The Flying Machine Boys in the Wilds. Frank Walton
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“We came out with the idea of taking a short trip to see if they still are in working order.”
“Well,” Doran said with a scowl, “of course you know that you can’t take the machines out without an order from Mr. Bixby!”
CHAPTER V.
A WAIF AND A STRAY
“Bixby doesn’t own these machines!” exclaimed Carl angrily.
“Who does own them?” demanded Doran.
“We four boys own them!” was the reply.
“Well, you’ve got to show me!” insisted Doran, insolently.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do!” Jimmie announced. “We’ll go right back to Bixby and put you off the job!”
“Go as far as you like,” answered Doran. “I was put here to guard these machines and I intend to do it. You can’t bluff me!”
While the boys stood talking with the impertinent guard they saw two figures moving stealthily about the aeroplanes. Jimmie hastened over to the Louise and saw a man fumbling in the tool-box.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the boy.
The intruder turned a startled face for an instant and then darted away, taking the direction the cab had taken.
Carl and Doran now came running up and Jimmie turned to the latter.
“Nice old guard you are!” he almost shouted. “Here you stand talking with us while men are sneaking around the machines!”
“Was there some one here?” asked Doran in assumed amazement.
“There surely was!” replied Jimmie. “Where are the other guards?”
“Why,” replied Doran hesitatingly, “they got tired of standing around doing nothing and went home. It’s pretty dull out here.”
“Well,” Jimmie answered, “I’m going to see if this machine has been tampered with! Get up on one of the seats, Carl,” he said with a wink, “and we’ll soon find out if any of the fastenings have been loosened.”
The boy was permitted to follow instructions without any opposition or comment from Doran, and in a moment Jimmie was in the other seat with the wheels in motion.
Seeing too late the trick which had been played upon him, Doran uttered an exclamation of anger and sprang for one of the planes. His fingers just scraped the edge of the wing as the machine, gathering momentum every instant, lifted from the ground, and he fell flat.
He arose instantly to shake a threatening fist at the disappearing aeroplane. Jimmie turned back with a grin on his freckled face.
“Catch on behind,” he said, “and I’ll give you a ride!”
“Did you see some one fumbling around the machine?” asked Carl, as Jimmie slowed the motors down a trifle in order to give a chance for conversation.
“Sure, I did!” was the reply. “He ducked away when he saw me coming, and ran away into the field in the direction taken by the cab.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Carl. “Do you think the cabman brought that man out to work some mischief with the flying machines?”
“I don’t think much about it,” Jimmie answered, “because I don’t know much about it! He might have done something to the machine which will cause us to take a drop in the air directly, but I don’t think so. Anyhow, it’s running smoothly now.”
“Still we’re taking chances!” insisted Carl.
The moon now stood well up in the eastern sky, a round, red ball of fire which looked to the lads large enough to shadow half the sky a little later on. Below, the surface of the earth was clearly revealed in its light.
“We’ll have to hurry!” Carl suggested, “if we get back to the hotel before daylight, so I’ll quit talking and you turn on more power.”
“I may not be able to find this blooming old valley where we left the tents,” Jimmie grumbled. “If you remember, son, we left that locality in something of a hurry!”
“I certainly remember something which looked to me like a jungle scene in a comic opera!” grinned Carl. “And the noise sounded not unlike some of the choruses I have heard in little old New York!”
Jimmie drove straight north for an hour, and then began circling to left and right in search of the little valley from which they had fled so precipitously. At last the gleam of running water caught his eyes and he began volplaning down.
“Are you sure that’s the place?” asked Carl, almost screaming the words into Jimmie’s ears. “I don’t see any tents down there, do you?”
“I see something that looks like a tent,” Jimmie answered. “We are so high up now that we couldn’t distinguish one of them anyhow.”
As the aeroplane drove nearer to the earth, a blaze flared up from below. In its red light they saw the two shelter-tents standing in exactly the same position in which they had been left.
“There!” cried Jimmie. “I had an idea we’d find them!”
“But look at the fire!” cautioned Carl. “There’s some one there keeping up that blaze!”
“That’s a funny proposition, too!” exclaimed Jimmie. “It doesn’t seem as if the savages would remain on the ground after our departure.”
“And it doesn’t seem as if they would go away without taking everything they could carry with them, either!” laughed Carl.
“We can’t guess it out up here,” Jimmie argued. “We may as well light and find out what it means. Have your guns ready, and shoot the first savage who comes within range.”
When the rubber-tired wheels of the machine struck the ground which they had occupied only a short time before, the boys found a great surprise awaiting them. As if awakened from slumber by the clatter of the motors, a figure dressed in nondescript European costume arose from the fire, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and advanced to meet them.
It was the figure of a young man of perhaps eighteen, though the ragged and soiled clothing he wore, the unwashed face, the long hair, made it difficult for one to give any accurate estimate as to the years of his life. He certainly looked like a tramp, but he came forward with an air of assurance which could not have been improved upon by a millionaire hotel-keeper, or a haughty three-dollar-a-week clerk in a ten-cent store.
“Je-rusalem!” exclaimed Jimmie. “Now what do you think of this?”
“I saw him first!” declared Carl.
“All right, you may have him!”
The intruder came forward and stood for a moment without speaking, regarding the boys curiously in the meantime.
“Well,” Jimmie said in a moment, “what about it?”
“I thought you’d be back,” said the other.
“Where are the savages?” asked Carl. “Didn’t you bump into a war party here?”
The stranger smiled and pointed to the tents.
“I am a truthful man,” he said. “I wouldn’t tell a lie for a dollar. I might tell six for five dollars, but I wouldn’t tell one lie for any small sum. My name is Sam Weller, and I’m a tramp.”
“That’s no lie!” exclaimed Jimmie. “Unless appearances are deceiving!”
“Perhaps,” Carl suggested, “we’d better be getting out of here. The natives may return.”
“As soon as you have given me time to relate a chapter of my life,” Sam Weller continued, “you’ll understand why the savages won’t be back here to-night.”
“Go on!” Jimmie grunted. “Tell us the story of your life, beginning with the poor but dishonest parents and the statement that you were never understood when you