“Don’t go very high, dear.”
“We’ll see. I want to give it a thorough test. All right, Ris; I’m off!”
The motors whirred, steadily accelerating speed while the aëroplane trembled as if eager to dart away. Steve threw in the clutch; the machine leaped forward and ran on its wheels across the pasture like a deer, but did not rise.
He managed to stop at the opposite fence and when Orissa came running up, panting, her brother sat in his place staring stupidly ahead.
“What’s wrong, Steve?”
He rubbed his head and woke up.
“The forward elevator, I guess. But I’m sure I had it adjusted properly.”
He got down and examined the rudder, giving it another upward tilt.
“Now I’ll try again,” he said cheerfully.
They turned the aircraft around and he made another start. This time Orissa was really terrified, for the thing acted just like a bucking broncho. It rose to a height of six feet, dove to the ground, rose again to plunge its nose into the turf and performed such absurd, unexpected antics that Steve had to cling on for dear life. When he finally managed to bring it to a halt the rudder was smashed and two ribs of the lower plane splintered.