CHAPTER XLIV.
A LIFE IN THE BALANCE.
Billy lifted a ruddy face from a bucket of ice-cold water, in which he had been taking a waking dip, and then yanked Henri by the heels out of a warm blanket nest.
“Get up, lazybones, and let’s be scraping the sky. It’s a good six o’clock, and the cook’s all in a fume about the breakfast getting cold.”
Henri caught the spirit of his companion, and both gave way to joyful anticipation of a twenty-mile dash in a pair of monoplanes.
They attempted to waltz with the cook, but neither could reach even a quarter way around the waist of this rotund Wilhelm, and if the latter’s legs had not been so much shorter than his waistband it is likely that the skylarkers would have received several jars from a ham-like foot.
Capering like colts, the boys headed for the hangar, and with the assistance of Jacob and another helper, early on the ground, the machines were rolled out to make their buzzing start for high places.
When Billy had removed kit number 16 from his monoplane he hopped into his seat on the frame. Henri was already settled for flight.
The run-off, however, was postponed for a minute or two so that the aëroplanists could watch the rise of a Zeppelin directly in front of them.
“Let ’er go,” sang Billy, and both monoplanes got away together.
The Zeppelin had just swung around in the great arc of a circle, and the boys in the monoplanes were sailing immediately above the great cylinder. Henri had just turned a swift glance at his companion aviator, with intent of setting the direction of flight, when—and the horror of it—Billy’s machine suddenly stopped in midair, wabbling like a cradle, and before the young aviator’s desperate attempt to retain control could prevail the machine turned upside down, and the boy from Bangor hung by the knees from the tumbling frame.