CHAPTER XX
ETHER AND MOTH-BALLS
“For once old Irons O is fit as a fiddle.” Goggles heaved a sigh of relief. Hours had passed. They had gone sweeping high above the prairies, had tilted the nose of their plane upward and had gone roaring over the Rockies. Now here they were in the little cattle-country city of Broken Bow, ready for the second game of their unusual tour.
The city was not marvelous but the crowd, the boy thought with a thrill and a shudder, was immense and rather terrifying. Banked in rows to the right of the narrow bleachers were hundreds of cowboys. They had not dismounted, but were seated easily in saddle, awaiting the opening of the game.
“Nothing’s wrong this time!” Hop Horner agreed. “But just to make sure, we’ll put a few over the plate.” He called to the catcher. Goggles set the levers, placed a ball between the steel fingers, then pushed a button.
“Never behaved better!” was Hop’s pronouncement after five minutes of practice that set the crowd to staring.
“Better give him a little gas before we start,” Goggles suggested.
“Right!” Hop took up a gallon can and poured half its contents into the small tank concealed in the iron pitcher’s back.
“Whew! What’s that queer smell!” Goggles exclaimed as Hop set the can on the ground.
“Something drifting in on the wind,” Hop said quietly. “Sort of smells like a hospital.”
“Bad sign!” Goggles laughed. He was more right than he thought.