before Ben could wiggle away, the German had passed some ropes over him, tying him securely down on the platform. Then he sprang to his feet, leaving the boy lying there, trussed like a fowl.
“Now we are ready to fly!” exclaimed the German, his eyes flashing strangely.
Ben looked in vain for some way of escape. He was tied so tightly he could scarcely move. Close to his head on one side was the motor and on the other the whirring screw, which made such a loud humming that the German’s voice, loud as it was, sounded faint and far off.
The inventor busied himself about his machinery for several seconds, adjusting wires, wheels and levers. Then he put some weights on the beam of the scale. Next he began to figure on some scraps of paper, the while muttering to himself.
“Yes, yes, we shall do it,” Ben heard him say. “It is a success. He shall fly.”
“You’d better let me go before the police come!” exclaimed the young aviator, thinking to frighten the man. The German only laughed.
“The police never come here!” he cried. “It is too lonesome a place. No one lives here but me. The house is deserted. It is falling to pieces, for the owner will not repair it. It is good enough for me. No one shall disturb us.”
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Ben, growing a little calmer.
“I intend you shall fly—that is, theoretically, not actually. This machine is only a model. I put you on the scales. I start my screw. If this little screw can so push against the air, with such force as to cause the beam arm of the scale, with you on the platform, to go up, I know I am successful. That shows that if I make a bigger screw, and revolve it in the opposite direction, so as to lift up, instead of pulling down, as this is doing, I have solved the secret of flying.”
The man seemed rational, and his language showed he knew something of the laws of dynamics and pneumatics, but his eyes had a dangerous glare in them, and Ben, in spite of his outward coolness, was much frightened.
“I now prepare to revolve the screw at its highest speed,” went on the German, and our hero wondered if it could go any faster and not fly apart from centrifugal force. “When it is at top speed, if the beam of the scale goes up, I am the great inventor. If it does not—I am nothing. Now we are ready. You are going to fly, but you are not going to fly. It is all in theory. But I must reverse the motor,” which he quickly did. “I am afraid if I let the screw revolve the other way you would go right out through the roof. We may try that later. I am going to put a string to the electric lever that controls the motor, and pull it from the other room, as there is danger from the great speed if I stay here.”
“Are you going to let me be killed?” cried Ben, now thoroughly frightened, and believing that the man meant to harm him. He certainly was in a desperate plight.
“I hope no harm will come to you,” spoke the German, with an unpleasant grin. “I have to have some one on which to experiment. You are a good one. I hope you escape. Do not move when the screw begins to go faster.”
He had fastened a stout cord to the lever of the electric switch that controlled the motor. This cord he passed through the keyhole of the door, which he unlocked. Then he went out into the hall, closing the door after him, but not locking it, and leaving Ben, bound and helpless, alone in the room with the strange machinery.
The motor was purring like a great cat, the screw was whizzing around so swiftly just above his head that it made our hero dizzy to watch it. Once more he tried to break the bonds, but they were too tight.
“Look out now!” called the voice of the insane inventor from the hall. “Tell me if the scale beam moves!”
Ben saw the string that passed through the keyhole become taut. He heard the spitting of fire as the copper blade of the switch passed over the various contact points, letting more current flow to the motor. Then he heard the screw set up a shriller hum, as its speed increased.
The scale platform on which he was lying shook and trembled. The whole room vibrated as though a strong wind was shaking the house. Sparks came from the motor, and there was a roar like a miniature cyclone in Ben’s ears.
“Don’t move!” cried the German from the hall. “Lie still! Watch if the arm moves! You may go through to the cellar! I am going down to catch you!”
Then our hero heard footsteps retreating down the hall. He was alone with the dangerous and rapidly moving machinery, unable to help himself, or to move in case the apparatus flew apart from the awful force that was spinning it around. The thought was too much for the boy, and he fainted.
How long he remained senseless he did not know, but it could not have been more than a few minutes, as after events proved. When he opened his eyes again he saw a pleasant-faced German youth standing over him, regarding him curiously.
“Ach, Herr Voller!” cried the newcomer. “I find dot you are right on der chob, as dese Americans say. I am a writer from der magazine. Der editor sent me to get a story of your wonderful invention. I come in, as I can make no one hear der bell. I find you experimenting mit it. Tell me all about it. Ven are you going to fly? But you speak de German, and dis American he iss not so easy for me,” and with that he launched into a flow of German.
“Wait! Stop! Hold on!” cried Ben above the din of the machinery. “I’m not the inventor of this thing! He’s a crazy man, an he fastened me here to experiment with. Cut me loose before he gets back! Stop the machinery!”
“Vot is dot?” cried the magazine man, for such he was. “You are not the inventor? You are tied up by him? Stop der machinery? How shall I do it?”
“First cut me loose!” cried Ben. “I’ll stop the motor when I get up! It’s liable to fly to pieces now!”
For several seconds the newcomer stood irresolute. It took the idea some time to get all the way in, though when it did he was not slow to act. Whipping out his knife, he cut the ropes that bound Ben. The latter, as soon as he could stand, sprang to the wall, where he had noticed the electric switch, and shut off the current. The motor and screw slowed down, and the hum of machinery stopped.
“It’s lucky you came along when you did,” said Ben, who was quite pale from his adventure. “I thought I was a goner.”
“How did all dis happen?” asked the German magazine writer.
Our hero explained. It appeared that the German magazine man had also received a letter, asking that a reporter be sent to write up the flying machine.
“Dot luck you speak of, he is a queer thing,” said the German, when Ben had finished his recital. “I was going first to mine supper, but I dinks I get de story first and eat myself afterwards. Dot is lucky for you.”
“That’s what it is. Now we’d better get out of here before that crazy inventor comes back. I don’t know where he went, though he said he was going to see if I fell through to the cellar.”
“Ach, if he is crazy, I wants none of him!” exclaimed the magazine man. “Our life it is hard enough widout such troubles!”
“Hark! Some one is coming!” cried Ben, as footsteps sounded in the hall.
The two made a dash for the door, and got into the corridor just in time to see someone approaching.
“He’s coming back! We’d better try for the rear way!” cried Ben.
But it was not the crazy inventor who was coming. Instead it was a man in the uniform of an asylum attendant.
The man questioned Ben and the magazine writer, and then explained how the crazy man had escaped from an asylum some months before. He had hidden himself away so well that he could not be located.
“But we’ll get him now,” said the attendant, and he was right; the crazy man was captured a little later and taken back to the asylum.
“Gracious, I hope flying machines don’t make me crazy!” said Ben, when telling Bob of what has happened.
“They never will,” declared Bob. “Your head is too level.”
It was a fine morning when the three aviators bade their friends at the settlement farewell and were driven over to the nearest railroad town. Then life became an animated whirl to them.
Newspaper correspondents boarded the train at half a dozen points down the line, eagerly pleading for interviews.
The papers they read were full of the one great popular current theme: “The Lost Aviators.” It was a strange situation for Ben to read column after column covering every phase of public interest, anxiety and speculation in regard to the missing Dart and its crew.
It was before daylight the next morning that Ben bade a temporary adieu to Bob and the count. This was at a railroad junction between Blairville and Woodville.
“I must see the folks,” he said. “I feel that my first duty. I will come straight on to Blairville afterwards.”
Ben’s mother shed joyful tears to welcome home again the lost boy whose disappearance had brought many anxious hours of hope and fear. Ben had a hasty breakfast and then took the first train for Blairville.
He was thinking most of the result of the long-distance race as he started for the aviation field. It was with a token of interest, however, that he glanced down the street where the man with the gig lived. Ben had it in mind always to fathom the mystery surrounding that individual when he had aero affairs out of the way.
“Hello,” he exclaimed, coming to a halt. “There’s the gig standing right in front of the house at this very moment. My man must be at home.”
A little girl with golden curls, evidently the child of the man he had sought so vainly, sat alone on the seat of the gig. The horse was secured to an iron ring on the stone curb.
Ben irresistibly started to walk slowly in the direction of the house before which the gig stood. Then with a thrill he sprang into lightning action.
A coal wagon half a block away suddenly dumped its load down an iron chute through a manhole in a sidewalk. The unusual rattle started up the mettled animal attached to the gig.
With a jerk the horse snapped the hitch rein, and with a wild leap the animal darted down the street. The terrified little child on the seat uttered a shrill shriek.
Ben buckled down to a tremendous sprint of speed. He foresaw that the gig would turn the corner. Making a diagonal cut, he reached the middle of the cross road just as the gig swept past. With a spring he caught the back of the high seat, pulled himself over, and seized the little girl, swaying from side to side, and just about to topple to the stone paving blocks.
To his dismay Ben saw that the lines were dragging under the feet of the flying horse. He clung with one hand to the bar at the side of the seat. With the other he seized the shrinking child by the arm. Slowly, cautiously he lowered her over the back of the gig. Not a foot from the ground he released her.
She dropped so gently that she was not even shaken, and simply swayed to one side with a slight shock. Ben was gratified to see a woman run out into the street and pick up the uninjured child.
Then he turned around to decide on his own best course—to get out of the gig or spring upon the back of the flying horse and attempt to halt the furious runaway.
Before he could make a move the horse made a sharp veer down a side street. The gig was half overturned and Ben was given a frightful fling.
The boy aviator flew through space, struck a section of fence palings, went through them snapping them into fragments, and landed senseless on a garden plot beyond.