Dave Dashaway the Young Aviator: or, In the Clouds for Fame and Fortune

CHAPTER XV

THE PARACHUTE GARMENT

“Oh!” said Dave Dashaway simply, in a transport of delight.

There was a creak, a hum. Its even keel protected by two hangar men waiting ready for the task, the Aegis moved forward on its rubber shod wheels revolving on ball bearing axles in a soft, lifting glide that was indescribable.

The monoplane progressed in a straight line for perhaps forty feet. Then it took a straightaway flight.

Dave knew nothing of the mechanism of the plane. His eyes were fixed in a fascinated way on the aviator. With supreme faith in the expertness of the man guiding the frail yet sturdy craft, Dave did not experience a single qualm of fear. To every move of the skilled hand of the airman the splendid construction responded instantly. Dave had just one vivid sense of air sailing, safe and ecstatic, as the Aegis arose like an arrow to what seemed dizzying height. Then it began gracefully circling the aviation field.

Dave sat so near to the airman that he had him in full view. He could catch his every word and movement.

“Just feeling the air,” yelled Mr. King. “She’s prime. Now then, slip that strap across your waist.”

“I shan’t fall out. I’m holding on tight,” yelled back Dave, his utterance coming in little gasping jerks.

“Never mind. Do as I say. That’s it. Now I’ll tell you something.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Dave attentively.

“Start in the teeth of the wind, always. I’m feeling it now,” and the expert bent a cheek to one side. “It’s a ten mile zephyr. That’s easy.”

The aviator did no fancy or trick air sailing. He kept widening his circles and increasing his speed. With a swift movement he took a lateral dart over towards a hill, passed beyond it, made a sharp turn, and then another ascent.

Of a sudden there was a dip. The hand of the aviator moved quick as lightning to the mechanism controlling the elevator.

“Whew! we struck a hole that time,” he exclaimed.

“A hole?” repeated Dave vaguely.

“Yes, a hole in the air. That angle I turned was too sharp, but luckily the elevator was neutral. It’s too gusty. We’ve got to volplane.”

Now came the crisis. Dave was nearly thrown out of the seat as a stray wind gust caught the tail of the plane. The machine was nearly thrown up perpendicularly. Dave was not alarmed, but he was thrilled and excited. He could tell from the face of the aviator that Mr. King was working out some delicate problem of balance and adjustment. Abruptly the machine righted and sailed downwards on a sharp slant.

“We’re coming down pancake. Lucky for us,” spoke Mr. King in a tone of voice decidedly strained. “If we hadn’t, we would have scraped a wing, sure as fate.”

They were now directly over the field. Dave made out the motion picture group.

“Mr. King,” he said, “I think the manager is waving a flag.”

“Then it’s our signal. We’ll cut the circle next whirl around the course. Everything in place below there?”

“I think it is,” replied Dave, glancing down. “The convict is ready for us, I am sure.”

The airman had superb control of his machine. He had descended to a one hundred foot level, and narrowed the circles as they got directly above the spot where the man dressed in convict garb was seated. The latter was watching for them. Near by two prison guards were walking up and down. Dave had tied one end of the rope to the arm of the seat he occupied. The other end, weighted, was coiled up in his lap.

“Now,” ordered Mr. King, slowing up and directing the machine not thirty feet above the ground.

Dave dropped the weighted end of the rope. The convict threw down his hammer and grasped it. Bang! bang! went the rifles. The convict clung on, starting a seeming flight skywards. He let go five feet from the ground, and that section of the motion picture was cut off.

Mr. King made a quick close landing. They had to roll fifty feet over the course to escape a collision with a biplane just getting ready for a flight.

The motion picture manager came up to them smiling and pleased.

“That was first class,” he said. “We got the basis for one-half dozen airship scenes, Mr. King. See here, this gentleman has made a proposition to me that strikes me right. He wants to talk it over with you.”

The airman turned to find himself facing the old inventor. Dave noticed that the latter was full of some excitement.

“Mr. King, you can do me the biggest favor of my life,” declared Mr. Dixon earnestly.

“Indeed – how is that?” asked the aviator.

“My parachute garment, you know. You said you would take up the matter with me this afternoon.”

“I know I did, and so I will.”

“I want you to anticipate that.”

“In what way?”

“I was talking to the motion picture man here, and he made a new suggestion to me. You know how anxious I am to get my invention before the public. It would about make me to have a test made to-day, and the trial photographed, and my invention be shown all over the country in moving picture shows.”

“That is quite an idea for a fact,” agreed the airman.

“Can’t it be arranged?”

“Yes, here,” broke in the manager. “I have thought out quite a little scheme. If I could get a picture of some one jumping from an airship it would be a thrilling and a genuine novelty. You see, I could work in quite a story.”

“How?” asked Mr. King, getting interested.

“Well, that man over yonder with the torpedo monoplane says he’ll join in for a consideration. Your airship is supposed to contain a fugitive from justice, bent on escaping by the air route. The torpedo monoplane is a sort of police aircraft, in pursuit. Work up a regular chase. The criminal springs from your monoplane just as the pursuer is about to overtake you.”

“I can see quite some pretty play possible,” said Mr. King. “Have you found one ready to risk his neck getting into your parachute suit?” he asked of the inventor.

“You thought you could find my man for me,” reminded the latter.

“That’s so.”

Mr. King glanced over at Dave. He reflected silently for a moment or two. Then he beckoned Dave aside from the others.

“See here, Dashaway,” he said, “you’ve heard what these people are putting up to me?”

“Yes, sir, I understand the situation,” answered Dave.

“There’s some money in this for whoever tries it. I wouldn’t let a novice take a risk, but I’ll say from what I’ve seen of the parachute suit of this old fellow that it’s no great trick to take a short drop in it.”

“Then why not let me try it?” asked Dave.

“You’re willing?”

“More than willing.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The old inventor is pestering me to death, and while I’d be glad to help him along, I also want to get rid of him. He’ll be satisfied if he can announce to airmen generally that a successful test of his device was made from the Aegis, under my supervision. I think I’ll let you try it.”

The airman again consulted with the inventor and the motion picture manager. A few minutes later some arrangement seemed to be agreed upon. The inventor went away. The manager proceeded over to the torpedo monoplane. When the inventor came back he had a long box under his arm. He, the airman and Dave went over to where the Aegis stood. The inventor produced his patent parachute suit from the box.

He explained how it worked as Dave put it on. Then the airman and Dave went aloft on a little run in the machine. At twenty feet, and then at fifty feet from the ground Dave jumped from the monoplane. In both instances he descended through the air light as a feather. He not only landed safely on his feet, but he did not experience the least disturbing jar.

While they were thus practicing for a more spectacular leap, Dave could see the old inventor almost dancing around with suspense and satisfaction. The camera man was notified that the Aegis was ready for its part in the picture. The torpedo monoplane got aloft, and the scene began.

Dave by this time felt so safe, easy and at home up in the air, that he greatly enjoyed the mock chase. It was like two immense birds in a race. The machines came pretty close together finally on a level about one hundred feet from the ground.

Dave caught the signal for the drop from the motion picture manager below.

“Ready,” said Dave.

“Be careful, Dashaway,” warned Mr. King.

“Here she goes,” answered Dave simply, and shot earthwards.

CHAPTER XVI

THE YOUNG AVIATOR

“There he is, Dave,” said Hiram Dobbs.

“Yes, that is Jerry Dawson, sure enough.”

“You see he is here.”

“I knew before this that he was,” replied Dave. “Mr. King told me this morning that young Dawson and his father were both working for an airman named Russell.”

“Well, Dave,” said Hiram in quite a serious tone, “I want you to look out for that fellow.”

“Why? I never did him any harm.”

“Because I’m around a good deal, and I hear a lot of things you don’t. That Jerry Dawson is a selfish, vicious boy. His father, they say, is almost as bad, and the man they are working for, Russell, has been barred from some meets on account of winning an altitude race by a trick.”

“I’ve heard of Russell, too,” responded Dave. “He’s no friend of Mr. King, and that’s enough for me. As to Jerry, though, I have no business with him, and don’t intend to have if I can help it.”

“He’ll cross your path in some mean way, you mark my words,” said Hiram warningly. “He’s got an idea that he owes Mr. King a grudge, and he’s crazy to pay it off. Down by the south pylons early this morning, I saw him talking to two of the roughest looking fellows I ever met. You was at your practice, and Jerry pointed you out to the men, and was whispering to them – something about you, I’ll bet.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him, but I’m not a bit scared,” said Dave.

Hiram spoke of pylons just now as if he had known what they meant all his life. It was nearly a week after his first meeting with Dave, and a vast improvement was visible in the manner, position and finances of the humble but ambitious farm lad.

Hiram had gone to work with a vengeance. Mr. King had told him that there were many steps to the ladder leading to fame and fortune in the aviation field, and Hiram had taken this literally.

“Why, I’m willing to scrub floors, work as candy butcher, tar ropes, wash dishes, peddle programmes, anything honest to reach that first rung,” he had told Dave back at Fairfield. “I’ll make good every step I take, no matter how slow or hard it is, I’m going to become an aviator, like yourself, Dave.”

“Me an aviator?” smiled Dave. “You flatter me, Hiram.”

“Do I?” retorted Hiram. “Well, then, so does Mr. King. And your teacher, old Grimshaw. He says he never saw a person take to the business like you do. Mr. King was bragging about you, too, down at the office yesterday. He actually talked about entering you in one of the races next week.”

Dave flushed with pleasure. He was too sensible to imagine himself a full-fledged aviator, or anything like it. At the same time, he could not deny that he had learned a great many new things within the past ten days.

He did not look much like the tired, dusty and threadbare boy who had left Brompton hungry, barefooted and practically penniless. The one hundred feet descent from the Aegis in the old inventor’s parachute garment had been a complete success. It had put Dave in funds, too, for Mr. Dixon had given him a ten dollar bill for his services.

“I don’t pretend to be much more than a rediscoverer as to my parachute device,” Dixon acknowledged. “It’s up to date, and it does what I claim for it, though. Tell you, Dashaway, I’ll be over to the Dayton meet, and I’ll add a five dollar bill to every one hundred feet you drop with my apparatus.”

“It really does work, doesn’t it, Mr. King?” Dave asked of the aviator a little later.

“Oh, yes,” replied the airman, somewhat indifferently. “It won’t sell much, though, outside of amateurs.”

“Why not?”

“A professional won’t admit any lack of skill or pluck, any more than a crack swimmer would use a life preserver. Another thing, a crack operator can’t be hampered with a suit tied around his ankles. Still another thing, when the moment arrives for an airman to desert the ship, things are so desperate he hasn’t much chance of jumping clear of the machine.”

Dave had also received some money from the motion picture manager. Then Mr. King handed him what was due him of a modest salary for the broken week.

Saturday afternoon Mr. King had arranged to ship his traps to Dayton, all except the monoplane, in which he and his young assistant made the trip.

Dave found his friend, Hiram, on the new grounds. The country boy was in high spirits. He had worked tirelessly while at Fairfield. When there were no visitors to the grounds, he went into the town. He sold out a lot of leftover souvenirs, and that Saturday afternoon boasted gleefully of being for the first time in his life the possessor of ten dollars.

“All my own,” he announced, “and I’m going to tidy up a bit. Come and help me pick out a cheap suit, Dave.”

“Yes, and I need a complete outfit myself,” explained Dave. “I tell you, Hiram, this is a great day for two poor fellows who hadn’t a quarter between them a week ago.”

“And see what we are learning,” added Hiram. “If ever airshipping gets to be the go for traveling about, we’ll be in right on the jump, won’t we?”

Mr. King was pleased to see the improved appearance of his young apprentice in a neat sensible suit of clothes. He had taken a decided liking to Dave, who was quick, reliable and accommodating. Dave felt like a bird given its freedom after a long and irksome captivity. His head was full of aviation all of the time, however, and the various airmen he got acquainted with were all willing and glad to answer his questions about this and that detail of the different make machines.

Monday morning, Mr. King had taken Dave down to a roped-off section of the aviation field. It held a tent covering an old type airplane, and also housing a queer old fellow with one arm, whom the airman introduced to Dave as Mr. Grimshaw.

“Here’s the young fellow I was telling you about,” said Mr. King. “You’ll find him a likely pupil.”

“I’ll soon know it, if that’s so,” responded the gruff, grim old fellow. “Put him right through the regular course of sprouts, eh?”

“That’s what I want. It’s what he wants, too. Make it special, Grimshaw. I’ve great hopes of him, and don’t want him worked in a crowd.”

Dave understood that his kind employer was spending some money for his instruction. He felt duly grateful. He entered into his work with vim and ardor, determined to make rapid progress, to show Mr. King how he appreciated his friendly interest in him.

For three days Dave was with Grimshaw from ten to twelve o’clock in the morning and two to four in the afternoon. The rest of the time he was helping about the little building, where Mr. King made his headquarters. His employer was preparing to enter for the first day’s altitude prize. There was practicing to do, and the Aegis needed constant attention. Dave now knew how to oil it, keep the tanks full and clean up the monoplane.

Dave had heard that his gruff old tutor, Grimshaw, had been quite a balloonist in his time. A fall from an airship had crippled him. He was useful in his line, however, kept pace with all the new wrinkles in aviation, and ran a kind of school for amateurs.

From the first step in learning how to run the airplane, to the point when with a wild cheer Dave felt himself safe in making a brief flight all by himself, our hero’s progress was one of unceasing interest and delight.

The first step was to learn how to glide. Dave aboard the glider, Grimshaw and an assistant helped get the airplane under way. They carried the weight of the machine and overcame its head resistance by running forward at its own rate of speed.

Over the course Dave ran and repeated. As the glider cut into the air, the wind caused by the running caught under the uplifted edge of the curved planes, buoying up the machine and causing it to rise. At first Dave lifted only a foot or two clear of the ground. Then he projected his feet slightly forward, so as to shift the center of gravity a trifle and bring the edges of the glider on an exact level parallel with the ground.

“You see,” old Grimshaw would say, “you scoop up the advancing air and rise upon it. Keep the planes steady, for if they tilt the air is spilled.”

Dave soon learned the rudiments. He knew that in his first experiment he must watch out that the rear end of the skids or the tail did not scrape over the turf or slap the ground hard and break off. He kept the machine always under control, so it would not get tail heavy. He guarded against wing deflection, and the second day felt proud as a king when his tutor relented from his usual grimness, and told him quite emphatically that he would “do.”

“Never stubbed the toe of the machine, and that’s pretty fine for a beginner,” commented the veteran airman.