Every voyage has to end. Poke began to wonder most apprehensively how this would end. He had read accounts of tremendous speed made by ice-sleds equipped with propellers working in air; but, of course, the big field was not an icy expanse. The pace he was making suggested ice-records—at least, to his fancy—but so far it had been due in part to the slope. Just before him was an almost level stretch. Then came a slight rise, to a low stone wall bordering the road. It occurred to him that it would be very evil fortune to strike that wall.
It must be understood that things had been happening very rapidly for Poke, and very little time had elapsed since he shot away from his friends. It was a mere matter of seconds till he was crossing the level, and beginning to mount the low ridge. There was a diminution of speed, but it was not a marked diminution; and he saw with terror that the Saracen’s momentum would not be checked before the wall was reached.
Then, in hot haste, he did anything and everything he could in a desperate, last chance effort. But the engine roared as violently and rapidly as ever; indeed, he seemed to have contrived to rouse the ancient mechanism to a frenzy of energy. The planes dipped and rose with the swaying of the monster. There was a queer, sidewise lunge; then, swiftly, a bewildering change. A thrill ran through Poke. Of a sudden, the motion of the craft had become smooth, buoyant, marvelously exhilarating. The vibration of the motor remained, but there was no longer the jar of wheels on uneven ground. He could still see the threatening wall, but it was no longer before him, barring the way. It was beneath him. He was vaulting it with a dozen feet to spare. The Saracen was flying!
That second was like no other Poke had known.
Wonderful elation filled him. Forgotten in the glorious instant were his past labors and the uncertainties of his immediate future. Where were the doubters and scoffers now? What wouldn’t the most cynical and pessimistic among them give to be able to share that triumph of flight achieved! His faith was justified; Step’s ingenuity was confirmed by practical performance. The Saracen was in flight!
No dream of Poke’s had ever been more delightful—and no dream could end more speedily than this fleeting jubilation.
The Saracen had risen; now the Saracen fell. In truth, the machine’s performance suggested a tremendous bound rather than soaring; and Poke hardly had grasped the amazing fact that he was going up before the equally important circumstance was impressed upon him that he was coming down. There was nothing for him to do. He was merely a passenger. He was aware of a sharp swerve of course to the left. Instead of a high barrier of trees before him, there was an opening—and the opening was the highway. By sheer good fortune the change of direction in mid-air had saved him from crashing into the further bank, and had brought him into the road leading toward the lake. He felt the jar as the wheels again touched the ground, and came to understanding of what was happening, even if he had no clear notion of how it had been brought about. As by a miracle he was in the road, and traveling at a great pace, the gentle slope of the country lakeward doing its part in promoting his sensational progress.
And what a startling performance it was! Picture a quiet country road, of a sudden invaded by a fiercely panting monster, a sort of winged dragon, rushing along in a tumult of uproar and stirring dense clouds of dust in its passage; the tips of its wings brushing the trees on either hand. Poke, deafened by the whir of the propeller and the savage detonations of the motor, clung to his seat and closed his eyes that he might not behold the perils lurking in his path. What would happen if he met a heavily loaded wagon, or overtook one of the big trucks carrying lumber to the new settlement? Or suppose some rash motorist was speeding toward him! Suppose——
But there was no need to worry himself with conjectures. The real thing impended. Something made him open his eyes. A big touring car was turning a bend in the road just ahead of him. In a flash he recognized the man at the wheel—Lon Gates. In another, he was aware that by some marvel of dextrous steering Lon had shot his car into the ditch, that the Saracen’s wing was grazing his head, that by a miracle a collision had been avoided. Poke couldn’t have seen it, but, somehow, he knew that Lon, wide-eyed with amazement, was staring after the swirl of dust in which the strange chariot was roaring along.
What Lon said Poke couldn’t know. But the words were these: