“Sit where you are and hold tight,” he exclaimed. “All right, Tom! Heave away! Ah! Up they come! We’re off!”
“Hey, let me out! Let me out! By gosh, this is too dem rich fer my blood! I——”
“HEY, LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! BY GOSH, THIS IS TOO DERN RICH FER MY BLOOD.”
Farmer Appleyard, pale and trembling, peered over the side of the tonneau and then sank back with a gasp. The earth lay several score of feet beneath him, and the distance was rapidly increasing. The buoyant gas which filled the container, as if it had been an immense black rugby football, had raised the Flying Road Racer so swiftly that it had seemed literally to “flash” upward.
Below was spread the panorama of the countryside, patches of woods, fields, fenced pastures, and farmhouses. From that height they could see quite plainly the ruined bridge and the angry, turbulent waters of the swollen current that had washed it away. All at once the boys’ passengers had a fresh shock. Jack connected the engine with the propeller, and the Flying Road Racer began to forge ahead. Tom, simultaneously, released the clutch that held the rudder rigid while the Flying Road Racer was merely a land vehicle.
Soon they were flying above the swollen stream, and looking back they could see the road by which they had come, and the farmer’s mule kicking and plunging furiously at its halter rope.
“Poor Balaam! I misdoubt he’ll ever git over, this,” breathed Farmer Appleyard.
“Where is the doctor’s house? Can you see it?” demanded Jack presently.
“Yes. It’s that thar white place with the two big spruces in front. My, won’t he be astonished when he sees me comin’ ter summon him by ther sky route!”