The two boys sleeping so soundly in the glass cabin were Frank Graham and Phil Ewing. The car was a part of their novel monoplane airship, the Loon. And Frank and Phil had just made what was perhaps the first night flight in an a?roplane—certainly the first flight of a heavier-than-air sky craft through a nighttime storm of wind and rain.

Both boys lived in Grand Rapids, Michigan. In the suburbs of this town they had their a?rodrome from which, on an evening early in June, they had ventured on this flight. The Loon had already made many successful flights by day; but Frank and Phil, not satisfied with these, had at last carried out a flight by night.

“It’s goin’ to rain,” Phil had predicted that afternoon. “Hadn’t we better wait? It’s bound to rain after such a muggy day.”

“Well,” conceded Frank, “we’ve figured out that rain can’t hurt us. The plane is[24] waterproof and curved so that it can’t hold water. We’ve put holes in the flat planes on the rear. Water can’t collect there. And, as far as personal comfort is concerned, our glass covered car ought to give us plenty of that.”

“All right,” answered Phil laughing, “but if we do go up I’ll bet we don’t get back home to-night.”

How his prediction was fulfilled has just been seen.

The boys met at their a?rodrome, erected in a corner of a lumberyard owned by Frank’s father, soon after seven o’clock in the evening. Not until nearly eight o’clock was it wholly dark; then the sky grew suddenly black. Phil was still somewhat skeptical but neither had ever stopped when the other led the way and, a few minutes before eight o’clock, the monoplane shot out of the shed and was instantly out of sight—had there been spectators.

The yard watchman, Old Dick, fast friend and open admirer of the two boys, stood shaking his head and lantern for some minutes. Finally, when the rain began to fall and the wind broke into a half gale, he hastened to his shanty ’phone and called up Mr. Graham.

[25]

“Misther Graham,” reported Dick, “thim byes is off ag’in in that flyin’ machane.” Evidently there was some excited comment or question at the other end of the ’phone. “Yis,” Dick continued, “they’ll be not over five minutes gone, but ’tis rainin’ somethin’ fierce an’ I’m seem’ nather hide nor hair o’ thim since.”

By the time Mr. Graham reached the a?rodrome in his automobile, Frank and Phil had arrived at the southern end of their flight and turned for their return. They had not been running at top speed and were not over twenty-five miles from home. This was partly due to the fact that they had been climbing to the two thousand foot level.

When they came about, carelessly neglecting to note their precise compass bearings, they were in a position to make a rapid glide. This for a few moments they did, reaching a speed of sixty-two miles an hour for a short time. Then they discovered that they were not sure of their course.

“The trouble was,” explained Phil later to his mother, “that you can’t tell anything about[26] your real movements in an airship when you are flying in a heavy wind and have no landmarks. You’ve got to remember that you don’t feel the wind at all—except that caused by your own flight. In a heavy wind, you move with it; the airship vessel is buried in the fluid of the wind, and moves with it, just as a submarine in a deep river wouldn’t feel the current. It would be a part of it.”

“I’d think you’d tack just like you do in a sailboat,” suggested his mother.

“That’s what every one seems to think,” Phil explained, “but you can’t. You are carried away just as rapidly as if you were directly in the teeth of the wind. The best way is to head right up in the wind. If your engine is stronger than the wind, you’ll advance; if it isn’t, you’ll go back.”

“I hope this cures you of your venturesome ideas,” commented his mother earnestly.

“Not at all,” answered her son. “It gives us just the experience we need. We were over the trees when Frank tried to tack. He drifted back more than he moved sideways. But we know now.”

[27]

This conversation occurred the next day. That evening, Mrs. Ewing did not become alarmed until a late hour. Then, in her concern over Phil’s failure to return home, she telephoned to the Graham home. Mrs. Graham could only tell her what Old Dick had reported; that Mr. Graham had gone to the a?rodrome and failed to get any information; that her husband had hastened back and telegraphed to the authorities of several towns on the probable course of the boys and was now, with two friends, scouring the country roads to the south.

At two o’clock Mr. Graham returned assuring his wife and Phil’s mother that the boys were undoubtedly all right. For the next two hours Mr. Graham sat in the office of the Herald and then, no word having been received of the missing boys, he drove home for breakfast and a renewed search.

“Now,” he said with assumed confidence to his wife, “we’ll soon have ’em back. It’s daylight and they will soon reach some town and a ’phone. I’ll get the automobile out and be ready to go for them.”

[28]

Mr. Graham had just left the house on his way to the garage when his wife called him excitedly.

“They’re at Osceola—they’ve been asleep in that thing all night,” she screamed, bursting into tears; “but they’re all right.”

“Is he on the ’phone?” called back her husband in a peculiar tone.

“No,” she answered, “they’re coming in on the electric car.”

“There’s no car till six o’clock,” exclaimed Mr. Graham. “Osceola is only twelve miles out. I’ll have ’em here in an hour,” and in a few minutes his big roadster was humming south toward Osceola.

It was fortunate that Frank had walked two miles to Osceola in the early dawn, for scarcely had Mr. Graham started on the rescue of the castaways, before Mrs. Graham saw the result of her husband’s two hours’ vigil in the newspaper office. The newspaper carrier even ran up the walk to hand Mrs. Graham the Herald. Alert journalism had quickly turned Mr. Graham’s apprehensions into an almost certain tragedy.

[29]

Under a two-column head the disappearance of the boys was narrated in detail. The failure to hear from them; the violence of the wind and rain, and the conceded risk of all a?roplane flights, were all used as justification that the boys were undoubtedly dead.

Old Dick, the watchman, had been called by ’phone and his description of the start was made the foundation of a graphic story. Then followed an interview with Mr. Graham. Next came a promise from the Herald that the bodies would be found if every river, lake and forest in Michigan had to be searched.

“No cleverer, more intelligent or better liked boys were to be found in Grand Rapids,” the article read. “And their reputations are not confined to this city. The ill-fated airship on which they have probably lost their lives, was the product of their own hands and minds. It has been described in a?ronautical journals, and the last number of the English ‘Flight’ draws attention to its novel features.

“The airship was the outgrowth of an ordinary a?roplane built by the two young aviators last summer, and its construction occupied[30] the entire winter. This ascent, which is probably the last and fatal flight of the new monoplane, is the tenth ascent made by the Loon this spring. It is needless to say that Mr. Graham, the father of one of the young aviators, is shocked beyond description. Former successes of the two boys allayed his fears as to the dangers of their experiments. The grief he expressed last night, over the fact that he had freely and amply provided funds for the construction of the Loon, is easily appreciated.”

The article finally concluded with a description of the Loon taken from “Flight,” the English a?ro-journal. This was:

“The Graham-Ewing monoplane adds to the efficiency of previously built machines by development in accordance with the changeable factors in the ‘law of the a?roplane.’ These are the speed and the angle of incidence to the line of flight.

“In this machine the plane is mounted so that it may be moved to any angle, adapting itself to speed and lifting at will, and offering opportunity for use as a steady device. It avoids longitudinal oscillation by means of a[31] large nonlifting tail surface, and the front of the fuselage is enclosed with glass to protect the aviator.

“When starting, a large angle of incidence is essential to get more lift and rise. Then, one wants a small angle to fly fast enough to dodge through the air eddies. With the Graham-Ewing monoplane this can be done. If the machine tips, the main planes can be tilted to correct the trouble. They also can be used as a brake.

“Putting the center of gravity below the center of lift has always caused trouble in this manner: If a puff of wind hits the craft head-on the wings were retarded, while the small weight below was not, and its momentum carried the machine ahead, making the rear end of the plane whip down. This has been corrected by putting on a long tail with large tail-surfaces which check this movement. It adds to buoyancy, since the unmovable tail causes wind puffs to raise the whole machine in the air. The low center of gravity, at the same time, helps keep the machine level from side to side.

[32]

“Here is a description in figures of the airship:

“Breadth of wing, 39 feet; length over-all, 44 feet; chord of wings, 8 feet; center of gravity, 7 feet below the center of pressure; wings mounted on framework above front end of fuselage, which is enclosed in glass and aluminum; enclosed car has room for pilot, passenger and motor; two 8? foot propellers driven from gearing at 800 revolutions per minute; nonlifting tail surface of 50 square feet, in addition to a plane lifting surface of 546 square feet; rudder, 25 square feet; the car is 4 feet high, 30 inches wide and 14 feet long; beneath it an aluminum boatshaped body is arranged to enable the operator to alight in the water; two wheels in front and one in the rear form the running gear.”

Of the two boys, Frank was the son of J. R. Graham, a wealthy furniture manufacturer. Phil Ewing, a few months older than Frank, was employed in Mr. Graham’s factory. Frank, always a great reader, was of a romantic turn. He had a love of adventure which ran to distant lands, hunting and wild animals. This he had[33] from books, the stories of Du Chaillu, Stanley, Selous and other great hunters. His actual experience extended little beyond books and he owned neither rod nor gun.

Phil was just the opposite. He was a fly fisherman, had shot his deer in the northern Michigan woods, was familiar with camp life and was a young naturalist. He owned his own gun, had made his own split bamboo rod, could tie a trout fly and, with a talent for drawing and coloring, could skin and mount birds and animals.

In the factory, Phil assisted in the machine carving department. His familiarity with tools made him the chief worker on the airships, but it was Frank’s digging into aviation history that produced many of the advanced ideas of the monoplane.

The first rays of the sun pouring through the glass of their cabin roused the boys to early activity. Apparently the monoplane was uninjured, but its big pneumatic landing wheels were deep in the mud of the field and the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away.

“Whatever we do,” said Frank, “I’m goin’ to get word to the folks.”

[34]

“Go to that house,” suggested Phil. “Maybe they have a telephone. You can buy something to eat.”

When Frank reached the farmhouse he saw, around a bend in the road, a village about half a mile ahead. This was Osceola and, from the biggest house in the place, he called up his home. He did not care to tell of his plight and, when he set out to rejoin Phil, he did so breakfastless.

Reaching the bend in the road at the farmhouse, he forgot his hunger. An unmistakable sound had fallen on his ear—the engine of the Loon working at half speed—and he hurried forward on a run. Phil wasn’t thinking of breakfast. He was attempting to get the monoplane to the edge of the field. Tugging at the car, he was using the engine at half speed to pull the airship through the mud. That he was succeeding, was shown by three deep tracks stretching out behind the Loon.

At Frank’s breathless approach Phil scarcely looked up. Much less did he ask for food. The trousers of each boy were encased in black mud to the knees. Phil had discarded his shoes and having fallen on the oozy ground, he had an individual coating of mud.

[35]

“Gimme a hand here,” he ordered. “If we can get this thing to the road, we’ll get home for breakfast.”

“Isn’t that landing wheel bent?” asked Frank.

“I’ve fixed her,” grunted Phil. “Get busy.”

The small addition of Frank’s energy seemed all that was needed, and the Loon was slowly forced toward the edge of the field.

“How you goin’ to get her over the fence?” panted Frank.

“It’s a stone fence,” was Phil’s answer. “The Loon stands four feet above the ground. All we got to do is to make two openin’s through the fence—it ain’t four feet high—one for each wheel and run her through. We can lift the tail over.”

At twenty-five minutes past five o’clock two bedraggled boys were returning the last of the rocks to close up the openings in the fence. The Loon, also bespattered, stood in the middle of the deserted highway.

Phil took his turn at the wheel, and lowering the plane, started on half speed with Frank crouching at his side. As the monoplane gave[36] no signs of weakness the pilot advanced his engine to full speed. There was a bound or two on the smooth roadway and the Loon began to lift.

Five hundred feet in the air, Osceola was passed. Frank, giving the hamlet a parting glance saw, standing before the general store, a well-known automobile. In it a man had arisen and was waving his arms violently. As the monoplane sped on the man dropped to his seat, started the car and hurried along the road in the wake of the airship.

“Say, Phil,” chuckled Frank, “father’s below us in his car. He can do sixty miles. Hit her up—let’s beat him home!”