“Wind her up!” he ordered. “We’ll show ’em a thing or two.”
Step seized the crank, willingly enough.
“Say, don’t forget, Poke, to advance the spark,” jeered Herman.
“Huh! It’s kept that way!” snapped Poke.
Step spun the crank, and the furious barking of the motor began again. Indeed, it was louder than before and the reports came with much greater frequency. The propeller revolved with a speed which made the blades melt into a sort of hazy halo. The anchor rope tautened. So great was the strain that, to Sam’s anxious eye, the line seemed to shrink.
“Hold on! That’s enough!” he shouted, but the thunder of the mufflerless motor drowned his voice. He turned to his companions—and caught sight of the Shark, approaching at a run and wildly waving a sheet of paper above his head.
Then Poke did something—none of the onlookers knew just what; even Step later had to confess ignorance. But the something was followed by an increase in the furious roaring of the motor. The whirling blades of the propeller spun madly. The anchor line vibrated like a fiddle string. Then, suddenly, it parted with a report audible even in that frightful tumult.
The Saracen shot forward, gliding with swiftly increasing speed on its bicycle wheels. There was a slight slope to accelerate its start, though, truth to tell, there seemed to be no need of such help. The boys saw Poke making strange motions, tugging vainly at the levers, as he dashed away on such a ride as had never entered into even the dreams of any of them.
The Shark came up, breathless with haste. He caught Sam’s arm, and stared dazedly at the departing machine.
“Stop him, somebody!” he gasped. “Just—just worked it out. What’d you let Poke go for before I told him? That—that thing won’t fly!”