Bud laughed.
“Funny you didn’t bring a pair of tights,” he commented.
[CHAPTER VII]
A FOOLHARDY TRICK IN AN AEROPLANE.
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.