The more desperately Don strove to assert his authority over the man-made bird the more he seemed to lose his control. Now he felt it swinging to the left; then, a too hasty push with his foot on the steering apparatus threatened to send it wildly careening off to the right. Above the roar of the motor he could faintly hear the shouts and yells of the crowd which he was leaving so far behind.
The confidence which Don had felt before jumping into the machine was given a rude and unpleasant jolt; and, besides this, the speed and erratic movements of the “penguin” were so bewildering as to make the boy lose, for a moment, his usual coolness. The sudden thought, too, that George Glenn was witnessing the almost absurd capering of the “penguin” served only to add to his discomfiture and apprehension.
In his tremendous eagerness to conquer the difficulties, Don made a sudden movement with the control stick, lifting the tail high off the ground, and at the same time he added to his mistake by pushing the rudder too far around. The result was almost terrifying. The “bird,” as though roused to sudden fury by his action, began to whirl around and around, its speed seeming to increase with each passing second.
Dazed and dizzy the pilot had just sufficient presence of mind left to shut off the power. But the “penguin” had already begun to somersault.
Don Hale experienced a chilling and sickening fear. So suddenly that he could scarcely realize what had happened, the airplane tumbled over. He heard the sound of breaking supports and felt the impact of a blow. Then he found himself pinned to the ground amidst a mass of wreckage.
Several seconds elapsed before he could think coherently enough to decide that beyond a few bruises and scratches he had not been injured. And, although the “penguin” was as motionless as though it had never made a movement in the whole of its checkered career, the ground still seemed to be whirling rapidly before his eyes. But the dizziness, the pains and aches he was experiencing were as nothing compared to his disillusionment. He had fully expected to make a grand and triumphal trip straight across the flying piste to the flag which marked the end of the course and to hear the plaudits of George, the praise of the moniteur and the comments of the admiring crowd. And here he was—in an undignified heap, with the breath almost knocked out of his body, and responsible for the ending of the tempestuous career of what had been but a few moments before a staunch and sturdy “penguin.”
Oh yes, he must have surprised his chum George Glenn—of that there couldn’t be the slightest doubt!
As Don began painfully to extricate himself, with grim forebodings of what the consequences of the disaster might be, he became conscious of the fact that from almost every point people were running in his direction. He felt the hot blood rushing to his face; he experienced a feeling, too, somewhat akin to anger—for his sharp ears had caught what sounded suspiciously like bursts of hilarious laughter.
And, to add to the boy’s discomfiture, he caught sight of a “penguin,” wobbling and shaking like a ship in a raging sea, approaching. He had one brief, instantaneous glimpse of a tremendously grinning face—that of Dublin Dan’s—as the machine lurched swiftly past. A short time later the foremost of the crowd bore down upon him.
“Are you hurt, Don? Are you hurt?” cried George Glenn, breathlessly.