Henri caught the spirit of his companion, and both gave way to joyful anticipation of a twenty-mile dash in a pair of monoplanes.
They attempted to waltz with the cook, but neither could reach even a quarter way around the waist of this rotund Wilhelm, and if the latter’s legs had not been so much shorter than his waistband[223] it is likely that the skylarkers would have received several jars from a ham-like foot.
Capering like colts, the boys headed for the hangar, and with the assistance of Jacob and another helper, early on the ground, the machines were rolled out to make their buzzing start for high places.
When Billy had removed kit number 16 from his monoplane he hopped into his seat on the frame. Henri was already settled for flight.
The run-off, however, was postponed for a minute or two so that the a?roplanists could watch the rise of a Zeppelin directly in front of them.
“Let ’er go,” sang Billy, and both monoplanes got away together.
The Zeppelin had just swung around in the great arc of a circle, and the boys in the monoplanes were sailing immediately above the great cylinder. Henri had just turned a swift glance at his companion aviator, with intent of setting the direction of flight, when—and the horror of it—Billy’s machine suddenly stopped in midair, wabbling like a cradle, and before the young aviator’s desperate attempt to retain control could prevail the machine turned upside down, and the boy from Bangor hung by the knees from the tumbling frame.
Henri would have cried aloud in agony of spirit—but he was as one stricken dumb. He almost[224] spelled death for himself by letting go of the controls of his machine.
But what a sight for his staring eyes!
The falling monoplane had struck athwart the aluminum envelope of the Zeppelin, and, though the bigger craft trembled from stem to stern with the shock, it held its way, buoyed up by the gas chambers on each side of the cylinder. Billy soon rested safely on one of the platforms, cheered by members of a rejoicing crew.
Henri found his voice again, and, shouting like a madman, he sent his monoplane darting toward the earth, and if he failed to land in his usual beautifully precise way he was there when the Zeppelin brought back to him that “dear old Billy.”
The lieutenant, hastily responding to summons, found his two expert aviators hugging one another, and the crew of the Zeppelin critically inspecting a damaged monoplane grounded between its mate and the big ship.
“What’s the matter here?” nervously demanded the lieutenant.
“It looks like foul play is the matter,” shortly responded the chief officer of the Zeppelin. He was not a member of Lieutenant Hume’s command.
“You’re right,” exclaimed the lieutenant with an oath, as he knelt to more closely inspect the chiseled propeller and the spiked rudder. Turning to Billy, and in severe manner:
[225]
“Do you always hold your life so lightly as to start an air machine without previous inspection?”
“That machine, sir, was as right as could be when we left it last night. Indeed, sir, it was in elegant shape.”
“No question but what some devil in human form planned your death, and if I get the dastard it will be a yardarm in the harbor for him, and no waste of time and lead.”
The lieutenant was aroused, and when a calm like his was rudely broken it meant woe for the object of his wrath.
Told of the manner in which Billy had been saved, the anger of the officer relaxed its force for the moment, when he solemnly said:
“Of the like I have never known; it is beyond me.”
Investigation, vigorously pushed, soon developed a significant fact—the youth to whom kit 9 was charged failed to respond at roll call. Max was missing.
Jacob then blurted out the whole story of the fight, and all that had preceded and followed it.
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CHAPTER XLIII. SETTING OF A DEATH TRAP.
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CHAPTER XLIV. A LIFE IN THE BALANCE.
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