The Flying Boys to the Rescue

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The aeroplane rested on the northern side of the clearing, from which position it was impossible, because of the intervening trees, to see the country lying in that direction. It was so early in the morning that Harvey felt safe in walking to the other side, where his observation would be clear. Prudence suggested that he should not expose himself to the risk of detection, and it would have been easy to skirt the open, thus keeping out of sight for the whole distance, but the danger was seemingly so slight, that he did not hesitate to move out from the margin of the wood toward the opposite limit of the unfenced meadow.

Straightway he received a lesson which he could never forget and which came within a hair of upsetting all his carefully laid plans. He was in the middle of the space when there was a whirring rush overhead as of the wings of a mighty bird, and Professor Morgan in his monoplane shot past directly above the youth, at a height of not more than two hundred feet. Harvey stood still, dumfounded and scared, for he was sure he was or would be discovered in the next instant. Staring upward, he saw the well-remembered machine and read the ominous name painted on the under side of the immense wings: “The Dragon of the Skies.” The gaunt, long-limbed Professor sat upright, staring ahead with his hands grasping the levers, while he watched every movement of his car. So absorbed was he in this task that he did not glance downward at the form standing like a statue and gazing up at him.

It was the narrowest escape conceivable for Harvey Hamilton. He waited until the monoplane in its arrowy flight was several hundred yards away, and still going with the speed of the wind. Even then if the Professor should look behind him, he could not fail to see the spectator on the ground. In a panic, the latter broke into a run, not pausing until under the shadow of the protecting limbs of the trees. There he waited, glass in hand, and raised it to his eyes when the gigantic bird was a long way off.

“He did not wait for breakfast,” was the conclusion of Harvey; “which may mean that he intends soon to return, or will eat his morning meal somewhere else, or will go without it altogether.”

The sky was as clear and radiant as before, and stepping into the open, the young aviator leveled his binoculars at the inventor and his machine. They seemed to be aiming for the mountainous ridge ten or twelve miles away.

“If he stops on this side,” thought Harry, “it will mean that Bunk is there awaiting him; if he goes over the summit, it will signify that beyond it is the place.”

For the twentieth time, the youth blessed the makers of the admirable field glass which adds so markedly to the power of the natural eye. The whole expanse of romantic country, with its masses of rocks, belts of forest, wild, uncultivated land, broad fields, small, winding streams, scattered dwellings, three villages at varying distances, rough surface of hill, valley and precipitous elevations, some of which deserved the name of mountains, was spread before him. The ridge, like a mighty wall, shut in this impressive prospect on the north. The side of the ridge was covered with a growth of exuberant though somewhat stunted trees, gray towering masses of rocks showing at intervals; a couple of tumbling waterfalls, whose bases looked like rumpled snow, could also be seen.

Harvey Hamilton, however, had no eye for any of these: his interest lay in that object which was coursing through space at tremendous speed, as if it meant to dive into the forest which blocked its course. He kept gently shifting the focal distance of the glasses so as to hold the monoplane in distinct view, though the edges of the wings showed at times a fringe of prismatic hues that did not interfere, however, with his vision.

Professor Morgan was flying low, but at the base of the ridge, when Harvey expected to see him make a landing, he used his elevating rudder and skimmed upward toward the summit. The picture was that of an enormous bird which with its vast wings outspread was scaling the mountainside by stepping lightly on the treetops and lofty rocks. Up, up, he climbed with dizzying swiftness, was silhouetted for a moment against the clear sky, and then shot out of the watcher’s field of vision.

“Bohunkus is on the other side,” was Harvey’s conclusion, as he screwed up the glasses and shut them in their leathern case, which he slipped over his shoulder.