CHAPTER XV
THE DASH OF THE SCARY HEN
Nothing had been further from Poke’s intention than such a wild ride as that in which he now found himself engaged.
All he had proposed was a sort of “dock trial”—to use an expression he had once employed in talking with Sam; but now, to his bewilderment and alarm, he was going to sea, so to speak. Great pains had been taken in the adjustment of the bicycle wheels under the plane, and Master Mechanic Step had been proud of their smooth running on their ball-bearings. Indeed, so well had friction been reduced that the Saracen could be wheeled about easily; but now it was all too evident that the wheeling by engine power was also easily accomplished. The push of the swiftly-whirling propeller and the slope was producing a most effective combination. The Saracen shot away from the anchorage as an arrow shoots from a bow, and then bettered the performance of any arrow by traveling faster and faster as it advanced.
Poke did his best to stop the machine—and failed signally. Perhaps in the haste of his surprise he lost his head for a moment, and managed to do the wrong thing; perhaps—and this is quite as probable—the fault lay in the mechanism. The devices for controlling the engine and the wings were still in the experimental stage; and, as it happened, were really more the products of Step’s ingenuity than of Poke’s. Unchallenged credit for the basic idea of a flying machine belonged to the latter, but practical working out of the plans had fallen more and more to his partner in the enterprise; and Step’s way of doing things was not likely to be anybody else’s way. Moreover, Step’s extraordinarily long arms and legs gave him a reach for which pudgy Poke could not hope; and all the levers and controls were adjusted to Step’s liking. Sitting in the saddle, Poke was unable to touch certain cords of high importance in the general scheme of navigation of the craft; his feet swung clear of pedals, also essential to its management. As for the levers upon which he laid hold—well, they wouldn’t work, at least, as he wished them to work. The net result of his early endeavors seemed to be merely a further quickening of the already terrifying speed of motor and propeller and of the pace of the Saracen.
The aircraft dashed down the gentle slope almost as a toboggan might slip down its chute; though its motion had a curiously buoyant quality no toboggan could claim. It was riding such as Poke had never before known. The broad planes seemed to lift it smoothly and lightly over the irregularities in the turf of the field. It swayed, to be sure, but there was something easy and graceful in the lateral motion; something almost birdlike, something which roused Poke’s hope and ambition, once his first panic passed and he discovered that he was not only still alive but also unharmed. He hadn’t intended to try to fly that day, but the feeling of “lift” was undeniably luring. He thought of the doubting Thomases who were watching his performance. He reached decision. He’d show ’em, and show ’em then and there!
He bent forward. Again he seized the levers, by which he expected to shift his planes for the rise clear of earth. He tugged valiantly. Nothing happened. He threw all his strength into another effort—and something did happen! Nothing but the back of the seat saved him from tumbling bodily from the machine, as one of the bars of wood broke short off under the strain.
Poke recovered his balance by a mighty effort. Also he strove to keep his wits about him. Plainly, he could not fly. Seemingly, he could not stop the motor. It was behind him, and placed low down in a peculiarly inaccessible spot. Even the long-limbed Step, in cranking it, had been forced almost to crawl under the machine, while as for reaching it from the seat—that was wholly out of the question. The so-called safety devices of Step’s contrivance were out of commission. Poke, summarizing his situation, set his jaw stubbornly. If he couldn’t fly and couldn’t stop, he might at least be able to steer the Saracen and circle the big field to the edification of all beholders; and trust to luck to halt the motor sooner or later.
Now, the Saracen’s rudder might have been mightily effective in mid-air—this was a matter fated to be left in uncertainty—but it was poorly calculated to guide a runaway machine on the ground. It was a small trailing plane, set vertically. Poke’s attempts to adjust it were in vain, at least so far as securing the desired effect. The Saracen merely lurched to one side; then swung back, dipping its wing deeply; regained an even keel, but began to zigzag in most distressing fashion. [Poke again was almost thrown from his seat, and was glad to cling for support to the uprights of the framework]. The truth burst upon him that he was purely a passenger on this amazing voyage of his.