He knew there was an old flat-bottom boat and a skiff on Camp’s Lake. On these, with Josh’s help, if he could get it, and any other assistance that he could procure, he meant to carry the aeroplane to the dam. It was a part of his plan to place the flat boat in the flume. Balancing the aeroplane on this, he was counting on Mr. Camp’s permission to throw open the head-gate, suddenly flood the flume with the pent up water, and, as the boat rushed forward, to gain an impetus that would start him on a new flight.
Bud’s first sight of Little Town was the green railroad switch light at the settlement limits. He headed toward it, and, cutting out the village, passed diagonally over the adjacent fields in search of the road leading to the mill. At first, he missed it. The strain had made him nervous. Although he had not been in the air over fifteen minutes, he felt as if he had been up an hour. He had thoughtlessly started in his shirt sleeves, and was chilled.
Everything seemed so desolate and quiet that there was an almost compelling temptation to make a descent and trust to luck. But the boy dismissed the idea, gritted his teeth, and, clutching the levers with his benumbed fingers, made another attempt to find the dark, winding country road.
“What am I goin’ to do when I got to strike off over the woods from the mill?” thought Bud. “This ought to be pie compared to that.”
Dropping lower and lower, the nervous young aviator finally brushed something light that rattled. He was over a field of corn in the shock. As he gasped and threw the car upward, again he heard the unmistakable “thud,” “thud” of a horse’s hoofs. Judging that they were on the unseen road, he continued his upward flight until he was out of possible sight, and then altered his course to bring him over the newly located road.
In a few moments, the sound of the horse and vehicle were far behind. Then he dropped down again until two dark lines marked the shrubbery lined lane.
“Now for the old mill,” murmured Bud, greatly relieved.
It does not take long to cover three miles in an aeroplane. Almost before he could believe it, the sharp turn in the road, the wide clearing, the dark pile that he knew was the mill, and then the almost phosphorescent sheen of the dark mill-pond marked the end of the second stage of Bud’s wild flight.
“If there’s anything in the old gypsy’s ring, I can use it now,” muttered Bud. “It’s all blind from this on, but I reckon I know the way. Here goes, any way.”