“No, Eben, nor for Doctor Peters or the squire to cast eyes upon us.”
“They wouldn’t know us, I’m thinking, Mr F.”
“The doctor might recognise and denounce the contrivance. That is why I have drawn you aside to speak in confidence, and to say, ‘Hurry on; get the job over and let us clear out with all speed.’”
Before the experimentalists had taken up their position in the small grounds which had been hired for the occasion, Mr Falcon had given out that two foreigners were about to try a new projectile, and as an explosive machine would be employed, no spectators would be admitted near the apparatus nor inside the premises on any pretext whatsoever; neither would admittance to the enclosed retreat be allowed even on payment of gate money.
But no sooner had the proceedings got fairly forward and the large steel bow and stock appeared in the distance, than the outsiders conjectured that the foreign visitors were certainly about to try the working of a new sort of guillotine for the beheading of anarchists and other criminals. The ominous sounds that had been heard by carpenters and the workmen encouraged this conclusion, and when the twisted wire of the bow was strained tight behind the air-craft, and it was made to perform a preliminary move up and down the two grooves in the bow-stock, then many persons broke into the grounds, much to the annoyance of the tall, distinguished-looking Dutchman who was at work conjointly with a London firework manufacturer, both of whom were in the act of charging a double-barrelled explosive machine—this was intended to act as an additional motor power to the professor’s aerial cruise after the first spring into the air, produced by the cross-bow, had ceased to act.
Eben Croft, who was supposed by all present, with the exception of his principal, Mr Falcon, to be the redoubtable Scudder, was well to the fore, and had fearlessly mounted the seat of the air-ship, when he was asked by one of the local magnates if he required any assistance.
Thereupon, the supposed Scudder, who seemed reluctant to air his Dutch or broken English, pointed towards his chief and tried to catch his attention, but the crowd had so surrounded Mr Falcon, that the attentive interrogator asked if the professor was wanting the Dutch gentleman with the long black beard.
“Yah, yah, mynheer,” replied Eben. “Vil you tell de herr dat I vant mine propellers?”
“Come on, Herr What’s-your-name,” cried the master carpenter to Falcon, not knowing his name—when suddenly and unexpectedly a terrific explosion took place, which hurled Mr Falcon, the firework maker and others into an adjacent pond, into which the burly Dutchman went head foremost and lost his big beard and curly locks; in fact his hairy adornments were floating on the water, and had he been the sole sufferer there would have been a scene of laughter as well as of commotion, but several townsmen and strangers were injured besides the dark, stout fellow (Falcon), who, on being dragged on to land, seemed strangely transmogrified until some kind friend re-adjusted him, when he appeared to have lost his head, for he sung out to the professor in clear English,—
“For Heaven’s sake, Eben, get your power and start at once. Your wings are attached, and you’ve an open country before you. Make a short spin at all risks.”