The Aeroplane Boys Series

The Stolen Aeroplane

OR

How Bud Wilson Made Good

[The Aeroplane Boys Series]

By ASHTON LAMAR

• I. IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
  Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps.
• II. THE STOLEN AEROPLANE
  Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good.
• III. THE BOY AVIATOR’S GRIT
  Or, The Aeroplane Express.
• IV. THE BOY AVIATORS’ CLUB
  Or, Flying For Fun.

OTHER TITLES TO FOLLOW

These stories are the newest and most up-to-date. All aeroplane details are correct. Fully illustrated. Colored frontispiece. Cloth, 12mos.

Price, 60c Each.

The Airship Boys Series

By H. L. SAYLER

• I. THE AIRSHIP BOYS
  Or, The Quest of the Aztec Treasure.
• II. THE AIRSHIP BOYS ADRIFT
  Or, Saved by an Aeroplane.
• III. THE AIRSHIP BOYS DUE NORTH
  Or, By Balloon to the Pole.
• IV. THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN BARREN LANDS
  Or, The Secret of the White Eskimos.

These thrilling stories deal with the wonderful new science of aerial navigation. Every boy will be interested and instructed by reading them. Illustrated. Cloth binding. Price, $1.00 each.

The above books are sold everywhere or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the

Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago

Complete catalog sent, postpaid, on request

“[Stop! In the Name of the Law!]”

The Stolen
Aeroplane

OR

How Bud Wilson Made Good

BY

ASHTON LAMAR

Illustrated by M. G. Gunn

Chicago

The Reilly & Britton Co.

Publishers

COPYRIGHT, 1910,

by

THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE STOLEN AEROPLANE

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Stolen Aeroplane

OR,

How Bud Wilson Made Good

[CHAPTER I]
AN IDLE BOY GETS A JOB.

“Here she comes.”

Doug’ Jackson, the driver of the Scottsville House ’bus, rose from the edge of the depot platform, hitched up his trousers, and motioned the usual depot loungers back to safety. All were waiting for passenger train No. 22, west bound, due at 11:15 A. M., and late, as usual.

“She’s made up seven minutes,” Doug’ announced authoritatively after consulting a large silver watch. “She’s fannin’—git back there, you kids.”

No one else yet saw or heard the approaching train, whose proximity was only detected by Doug’s long experience in such matters; but all necks were craned toward the grade east of town and the curve at its far end.

One of these anxious watchers was Mr. Josiah Elder, a man just beyond middle age, who shaved every morning down to a round patch of whiskers on a prolonged chin, and whose white starched shirt and heavy gold watch chain proclaimed him a person of affairs. Just at present, a heavy coat of dust on a new, black, soft hat and on his dark trousers suggested that the morning had been spent out of doors, where the September drought had coated the town and country with suffocating dust.

Mr. Elder was president of the Scottsville First National Bank. He was also president of the Scott County Joint Stock Agricultural and Trotting Association. And this was Wednesday morning of fair week. The president was hot, dusty, and had an anxious look.

“Hello, Mr. Elder,” exclaimed Doug’ hastily, lifting his cap with his badge as “runner” on it, and glancing hastily along the track to be sure that his announcement had not been premature. “Train’ll be here right away.”

“Morning,” replied the anxious fair official, looking toward a dusty, side-bar buggy and a lively looking horse hitched just beyond the ’bus. “Keep your eye on my rig, Doug’.”

Just then a hollow whistle sounded far up the track, and a moment later, beneath a puff of white steam that drifted around the curve, a billow of black smoke told that No. 22 was “fanning” down grade toward the town.

“I’m lookin’ for a man named Dare—T. Glenn Dare. If you see him, he ain’t goin’ to the hotel. He’s goin’ with me.”

“What’s the prospec’s fur fair week?” asked Doug’, indicating that he understood. “I reckon that airship’ll bring out a fine attendance ’bout Thursday.”

“We hope so,” replied Mr. Elder impressively. “It is a novel attraction of great educational value. And it is an expensive feature. The people o’ Scott County should recognize our enterprise and turn out liberally.”

“I reckon it’s goin’ to kind o’ crowd you to git everything in shape on time, ain’t it? All the boxes and the injine is over there in the freight house yit.”

“We are waiting for Mr. Dare. He’s the manufacturer’s agent and operator.”

The oncoming train was already pounding over the switch track frogs at the town limits. Doug’ mustered up his courage, crowded a little closer to the disturbed fair official and exclaimed, nervously:

“All right, Mr. Elder, I’ll keep my eye out fur him. And your rig’ll be all safe. Say, Mr. Elder, you couldn’t spare me a ticket fur the fair, could ye?”

But this appeal was lost. The mogul engine, hissing as if annoyed at its enforced stop in Scottsville, slid to a grinding stop, panted a few times, and then with a sharp clang of its bell and a deep snort, was off again. The crowd, always anxious to see the train come in, edged forward, fell back and grouped itself about a dozen arrivals. Two traveling men, or “drummers,” Doug’ captured. The others were either not strangers to the depot crowd or easily identified by their luggage and costume as visitors from near by towns. Mr. T. Glenn Dare was not among those who alighted.

Having made sure of this fact, President Elder’s strained look at once turned into one of complete annoyance.

“I reckon yer man didn’t git here,” remarked the talkative ’bus driver. “Maybe he’ll be on seventeen.”

One look at the official’s face convinced Doug’ that it was not the time to renew his request for a free ticket. Mr. Elder hurried into the depot, and with no attempt to restrain his anger, called up the ticket office of the fair association on the telephone.

To some one, he rapidly explained that Mr. T. Glenn Dare, the expert who was to set up and operate the aeroplane for the fair directors had not arrived. The boxed and crated airship had been in the depot freight house for a week. It was now Tuesday of the week of the fair, and a flight had been advertised for Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock. Operator Dare, who was to make this at the rate of fifty dollars a day, had been expected Tuesday morning.

“Yes, I know,” answered the president to the person with whom he had been talking, “we’ve saved one hundred dollars, but that ain’t it. We’ve got to exhibit our aeroplane to-morrow, or let the people know we can’t. We’ve paid one thousand eight hundred dollars in good money for the thing, and it ain’t worth a nickel to us over there in the freight depot.”

There was more talk, and then President Elder ended the conversation by announcing:

“There isn’t any use to haul the boxes out to the ground, if the man don’t come. We’ll wait until the night train. If he ain’t on that, we’ll send out bills callin’ the show off. Then we’ll ship the machine back East and sue the company for failure to keep its contract. They agreed to have a competent man here, and they’ve thrown us down.”

As the perspiring Mr. Elder came out of the hot ticket-office of the musty-smelling station and paused on the platform to wipe his red face, his eye fell on the freight-house across the tracks from the station. He glanced at his horse to see that it was all right, and then sprang across to the freight-depot. He had not yet seen the valuable crates consigned to him. The freight-agent had already gone to dinner. Entering the long shed, he glanced inquiringly about. It was half dark.

“Lookin’ for your aeroplane, Mr. Elder?” exclaimed a pleasant boyish voice from somewhere in the gloom.

The banker and fair president traced the sounds to their source. At the far end of the room and opposite a rear door stood a mound of carefully packed and braced skeleton-like frames. On the edge of a heavy square box bound with steel bands, sat a boy of perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Although it was hot, the lad was wearing a heavy blue flannel shirt, a red neck tie, and a cheap, sailor hat. His low shoes were worn and old, and his socks gave signs of needing a mother’s care. He was slowly fanning himself with a big blue handkerchief.

“If you are,” added the boy, springing to his feet, “here it is; and it looks like the real thing.”

Instead of examining the aeroplane crates, Mr. Elder’s eye swept the boy from hat to shoes.

“Aren’t you Bud Wilson?” he asked at last.

“Yes, sir. Attorney Cyrus Stockwell is my foster father.”

“I thought so,” rejoined the banker tartly. “I’ve heard of you. Lafe Pennington, of our bank, has told me about you.”

The boy laughed—he had already taken off his discolored hat.

“Then you didn’t hear much good about me, that’s certain.”

“No,” soberly answered the elder man, “to tell you the truth, I’ve never heard much good about you.”

The boy laughed again, but in an embarrassed way, showed his confusion, and then said:

“Lafe and I never got along. But, he may be right. I’ve got a bad name.”

“What are you doing here? You are old enough to be at work.”

“That’s it,” went on Bud, “I ought to be. I have a job promised me when I want it, out in the country. But I’ve been waitin’ to see this.”

He pointed toward the dismantled airship.

“What do you want to see? You haven’t any business loafing in here. Have you been monkeyin’ with the machinery?”

“Oh! I know ’em around here. And I ain’t hurt nothing. No fear o’ that.”

“Well, what’s your interest?”

“I want to see it. I’ve been waiting every day since it came. I want to be here when you move it. I want to help unpack it.”

“You? What do you know about aeroplanes?”

“Nothing—that is, almost nothing. But I guess I know a little. You know I ran Mr. Greeley’s automobile nearly all summer. I understand motors. And—well, I do know something about aeroplanes. I tried to make one this summer.”

A look of sudden interest showed in the banker’s face.

“Oh, I remember now, you are the youngster that nearly broke his neck trying to fly.”

“I suppose Lafe Pennington told that,” answered Bud, looking up. “Well, I didn’t. I fell, but I lit on my feet, and I didn’t even harm my aeroplane.”

President Elder was looking over the big crates, and peering through the frames. Suddenly, he turned to Bud again.

“What do you mean by your aeroplane?”

“It wasn’t really an aeroplane. That is, I didn’t have an engine; but I made the wings; and I flew one hundred and fifty feet in them, too, out at Greeley’s gravel pit.”

“Then you know how an aeroplane is made?”

“I think I do. They are all pretty much alike. When I see this one, I’ll know a lot more.”

An idea was plainly working in President Elder’s brain. He made a searching examination of the lad before him. Then he asked:

“Didn’t you and Lafe Pennington work on this airship idea together?”

Bud laughed outright.

“Hardly,” he answered, “Lafe wouldn’t work with any one. He knows too much. I worked alone.”

President Elder looked at his watch. It was just noon.

“Do you think you could put this airship together?”

“Certainly, I put my own together.”

“Bud, meet me here at one o’clock. I may have a job for you.”

While the banker’s smart rig went clattering up the brick street, Bud started for home on a run.

Long before one o’clock, Bud was at the freight-house again. In a short time, a dray and an express wagon appeared. About the time that a large farm wagon, drawn by two horses, came in sight, Mr. Elder reappeared. In the buggy with him was the young man referred to several times by Mr. Elder and Bud an hour before—Lafe Pennington. As they sprang from the vehicle, Bud was on the freight-house platform. Lafe passed the boy with a condescending smile; but Mr. Elder stopped.

“Bud,” he began, “I had a kind of a notion that I had a job for you, but I guess that’s all off.”

“I hoped you had. I hurried back.”

“Well, it’s this way. I forgot that our clerk, Mr. Pennington, had some knowledge of aeroplanes. We are in a sort of a box, and after I talked to you, I decided to try to get this machine ready. The man who ought to do it isn’t here. Even if he comes to-night, he won’t have time to set it up. So, while I talked to you, I decided to try to put it together and have it ready when he came. I was going to get you to help.”

“Can’t I?” asked the boy eagerly.

“I don’t think we’ll need you now. I’ve got Mr. Pennington. He says he can do it without any trouble. And you know he’s in the bank, and I know him. He’s one of our clerks.”

“I reckon he can do it, perhaps,” answered Bud in a disappointed tone, “but I’d like to help too. I’d work for nothing.”

“I suggested that, but Mr. Pennington says he’d rather work alone.”

Mr. Elder was about to pass on when Bud touched his sleeve.

“Mr. Elder,” he said, “Lafe said that because he knew I was the only person in Scottsville who could help. I haven’t anything against Lafe, but you ought to know the facts—I know more about aeroplanes than he does. He may be able to do what you want, and he may not. You may think I’m knocking Lafe, but I’m not. I’m just giving you the truth: he thinks he knows more about airships than he really does.”

“You seem to feel sure you know it all,” almost sneered the banker.

“I should say not,” answered the boy promptly. “I know hardly anything, and Lafe knows less.”

“Well, if we get stuck, I suppose we can call on you.”

“I’ll be right there, waiting.”

“Pshaw,” exclaimed the banker laughing, “we need plenty of help. Mr. Pennington may not want you, but I do. Turn in and give us a lift. Between us, we’ll see what we can do. We are going to move these boxes out to the fair-ground, and see if we can put our aeroplane together. You’re hired to help.”

[CHAPTER II]
THE HERO OF THE GRAVEL PIT.

The Scott County Fair-grounds were a mile and a half from Scottsville. A little after two o’clock, the “aeroplane” cavalcade was on its way there from the freight-house. In front, rode President Elder of the fair association, with Lafayette, or Lafe, Pennington, the bank clerk and amateur dabbler in aeronautics, by his side. Then came a dray with the four-cylinder, 25-horse power, 190 lb. Curtiss engine elaborately crated. Next was an express wagon with boxed engine accessories, such as gasoline tank, water cooler, chain drives, and the dismounted propeller blades. In the rear, in the big farm wagon, rode proud Bud Wilson, busy preserving the balance of the spruce sections of the aeroplane surfaces.

In the excitement attendant upon the fair, the procession attracted little attention. Buggies and passenger hacks raised clouds of dust in which wagons laden with belated exhibits made their way toward the great enclosure within whose high white fence Scott County’s agricultural exhibit was fast getting into final order. At the sight of President Elder, the gate attendants threw the white portals wide open, and Bud had a new joy—he was working for the fair, and didn’t have to pay to get in.

“I never did pay,” laughed Bud, speaking to the driver of the wagon, “but this is the first time I ever went in at the main gate.”

Winding their way among the plows, self-binders and threshing-machines already in place, and then directly between the two lines of peanut, pop, candy, cider and “nigger baby” stands—already making a half-hearted attempt to attract trade—the aeroplane wagons passed through the heart of the grounds. Near the “grand stand,” where for ten cents extra, one might view the trotting and running races, President Elder alighted and personally superintended the unlocking of the gates leading onto the race-track. Across this, the three vehicles made their way.

At the far end of the space within the smooth half-mile race-track was a newly built shed, made according to directions forwarded from the aeroplane factory in New Jersey. In front of this, the wagons halted. There were not many persons in attendance that day on the fair, but there were enough to make an audience of several hundred at once. The aeroplane shed was a temporary structure—a shed with a board top and canvas sides. Willing hands soon had the different sections of the car either in the house or near by in front.

Lafe Pennington’s coat was off, and he superintended the unloading with a great show of authority. By this time, a carpenter and a machinist had arrived, and the officious bank clerk announced that spectators had better be dispersed in order that he might work undisturbed.

“What do you want Bud to do?” asked President Elder.

Lafe smiled feebly.

“Nothing just now,” he answered. “He can stay outside and see that we are not disturbed. I don’t think it will take us very long.”

The confident clerk started to enter the shed.

“How about the starting track and the derrick for the drop weight?” asked Bud innocently. “I don’t see any material here for those.”

Lafe stopped suddenly, and looked up in surprise.

“Yes, of course,” he faltered, “where are they?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said President Elder. “I guess everything’s here.”

Pennington made a quick survey.

“Oh, they are not here,” explained Bud. “I discovered that some days ago.”

“You’re right,” conceded Lafe. “They must have forgotten them. We’ll have to telegraph for them.”

“Telegraph nothing,” blurted the president. “We’ve no time for telegraphing. They can’t get ’em here in time. If it’s something you have to have, I guess we are stuck.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Bud, “the manufacturers expected you to make this apparatus on the ground. The ropes and automatic release block are here.”

“How can we do that?” sneered Pennington, already irritated at the turn affairs were taking.

“Very easily, I imagine,” replied Bud, “if they sent specifications. The manufacturer sent word how to build a shed and how big to make it. Didn’t they send a letter?” he asked, turning to President Elder.

“Letter? Why, yes—I forgot that—a big letter,” exclaimed Mr. Elder, reaching into his inside pocket.

Pennington took it, glanced it over hurriedly, and exclaimed:

“Sure, here it is, sketch, measurement, and all.”

“Couldn’t I look after that?” asked Bud turning from the president to Lafe.

“That’s carpenters’ work,” answered Pennington at once. “We’ll have the carpenters see to that. They can order the stuff by ’phone at once.”

He turned again to begin the work of uncrating the aeroplane.

“How long do you figure it’s going to take to put the car together, Lafe?” asked Bud.

“I don’t know,” retorted Pennington sharply, “but I’ll get along all the faster if I’m not stopped to talk about it.”

“It ought to be done to-night, shouldn’t it?” queried Bud, turning to the president and showing no irritation.

“Certainly, if possible.”

“Then we ought to get some lights—three or four gasoline flares. That work can’t be done before dark. It’s going to take all night. It’s a tejous job. And after the frame is set up and made fast, the engine must be tested and anchored and the shafts set.”

“Hadn’t we better get the lights ready?” asked Mr. Elder of Pennington.

“Of course, we’ll need them,” answered Pennington, who had in reality not thought of them. “Better let Bud go to town for them.”

“All right. Here Bud, take my horse and buggy and go to town, and get what’s needed at Appleton’s hardware store. I’ll be at the ticket office when you get back.”

Pennington had disposed of his rival temporarily, but Bud took his defeat cheerfully. However, he could not resist the temptation to turn the tables once more.

“Want anything else?” he asked casually as he climbed into the rig.

“Nothing more now,” answered Pennington, turning away for the third time.

“You want gasoline for the lamps, don’t you?” suggested Bud.

“Certainly—and matches, too,” said Lafe with another sneer.

“Well, how about some gasoline for the engine?”

Lafe grew red in the face, and turned away impatiently.

“And some oil for the engine?”

“You don’t expect a fellow to think of everything at once, do you?” snorted Lafe. “I haven’t been hanging over this thing for a week. I’ve had something else to think about.”

“Seems as if Bud had done a good deal of thinking,” suggested President Elder. “Hurry back, Bud, we may need you again.”

Bud Wilson had long been pointed out as the prize example of juvenile perverseness. Many persons, including Lafe Pennington, were in the habit of referring to him as a “bad” boy. But in this, they were wrong. Bud’s differences from other boys of better reputation meant no more than that he was headstrong and so full of ideas that the routine of school went hard with him. The boy often shocked his teacher. Instead of the old-fashioned speaking pieces, Bud was apt to select some up-to-date newspaper story or verse. Once he even ventured to recite some poetry of his own, in which Miss Abbott, the teacher, did not particularly shine.

When he was left an orphan and went to live with Attorney Cyrus Stockwell, the lively youngster gave up most of his school hours to drawing engines. At that time, he planned to be an engineer. Succeeding that, he aspired to be a detective. In this new ambition, he read a great deal of literature concerning crime. But this new profession was soon forgotten with the advent of aeroplanes. From the moment Bud realized what a heavier-than-air flying-machine meant, he was a rapt disciple of the world’s new aviators.

Verses of his own and detective stories were now forgotten. Given the task of writing an essay, by Miss Abbott, for some lapse of discipline, he produced a wonderful composition on “The Airship.” It was so full of Jules Verne ideas that Miss Abbott visited Bud’s foster father, and suggested that something be done with the boy.

The something that Attorney Stockwell did was to take Bud out of school and put him at work on rich Mr. Greeley’s farm, where, for a time, he labored in a gravel pit shovelling. Learning to operate the steam shovel, he became the engineer, and after that, for some months in the summer, he had been Mr. Greeley’s chauffeur. Just now he was back home without a job, and a half promise of another try at school when it opened.

Lafe Pennington was everything Bud wasn’t. He graduated from the high-school, and was a clerk in the First National Bank. He was popular with the young ladies, and already wore a moustache. Lafe’s interest in aeronautics was older than Bud’s, but his knowledge was largely superficial. Young Pennington’s information did not extend much further than what he had written in an essay he read before the Scottsville Travel and Study Circle. This paper, entitled “The Development of the Aeroplane,” had been printed in the Globe-Register. Ever since its publication, Lafe had been trying to live up to the reputation it had brought him.

When Bud Wilson read the article, he at once pronounced it a “chestnut,” and declared that it was copied almost wholly from a magazine and an old one at that. Bud repeated this statement to Lafe himself on the memorable occasion when the aeroplane or glider dumped Bud.

While running the steam shovel at Greeley’s gravel pit, Bud had the long summer evenings to himself. There was a tool house, plenty of lumber, and, what prompted the manufacture of the small aeroplane, several long, steep switch tracks running down into the pit. After several weeks of work, based on a mass of magazine photographs, newspaper clippings, and scientific paper detailed plans, Bud finally constructed a pretty decent looking bi-plane airship, complete in all respects except as to the engine. It was a combination of the Curtiss planes and the Wright rudders, with some ideas of Bud’s in the wing warping apparatus.

This work was done in the abandoned engine house on the slope of the gravel hill above the pit. Lafe learned of the experiment through Mr. Greeley, who was rather proud of his young engineer, and who did not fail to talk about the amateur airship to those in the bank.

As chief aviation authority in Scottsville, Lafe felt it his duty to investigate. And, to Bud’s annoyance, the bank clerk made his first visit to the gravel pit on a Saturday afternoon just as Bud was about to make a trial flight.

“What do you think of her?” asked Bud proudly.

Lafe screwed up his mouth.

“Pretty fair, for a kid. But what’s the sense of it? You haven’t an engine, and I reckon you never will have one.”

“What’s the good of it?” repeated Bud. “I suppose you know the heavier-than-air car—the aeroplane—was developed before the experimenters had any power. If the Wright Brothers had waited for an engine, they’d never had a machine. The thing is to know how to fly. You can only learn by flying.”

Lafe smiled in a superior way.

“All right,” he laughed. “Go ahead. I’ll see that you have a decent funeral.”

Lafe even helped Bud carry the fragile frame down to the head of the switch track grade where Bud had a small tool car—no larger than a hand car. On this the motorless planes were deposited, and when Bud had taken his place on his stomach on the lower frame, an idle workman gave the car a shove.

To young Pennington’s gratification, the experiment was a fiasco. Even after several trials, it was found that the car would not get up sufficient momentum. The model would not leave the moving platform. Finally, Bud got grease for the car wheels, and then stood up with his arm pits resting on the light framework. As the car reached the bottom of the incline, the boy sprang forward. For one moment, the surfaces caught and held the air and the planes seemed about to rise. Then, with a sudden twist, the frame sprang sideways and downward. Bud’s feet struck the gravel and he stumbled. To keep from mixing up with the car, he hurled it from him. The aeroplane sank down with only a few strains, but Bud landed on the side of his face.

The following Saturday, as a sort of a challenge, Bud invited Lafe and a reporter for the Globe-Register to witness his second attempt. This time he abandoned the car. The gravel pit had been cut into the side of the hill. At the edge of the pit, there was a sharp drop of nearly fifty feet. When his guests were ready, Bud had them raise the light car—only twenty feet long—on his shoulders. Balancing the planes, he gripped the lower struts, and before Lafe or the reporter had time to protest, he ran a few feet down the slope—the car had been removed to the old engine house on the hill at the brink of the pit—and stumbled over the precipice.

His guests caught their breaths. But Bud did not fall. When he reached the gravel bed at the bottom, he had flown one hundred and fifty feet, and he came down easily and safely. It was the account of this in the Globe-Register, under the title of “First Aeroplane in Scott County” that cemented Lafe’s jealousy of Bud’s nerve.

[CHAPTER III]
SCOTTSVILLE’S FAIR SECURES AN AVIATOR.

When Bud returned from town, he had a buggy full of material—three large cans of gasoline, three gasoline flare torches, oil, waste, and—what proved to be most essential—his scrap book of airship pictures and plans. Everything was confusion in the airship shed. The crowd had pretty well cleaned out, but Lafe Pennington and his two assistants did not seem to be working with any more ease because of this.

On top of a box, the manufacturer’s drawings and directions were spread out. One thing only seemed to have been accomplished; everything was uncrated.

“Put the stuff down, and don’t bother us,” exclaimed Lafe at once. “There are too many in here now. I won’t need you any more.”

Before he took his departure, Bud made a hasty examination. Apparently everything was being done backward. Pennington’s eagerness to unpack and to knock boxes apart had made a chaos out of the shed interior. There were no signs of work on the ascending track and weight derrick.

“Sure you don’t want me to get that track started?” Bud asked.

“See here, Bud, you seem to have that track on the brain. I’ll set it up in a couple of hours when I get around to it.”

“Oh,” answered Bud, with a smile, “I thought it might take longer.” The dismissed boy re-entered the buggy, and drove to the ticket office at the gate. Mr. Elder appeared in a short time with the Superintendent of the Grounds. The possibility of keeping faith with the public by flying the aeroplane the next afternoon was under discussion.

“There’s a powerful lot to be done, even if Mr. Dare gets here to-night,” commented Superintendent Perry.

“How does it look to you, Bud?” asked President Elder, turning to the boy—they were all standing by the buggy. Bud said nothing.

“That’s what I think, too,” spoke up the superintendent. “I’ve been over to the shed twice this afternoon. Mr. Pennington may be a fine bank clerk—and I guess he’s all right at that—but he don’t strike me as no aeroplaner. I’m afeared we’ve bit off more’n we can chew in this deal.”

“Is he going to be able to finish the job?” asked Mr. Elder, turning to Bud again.

“Perhaps. If he works all night.”

“All night?” exclaimed Superintendent Perry. “Them mechanics’ll not stick all night. They’re gettin’ ready to quit now.”

Mr. Elder sighed.

“Well, let him go ahead until the eight o’clock train gets here. If the expert ain’t on it, I guess we’ll call it off. We made a big mistake not hirin’ that Roman Hippodrome and Wild West Congress, but it’s too late now.”

Bud rode to town with Mr. Elder, after watching his horse for an hour, and went sorrowfully home. But he was by no means as despondent as the Fair Association President. His brain had been working all afternoon. When the eight o’clock train came in without the eagerly longed for Mr. Dare, Bud was at Mr. Elder’s elbow. The president was boiling mad.

“I see he didn’t come yit,” ventured the all-observing ’bus driver, Doug’ Jackson. “Ef he gits here on the one o’clock, I reckon I’d better call you up and let ye know?”

This willingness to oblige was leading up to another appeal for a pass, but Doug’ got a cold reception.

“Needn’t bother,” responded Mr. Elder curtly. “I’m done with these easterners and Mr. Dare.”

He was hurrying to his buggy when Bud touched him on the arm.

“Mr. Elder,” said the boy, in a businesslike tone, “I’m pretty young to make any suggestions to you, but I can help you out of your trouble. I’m sure of it.”

The angry fair official paused.

“Lafe Pennington is doing what he’s always done—when it comes to this airship business—”

“Four flushin’,” interrupted Mr. Elder. “I know that.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” added Bud, “but he’s doin’ what Mr. Perry says—he’s bit off more’n he can chew.”

“Well, what then? It don’t matter much. Our flyin’ man ain’t here, and don’t look as if he’d be here.”

“I can chew it.”

Mr. Elder shrugged his shoulders.

“From what I hear, you and Lafe are always knockin’ each other,” he commented.

“That’s right. I’ve got a reason, and he hasn’t. I can deliver the goods, and he can’t. That’s all.”

“What are you tryin’ to git at?”

“Put me in charge of that work out there, and by noon to-morrow, I’ll have that aeroplane ready to fly.”

“Alone?” said the man, after a moment’s thought and turning on the boy suddenly.

“By noon, if I have carpenters to do what I need, and earlier if Lafe will help.”

“Would you work with Mr. Pennington?”

“Certainly. He’s all right if he has some one with him who knows. I know—I’ve figured this all out.”

The puzzled official was plainly in a quandary. Then he shook his head.

“What if you did? What’s the use of all this fussin’ and rushin’ around? This feller to run it ain’t here, and we can’t count on him now.”

“I’ll do it.”

Mr. Elder’s mouth opened.

“You mean go up in the machine?”

“Yes.”

“And risk breakin’ your neck?”

“Hundreds are doing that every day. Hasn’t been but two men broken their necks yet.”

“You’re foolish.”

“May be. But I’ll do it if you’ll give me the chance.”

The suggestion was too daring for President Elder to pass on at once and alone. He lit a cigar, looked at his watch, examined Bud in the glare of the depot light, and then went into the station and telephoned to some one. When he came out, he motioned the boy to follow him, unhitched his horse and told Bud to jump into the buggy. Before he spoke they were on their way to the fair-grounds once more.

“What makes you think you can do this? I thought you had to be an expert?”

“Experts always have to have a first experience. There isn’t any half bites. It’s whole hog or none,” answered Bud.

“You had a half bite when you tumbled in the gravel pit,” laughed his companion.

“No, sir,” answered the boy. “That was riskier than this. I took more chances when I jumped off the hill than I’ll be takin’ here.”

“You’ll have to git your father’s consent,” suggested the president as that thought struck the cautious banker. “If we try it, we can’t afford to be sued for damages.”

“I haven’t any father.”

“Well, your guardian’s—I forgot. You’ll have to sign an agreement waiving all claims.”

“I’ll do that, and I’ll do more. This expert was to get fifty dollars a day. I’ll work for nothing.”

“Why?”

Bud was silent a little spell. Then he answered.

“Because every one says I’m a tough kid just because I ‘ditched’ school a few times. I’ve never had a chance. I couldn’t even get work except in a gravel pit. I’m anxious to ‘make good’ in this town.”

The road to the fair-ground was now pretty well deserted. Inside the exhibition enclosure, the white tents and the little fires glowing here and there under the trees gave the place the appearance of a hunter’s camp in the woods. Hastening forward in the dark, Mr. Elder drove at once into the center of the race track. To his and to Bud’s surprise, there was no glare of light from the airship shed. They had expected to find the place the center of activity.

“I reckon Mr. Pennington’s gone to supper,” suggested Bud.

“Maybe he’s given up,” said the president.

“You’re both wrong,” exclaimed a voice out of the blackness. “I’ve just been over trying to get you or Superintendent Perry on the ’phone,” went on the unseen speaker, who was easily recognized as Pennington. “I can finish the job all right, but to be dead sure, I guess I ought to have some help.”

A few minutes later, they were at the shed, and Lafe and the watchman lit the lanterns.

“That’s what we concluded,” said Mr. Elder in a decisive tone. “And I’ve brought Bud back. I guess you fellows had better work together.”

“That’s all right,” replied Lafe. “I was going to suggest Bud.”

The latter was already at work; his hat was off, his shirt was off and his undershirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was heating and lighting the gasoline torches.

“Oh, it’s all right now, Mr. Elder. We’ll get along fine together, and you can go home and rest in peace. We’ll deliver the machine on time,” began Bud enthusiastically. “You won’t disappoint the people.”

“Did Mr. Dare come?” asked Lafe, already greatly relieved in getting out of his mess so easily.

Mr. Elder shook his head.

“No. And I ain’t countin’ on him now. Looks like we won’t need him.”

“How’s that?” asked Lafe, puzzled.

“If it comes to the worst, Bud says he can fly the thing.”

“Bud?”

“Why not? I’m sort o’ persuaded he can. I’m goin’ to see the directors about it to-night. He’s willing to try.”

Lafe’s face turned red and white with anger and surprise. He stammered and trembled.

“I think that’s a pretty raw deal, Mr. Elder, after what I’ve done. If any one gets that chance, I think I ought.”

“Did you want to go up in it?”

“Of course. I had no other idea, if the operator didn’t come. I was going to ask as soon as it was certain he couldn’t get here. I think I’ve had a pretty hard turn down.”

He was lying, and his indignation was largely assumed. But his jealousy of Bud made him desperate.

Mr. Elder was puzzled. He looked from one lad to the other.

“How about it, Bud?” he asked at last. “Looks as if you were sort of second fiddle, don’t it?”

Bud hesitated, wiped his hands on a bit of waste and then smiled.

“You didn’t say I could do it,” he answered at last, “though I’m ready to try. If you’d rather have Lafe, all right. I’ll help get her ready just the same. Don’t let me make any trouble.”

The fair official looked relieved. From a dearth of aviators, he now had an over supply of them.

“Maybe Judge Pennington won’t consent to your reskin’ your neck, Lafe,” he commented.