Ellis Edward Sylvester
The Flying Boys in the Sky

CHAPTER XIX
THE AEROPLANE DESTROYED

With one bound Harvey Hamilton leaped out of bed and jerked open the door. Bohunkus Johnson stood before him, atremble with excitement.

“What is it you say?” demanded the young aviator.

“De airyplane am smashed all to bits! It am kindling wood and nuffin else!” replied the dusky lad, who staggered into the room and dropped into a chair, so overcome that he was barely able to stand.

Never did Harvey dress so quickly. While flinging on his garments, his tongue was busy.

“Have you any idea who did it?”

“Gee! I wish I had! I’d sarve him de same way!”

“Is any one near it?”

“Not a soul; dat is dere wa’n’t anyone when I snoke out dere and took a look. Ain’t it too bad, Harv? We’ll have to walk home.”

“We can ride in the cars; that isn’t worth thinking about.”

Talking in an aimless way, the youths a minute later ran along the hall, skittered down stairs and dashed out to the sheds at the rear of the hotel. The landlord, who was alone in the bar-room, stared wonderingly at them as they shot through the door, but asked no questions.

Bohunkus had scarcely exaggerated in his story. No aeroplane that gave out in the upper regions and slanted downward to rocky earth was ever more utterly wrecked. One or more persons had evidently used a heavy axe to work the destruction. Both wings had been smashed, fully two-thirds of the ribs being splintered; the lever handles were broken and even the two blades of the propeller had been shattered. The machine had been hacked in other places. The engine, carbureter and magneto were about all that remained intact, and even they showed dents and bruises as if attempts had been made to destroy them.

Harvey walked sadly around the ruin and viewed it from every angle. His face was pale, for his indignation was stirred to the profoundest depths. He said nothing until his companion asked:

“Who’d you think done it?”

“I have no more idea than the man in the moon. There may have been only one person, or there may have been half a dozen. Ah, if I knew!”

Several men straggled into the open yard and to the shed where they gathered about the two youths. Harvey looked around and saw there were six, with others coming into sight. Somehow or other the news of such outrages seems to travel by a system of wireless telegraphy of their own. In a short time a score of spectators were gathered, all asking questions and making remarks.

The thought struck Harvey that among this group were probably the criminals. He looked into their faces and compressing his lips said:

“I’ll give a hundred dollars to learn what scoundrel did this.”

“I’ll gib fourteen million,” added Bohunkus enthusiastically.

A tall, stoop-shouldered young man shook his head.

“Whoever he was he oughter be lynched and I’d like to help do it.”

The suspicion entered the mind of the young aviator that it was not at all unlikely that the speaker was the guilty one. With him might have been joined others and Harvey studied their faces in the hope of gaining a clue, but in vain. Knowing his father would back his action he said:

“That was done by some person in Chesterton; you know the people better than I do; if you would like to earn two hundred dollars find who he or they were.”

Something in the nature of a reaction came over our young friend. Ashamed of his weakness, he turned his back on the group, walked rapidly to the hotel and went to his room. And it must be confessed that when he reached that, he sat down in his chair, covered his face with his hands and sobbed as if his heart were broken. Bohunkus, who was at his heels, faced him in another chair, and unable to think of anything appropriate for the occasion, held his peace, frequently crossing and uncrossing his beam-like legs, clenching his fists and sighing. He yearned to do something, but couldn’t decide what it should be.

Harvey’s outburst lasted only a brief while. He washed his face and deliberately completed his toilet.

“There’s no use of crying over spilt milk, Bunk,” he remarked calmly; “let’s go down to breakfast.”

“I knowed dere was something I’d forgot, – and dat’s it. Seems to me I’m allers hungry, Harv.”

“I have thought that a good many times.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, so’s to git rewenge on ’em.”

“What’s that?” asked Harvey, who, as is sometimes the case in mental stress, felt an almost morbid interest in trifles.

“Let’s eat up eberything in de house, so de rest ob de people will starve to def; de willain dat done dat will be among ’em and dat’s de way we’ll get eben wid him.”

“You might be able, Bunk, to carry out your plan, but I couldn’t give you much help. Come on and I’ll try to think out what is the best thing to do.”

The second descent of the boys was a contrast to their first. They showed little or no trace of agitation, as they walked into the dining-room and sat down at the long table where three other guests had preceded them. Harvey was so disturbed that he ate only a few mouthfuls, but hardly less than an earthquake would have affected the appetite of his companion.

In turning over in his mind the all-absorbing question, Harvey Hamilton could think of only one explanation. He believed the destruction of his aeroplane was due to simple wantonness, for many a man and boy do mischief just because it is mischief and they know such action is wrong on their part. It was impossible that he should have an enemy in this country town. It might be the guilty one or ones were actuated by an unreasoning jealousy or a superstitious belief that the strange machine was likely to inflict evil upon the community.

Something like this we say was his theory, though he was not entirely rid of a vague belief that some other cause might exist. This was an occasion when he needed the aid of the detective, Simmons Pendar, who was not in the dining-room nor had he seen him about the hotel. In the hope of discovering his friend Harvey strolled into the sitting-room and took the seat he had occupied the day before. The man in gray was invisible, as were the two foreign looking individuals who were under suspicion by the officer.

The question which the young aviator was asking himself was as to the right course for him to follow. Deprived in this summary fashion of his air machine, he was without power of giving Pendar any help in his attempt to recover little Grace Hastings from the kidnappers. Any essay on his part in that direction, now that he was confined to earth, was sure to hinder more than to aid.

He was still in a maze of perplexity when Bohunkus came ponderously to his feet and started through the door connecting with the hall which led up stairs. Harvey naturally looked up to learn why he did so. With the door drawn back and the negro in the act of stepping across the threshold, he turned his head, grinned and winked at his friend. Then he passed out, closing the door behind him, and the mystified Harvey heard his muffled footsteps along the hall and ascending the stairs.

“What can he be driving at?” Harvey asked himself; “that wink looked as if it was an invitation for me to follow him.”

Thus early in the day the two were the only ones in the sitting-room, so that no one could have noticed the action of the two. Nor is it easy to understand why Bohunkus should have relied upon a wink of the eye, when it was as easy and would have been much clearer had he used his gift of speech; but we know how fond his race are of mystery.

When Harvey reached the top of the stairs, where the view was unobstructed along the hall, he saw Bunk standing at his door, as if waiting for him. The space between the two was such that this time the dusky youth instead of winking flirted his head. Then he stepped into Harvey’s room and stood just beyond the partially open door and awaited his friend.

Harvey did not forget that they were near the apartment of Detective Pendar as well as that of the suspected parties, and while moving along the passage way he did his utmost in the way of looking and listening. He made no attempt to soften the noise of his footsteps, for that of itself would have betrayed him. He strode forward and through the doors and stood beside the waiting Bohunkus, who stealthily turned the key in the lock. Then he beckoned to Harvey to bring his chair and place it alongside the one in which the African softly seated himself on the far side of the room.

By this time the white youth was beginning to lose patience.

“What is the matter with you, Bunk?”

“Sh! not so loud,” replied the other, placing a forefinger against his bulbous lips.

“Use a little common sense if you have such a thing about you. If you don’t speak out and explain things, you must get out of my room.”

“All right den; Harv, I know who smashed yo’ airyplane!”

“You do! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Wanted to break it to yo’ gentle like.”

“Who was it?” demanded the astounded youth.

“Perfesser Morgan!”

Harvey stared in amazement for a moment and then asked:

“How do you know it was he who did it?”

“I seed him!”

“Are you crazy or only a fool, Bunk? Explain yourself. Do you mean to tell me that you saw Professor Morgan destroy my aeroplane?”

“Didn’t perzactly see him doot, but I seed ’nough.”

“How much did you see?”

“When I fust went out ob de hotel and round de corner in de yard by de sheds I seed a tall man, wid his long linen duster, slip fru dat place where two boards had been ripped off. Jes’ as he was slipping fru, he turned and looked at me; dere was de long part-gray whiskers and de black debilish eyes. Oh, it war him and no mistake, Harv,” added Bohunkus with an air of finality.

CHAPTER XX
A PUZZLING TELEGRAM

Harvey Hamilton was astounded. In all his imaginings he had never dreamed of this explanation of the destruction of his aeroplane. One admirable trait of the thick-witted Bohunkus Johnson was his truthfulness. His friend knew he was not trying to deceive him and what he had told could be accepted as fact.

“Why did you wait so long, Bunk, before telling me this story?”

“Wal, Harv, I didn’t want to ’bleve it myself; I didn’t at first, – dat is, I didn’t think de Perfesser was as mean as all dat, but it was him and no mistake.”

“I am sure you are right, though I can’t understand why he should do such a thing.”

“Guess he war jealous ob us.”

“Possibly so, but even then it is hard to understand.”

Harvey still refrained from giving the obvious explanation that presented itself. A man who is mentally unbalanced cannot be held accountable for his acts. It was impossible to feel the resentment toward Professor Morgan which he would have felt had the man been in his right mind. Harvey sighed.

“Only one thing remains for us to do, Bunk.”

“What is that?”

“Go home and give up our outing. Hist! some one is coming.”

Footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. Whoever the person was, he came with deliberate tread along the hall, and halting in front of the door, knocked smartly. Harvey sprang to his feet and opened. The landlord stood before him.

“Here’s a telegram for you; I signed; nothing to pay.”

The wondering youth accepted the yellow envelope and tore it open. He read:

“Go to Groveton and wait. You will learn something to your advantage.”

“Gabriel Hamilton.”

The message was dated at his father’s place of business in New York, and as shown was signed by him.

“There is no answer,” said Harvey to the waiting landlord, who departed.

“This is beyond me,” he remarked after reading the telegram to Bohunkus, who of course was as much mystified as his companion. “Why we should go to Groveton and what is there that can be of advantage to me, is a greater puzzle than the wrecking of the aeroplane.”

“What am yo’ gwine to do, Harv?”

“Obey orders. Come on.”

The two traveled with so light baggage that they had only to fling their extra coats over their arms, the few minor articles being in their pockets, and descend the stairs. Harvey paid his bill and explained that he had been called suddenly away by the telegram from his father, but it was possible he might return. The landlord expressed his sympathy for the loss of the aeroplane and promised to do all he could to find out who the criminals were.

“Don’t bother,” said Harvey airily, “it’s lucky it didn’t happen when we were a mile or two up in the sky.”

“I understand that you will pay a reward of two hundred dollars for the detection of the scamps?”

“Yes, the offer stands,” replied Harvey, confident that the really guilty individual would never be discovered. “You have my address on your register; if you learn anything, write or telegraph me. By the way, how far is Groveton from here?”

“Twelve miles by railroad.”

“Is it much of a town?”

“Not quite as big as Chesterton.”

“What time can we leave for the place?”

The landlord glanced at the clock behind him.

“If you walk briskly you can catch the next train.”

Harvey engaged the man to take care of the remains of the aeroplane during his absence, and having been directed as to the right course, the two hurried along the single street and turned off to the station on their right. They were just in time to buy tickets and take their seats. Their course was to the westward, which was the direction of the wide valley between the mountainous ridges. Twenty minutes later they stepped out on the platform and inquired the name of the nearest hotel. As in the town they had just left, there was only one hostelry, the Rawlins Hotel, to which they made their way.

Wondering and perplexed to the last degree, Harvey entered the place of board and lodging. He explained that he did not know how long he would stay, and as it was only the middle of the forenoon, he did not register, saying he would do so at noon, in the event of his remaining that long.

The day was so pleasant – the prophecy of the weather prophet having been fulfilled to the letter – that they sat down on the long bench which ran along the front of the hotel, and waited for whatever might turn up.

“If any one is to meet me, he would come here,” reflected Harvey; “I can’t imagine who he is or what news he will bring, but I shall learn in due time.”

A half hour later, while the two were seated side by side, occasionally making a guess as to what it all meant, which guess both knew was wide of the mark, Bohunkus said:

“Seems to me dem folks out dere am looking at something.”

Excitement was fast spreading through the town. Groups stood on the corners, halted in the middle of the street and at every coign of advantage. All were peering into the sky, where some object attracted their attention. Naturally Harvey and Bohunkus rose from their seats and passed out to the front where their view was clear.

“Gee! it am anoder airyplane!” exclaimed the negro.

“You are right; they seem to be growing plentiful in this part of the world.”

“Wonder if it am de Perfesser.”

Harvey whipped his binoculars around and leveled them at the object, whose outstretched wings identified it as one of the most modern ships of the air. A brief scrutiny showed that it was not the extraordinary invention of that extraordinary man who had crossed their path more than once. It was a biplane, and though still a considerable distance away the noise of its motor was audible. It was traveling fast and heading for the little town of Groveton.

It was evident that whoever was guiding the aerial craft was an expert. Harvey saw that it carried only the operator, who described a large circle over the town at a height of nearly a thousand feet and then began descending.

“He’s gwine to land here!” exclaimed Bunk.

“And has picked out his spot,” added Harvey.

Such proved to be the fact. There was a broad, open space in front of the Rawlins House, where a large number of teams could find room, the area being such as to offer an ideal spot for the landing of an aeroplane. The aviator, who was now seen to be a youth not much if any older than Harvey himself, guided his machine with consummate skill, and lightly touched the ground within fifty feet of where our young friends and half a hundred others were standing. The aeroplane ran a few yards on its wheels, and then came to a halt. The young man stepped lightly to the ground and smilingly greeted the crowd. His next words were:

“I am looking for Harvey Hamilton and his colored companion.”

“Dat’s us,” whispered the startled Bohunkus.

Harvey stepped forward.

“That is my name; what do you wish with me?”

“I have orders to hand over this biplane to you.”

“To me!” repeated Harvey, who felt as if wonders would never cease; “why to me?”

“Your father, Mr. Gabriel Hamilton, ordered it by telegraph to be sent here this morning. I understand your machine has been wrecked.”

“It has, but how did you learn it?”

The handsome youth smiled as he offered his hand.

“I am Paul Mitchell, from Garden City; we received a telegram from your father this morning asking us to send a biplane to you at once, as yours had been knocked out of commission. We happened to have one ready and I started right off and have made pretty good time to this spot in Pennsylvania.”

“I should say you had, for it is several hundred miles from Long Island; but how in the name of the seven wonders did father come to know of my mishap?”

Young Mitchell laughed.

“He gave no explanation, but some one must have told him.”

“Who could it have been?”

“I give it up.”

“Were you asked to come to Groveton?”

“No; Chesterton was given as the place where your misfortune overtook you. Since I did not know the particulars, our folks thought it best I should meet you at some point not far from there. In replying to your father’s telegram, I stated this, which explains why he repeated the name to you.”

“But not where he got his knowledge.”

“Let that question go till you meet him, when he will make it clear. What caused the breakage of your machine?”

“Somebody chopped it up; it was done in spite.”

“Did you catch the scoundrel?”

“Catch him! no; nobody knows where he is.”

“Well, such things happen and it is all a part of the game. Suppose we go to Chesterton, and have a look at the remains; there must be some salvage which I can ship to the factory. How about the engine?”

“It is battered, but must be worth repairing.”

“If you and your friend will seat yourselves, I shall have you there in a jiffy.”

Bohunkus and Harvey climbed into the seat and adjusted themselves. Young Mitchell examined the different parts of the biplane, which was an almost exact replica of the one that had been wrecked, and then took charge of the business. At his request one of the bystanders swung the blades of the propeller around so as to start the motor, and several held on until the tugging almost drew them off their feet. Then they let go, and away sailed the second machine for Chesterton.

CHAPTER XXI
BEGINNING THE SEARCH

There certainly had been lively work, for within six hours after the discovery of the destroyed aeroplane, a message had been sent from New York to Garden City, Long Island, a machine despatched from that point to the little town among the Alleghanies in eastern Pennsylvania, and an aerial ship had sailed across the State of New Jersey to the destination more than two hundred miles from its starting point. When and by what means the merchant had learned of the straits of his son could not as yet be guessed, but the news must have been waiting when he reached his office in the city, since young Mitchell said it was received at the factory between eight and nine o’clock that morning. The flight to Groveton was made in about four hours, with a brief halt on the way to replenish the supply of gasoline. Traveling at the rate of fifty miles an hour and sometimes faster was surely “going some.”

As Mitchell afterward explained, he had visited the section twice, and was familiar with it. He lost no time, therefore, in groping, but recognized rivers, cities, towns, and the general conformation of the country over which he glided, and identified Groveton long before any one there dreamed he intended to make a call.

Harvey glanced at the little watch on his wrist, and noted the exact time of starting. Eleven minutes later to the second, he volplaned into the open space in front of the hotel. Although the distance passed was less than by rail, he must have averaged nearly if not quite a mile a minute.

The lesson of the “accident” to the other machine was not lost upon the two young men. It was hardly to be supposed that any one would try to harm the new one, but Bohunkus was ordered to stay with it and see that all hands were kept off.

“Yo’ bet I will,” he replied, fully alive to his duty; “de fust chap dat lays an onkind hand on dis pet will git broke in ’leben pieces and den flung ober de fence.”

Several idlers were gaping at the fractured aeroplane huddled in the wagon sheds of the hotel. Mitchell quickly finished his examination.

“The man or men who did that,” he said in a low voice to Harvey, “showed the devil’s own spite. It looks as if the scoundrel was crazy.”

Harvey glanced at his companion. Did he suspect the truth? His looks and manner, however, showed that he was not thinking of Professor Morgan. The remark was a natural one, under the circumstances. Harvey was not disposed to reveal anything, since he saw no good to be accomplished thereby, while an unpleasant situation might develop.

“You can save something out of the wreck?” remarked the owner inquiringly.

“Considerable; I shall ship what’s worth while to the factory at Garden City, and in a few weeks you will have a new machine as good as ever.”

“The greater part of it will have to be new,” commented Harvey.

“That being so, you can return this one in exchange, if you wish.”

“Is there any way, Mitchell, in which I can serve you?”

“None; I shall have what is left of the machine gathered up, as I said, and sent to the factory; that will take the remainder of the day, when I shall follow in the train. Meanwhile you are not called upon to lose any part of your vacation. There is no perceptible difference between the two biplanes, so you don’t need any help from me.”

The youths walked back to where a small group remained staring at the biplane in which Bohunkus Johnson was still seated, as alert as a watch dog. As the couple approached, the negro crooked his stubby forefinger to his friend, who went forward.

“What is it, Bunk?”

“Yo’s forgot something.”

“What is that?”

“It’s ’bout dinner time.”

The colored youth meant to whisper, but his husky aspiration carried as far as if he had spoken in a loud tone.

“He is right,” remarked Mitchell; “let us have dinner together.”

The old fellow who served the hotel as hostler was hired to stay by the machine and to keep every other person at a distance, while the three went in to their meal.

During these minutes, Harvey was on the watch for a sight of Detective Pendar. He much wanted to have a few words with him, but was puzzled how to bring it about. Harvey had given up his room, so he could not signal to the officer to follow him thither and there was no understanding as to how they should otherwise meet.

Pendar, however, remained invisible until Bohunkus had perched himself in the seat in front of the tank, and Harvey had his hands on the levers. Mitchell stepped to the rear to give a swing to the propeller blades. The machine was pointed to the left, where the highway showed quite a sharp slope downward, of which the young aviator meant to take advantage.

At this crisis, when twenty pairs of eyes were upon the party, Harvey heard an odd sounding cough. He looked around and saw a man standing on the porch above the other spectators. It was Detective Pendar, who was looking keenly at Harvey. As their eyes met the former rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully and winked once, but made no other sign that he recognized the youth.

“Now what does he mean by that?” Harvey asked himself; “a wink may signify one of a score of things.” As the only reply he could make, he winked in return. A dozen of the group might have accepted it as meant for him, but, if so, he must have been equally puzzled with the author of the signal, who a minute later was scooting through the air and steadily rising.

Harvey had decided to carry out so far as he could the programme agreed upon the day before by him and Pendar. The only change was that caused by the enforced delay. Instead of making his search in the forenoon, it now would have to be done in the afternoon. He shot upward, until barely five hundred feet above the earth, and then headed westward over the long stretch of forest of which mention has been made. It was advisable that he should keep as near the ground as practical, since his view would thereby be improved.

Bohunkus Johnson was still in the dark on two points: he had no conception of the serious business upon which his companion was engaged, knowing nothing of the kidnapped child, and, though certain in his own mind that Professor Morgan was the man who had wrecked the aeroplane, he had never suspected that he was insane. Ignorance on the former point was a good thing, but as regards the latter it proved a serious mistake, as has been intimated in another place.

It need not be said that a heavier-than-air machine must progress rapidly in order to sustain itself aloft. When such motion stops, through breakage, accident or the will of the aviator, an aeroplane obeys the law of gravity and comes to the ground. It does not fall, as is the case with a balloon.

It would never do to withdraw care from the machine, which worked with perfect smoothness, but having headed westward and struck as moderate a gait as was practical, Harvey Hamilton gave all the attention possible to the country under his feet. He noted the wide expanse of forest in its exuberant foliage, a flashing stream of water and the foam of a tumbling cascade on the slope of the farther ridge. In the other direction wound the railway line over which he and Bunk had ridden earlier in the day. The sky was clear and sunshiny with a rift of fleecy clouds in advance, but at so great an elevation that no inconvenience was to be feared from them. The town of Groveton was so distinctly seen that he recognized several of the buildings, including the hotel, which he had observed on his brief visit. Far away in the radiant horizon the steeples and tall buildings of a city showed, but it was all strange to him. He could identify nothing beyond that which has been named.

Harvey had sailed probably three or four miles from Chesterton when he was thrilled by a sight that roused instant hope. In the midst of the wood, an open space several acres in extent was crossed by a stream of considerable size, on its winding way to the distant Delaware. In the center of this clearing stood a log cabin, which recalled that of Abisha Wharton where Harvey and Bunk had spent a night after leaving home on their outing. The land showed slight signs of cultivation, but from the stone chimney running up the outside of the decayed structure, he traced a faint blue spiral of smoke.

“That shows somebody lives there,” was Harvey’s thought; “from what Pendar told me I believe it’s the very place where the kidnappers are holding the child a prisoner.”

He leaned far over and scrutinized the picture as he swept over it. What he longed to see was the little girl running about or playing in front of the cabin, or one or more of her captors. It would seem that the loud throbbing of his motor ought to have attracted the attention of the occupants, but it did not do so, and the spot speedily glided from sight. When Harvey twisted his neck, however, in the effort to see more, he noticed that Bunk had also turned and was attentively studying the picture. Conversation in such circumstances was impossible, but Harvey hoped his companion had discovered something – a supposition which he was certain to remember when the time came for a halt in their flight.

Had our young friend followed his inclination, he would have circled around and returned over the cabin, in order to inspect it further, but that most likely would have roused the suspicion of the abductors, and the moment they believed an aeroplane had been impressed into the service against them, that moment the usefulness of the contrivance would be ended. He could remember the location clearly, and would give the detective all the directions he needed.

“I didn’t see any wagon road or trails, but there must be one path at least which connects the house with the outer world. Those men have a source of supplies and they can’t help leaving footprints.”

As Harvey reasoned out the problem, the solution was simplified. Simmons Pendar was confident that the hiding place was somewhere in the stretch of wilderness, but to search for it would prove fatal. The effort was certain of discovery by the watchful guards. Now, however, since the exact location of the cabin seemed to have been found, a speedy approach ought to be within the detective’s power. The near future must answer the question.