Ben Hardy's flying machine; or, Making a record for himself

by Frank V. Webster

In a far corner of the machine shop there was a sashless window frame. Through it Ben had clambered many a time. It was used for ventilation. It opened upon the roof of a small brick oven which was used to bake the sand cores used in the molding flasks.

Ben leaped through the aperture and landed on the roof in a second. Beyond it rolled the iron drum which ground the fine charcoal for the dust bags employed in drying the wet sand in the molding frames. This Ben cleared at a bound.

He heard a timber fall in the machine shop, and there was an ominous quaking of the staunch timbers all over the place as his feet landed on the hard cindered floor of the boiler room.

“Where is Shallock, the engineer, all this time?” murmured Ben, and running alongside of the boiler he discovered that the man was mysteriously missing from his post at a critical moment.

Through the clouds of steam fast escaping from the overheated boiler Ben made out the engineer. He knew Tom Shallock well, and was not astonished at his present condition. He knew the son of the engineer, Dave Shallock, still better. Ben had no reason to feel particularly friendly towards either, but he sought honestly to save the engineer from the loss of his position and disgrace.

Shallock sat huddled back in the big heavy armchair in which he rested between spells of alternate duty to engine and boiler. He was his own fireman, and his chair was directly in front of the furnace door. Ben ran at him and shook him forcibly by the arm, with the urgent words shouted into his ear:

“Wake up, Mr. Shallock, there’s trouble!”

But the engineer simply grunted in an incoherent way, and a half-filled bottle that had slipped from his hand to the floor told the whole miserable story.

Ben darted past the helpless man and ran down two stone steps to the engine pit. It was well that he was a boy who noticed things and usually kept his bearings well in mind, for he had to grope his way. A thrill of gladness ran through his frame as his hand finally rested on the valve wheel. Two turns, and Ben drew back gasping for breath and reeking with perspiration. The whiz of the great driving wheel lessened, the governor slowed down to a stop. Returning to the boiler room, Ben set the escape valve on the boiler and knew that he had saved the day.

Some men came running in from the molding room. One of them went to the iron door and unset its latch and rolled it open, for some one was hammering vigorously on it on the other side. It was Mr. Hardy.