Sons of the Air

DOWN

I. A CLOSE CALL

YES, my little lads, you’re doing very nicely, said Curtis Clinton, with a smile on his pleasant sun-burned face, as he gazed down into the clear pool where hundreds of tiny trout darted about. He scattered a little food for the baby fish, then went up to the head of the pool where a tiny spring of ice- cold, crystal-clear water bubbled up from a small crevice in the limestone.

This spring was Curt’s most cherished possession, for without it the trout farm which gave him his living could not have existed. There was never a day when he did not inspect it, and it was a fad of his to keep a thermometer in it to see that the temperature did not change. He had never known a change of more than four degrees–from thirty-eight degrees to forty-two. As he lifted the thermometer he noticed a flicker of white in the dark mouth of the spring. Something rose spinning in the rush of the water, and as it came to the surface he picked it out. He could hardly believe his eyes when he found it to be a small fragment of newspaper.

Of all the rum things! he gasped, as he turned and, carrying the paper very carefully, took it back to his little bungalow, which stood further down the slope close above his biggest pond. There he laid it flat on a sheet of blotting paper which drew the water from it, and taking this outside pinned it on a board in the strong spring sunlight.

In a very few minutes it had dried sufficiently for the print to become visible, and, getting a magnifying glass from the house, he scanned it eagerly. The first word he made out was Tiedende in large letters, and this he saw was part of the title.

Dutch! he exclaimed. Well, if this doesn’t beat cock- fighting. Will some one kindly tell me what a piece of a Dutch newspaper is doing in my spring? And here’s the date too, May 3rd. Why, it’s only about three weeks old. He frowned thoughtfully. Well, he said at last, the whole country is full of underground streams. This paper must have fallen into one of them through a cleft and come through goodness knows how many miles of dark rock pipes until it came out through my spring. But Dutch–why Dutch?

His musings were sharply interrupted by a hoarse shout.

Mr. Clinton, them there boys o’ yours is up to some new devilment. Flying like kites. You better come an’ see.

Curt, bolting round the corner of the house, almost ran into a man hurrying in the opposite direction.

Flying, Agar! he exclaimed. What do you mean?

Agar, a grizzled old fellow who had a small farm a little way down the valley, grinned till his parchment-like face was a mass of wrinkles.

It’s true, sir. I seed ’em from my place. They got something like a big kite, and one on ’em was right up in the air in it. I’ll lay it’s that there Jack Milner–him and Kip Carter.

But Curt was gone. Rushing round to the shed, he got out his motor bicycle, sprang into the saddle, kicked off, and the next moment was roaring down the rough road at a perilous pace. Agar watched him.

Looks to me as if he’s as like to break his neck as any on ‘em, he observed. Gosh, but I wouldn’t be master o’ them there Scouts for something! Young demons, specially that there Jack!

Old Agar was a little prejudiced, for in point of fact the boys of the Pipit Patrol, of which Curt was Scoutmaster, were as nice a set of lads as any in all that wild countryside. As Curt often said, there was not an ounce of real harm in any of them. The only reason why they sometimes got into trouble was that they were healthy, open-air lads with a craving for adventure and a wild desire to be always trying something new.

Of course, it’s Jack, said Curt to himself, as he sent his machine crackling up the steep slope which ran at right angles from the valley road.

As he reached the top he came into view of the village of Garth lying in a hollow below, and of a great bare fell stretching steeply up to the right. On a ledge high up the hillside three boys were standing holding a fourth who lay spread on a kind of framework beneath a kind of tiny biplane.

A glider! gasped Curt. How in sense did they get hold of a thing like that?

He pulled up, left his bicycle leaning against the bank, scrambled through the hedge and began to run up the steep with long springy strides. He was still too far away for even his loudest shout to reach the boys, and his only chance of stopping them was to get near enough before Jack took off.

It was no good, for long before he was within hailing distance there came the gust of wind for which the youthful pilot had been waiting. Curt saw him signal with one hand to the others, saw them run forward down the slope holding the glider which tugged like a kite. Then they let go, and Curt’s heart was in his mouth as he saw the glider swoop upwards and outwards exactly like a rising kite.

He’ll be killed, he gasped in horror. He can’t possibly know how to control the thing.

Yet somehow the boy pilot did manage to control the machine. He worked his ailerons with surprising skill and kept on a level keel as the glider, with the fresh spring wind under her planes, soared onwards.

A freckled-faced boy with bright blue eyes was the first to hear Curt coming, and turned to meet him.

Isn’t it fine, sir? he cried, with glowing face. And Jack’s promised that I shall have next turn.

Next turn, you lunatic! There won’t be any next turn. We shall be lucky if we ever see Jack alive again.

Kip Carter’s face dropped.

W-why, what’s the matter? he gasped.

Matter, Kip! Mean that you don’t understand how confoundedly dangerous it is? There are only about a dozen men in England who have ever handled gliders successfully. Jack knows nothing, and if the wind tilts him he’s done. He’ll come down like a stone.

I–I never thought of that, said Kip in dismay, but he spoke to empty air, for his Scoutmaster was already plunging down the hill in pursuit of Jack.

He’s in an awful paddy, said Kip to Butter Briggs, a solid- looking youth who was gazing round-eyed at the glider. We’d better go on after him.

A fresh gust caught the glider and tilted it so sharply that Curt’s heart was in his mouth again. But Jack, who seemed to have no sense of fear, got her back on even keel. He was about fifty feet up, hovering in the wind stream like a hawk, and Curt, looking up from below, saw his face shining with delight.

What an airman he’ll make! was the thought that flashed through his mind. My word, what an airman! Then he stopped. Jack! he shouted. Can you hear me?

Fine, sir, replied Jack.

I wish you’d come down, Jack. We’ve got to go to Fandle this afternoon. Can you manage it?

I think so, sir.

You’ll have to be careful, said Curt, speaking in quiet, distinct tones. The wind is gusty, and it won’t do for you to side-slip. Keep her head a little down and head for the leasowe.

Prickly sort of place to come down, sir, grinned Jack, but he did as he was bid.

The leasowe was a rough field further down the slope, covered with clumps of brier and blackberry bushes. It was exactly because these were there to break a possible fall that Curt had ordered Jack to make for the spot. He knew that otherwise there was nothing for the boy to do but fly right across the valley. Then when he got to the dead area where the wind was cut off by the opposite hill he would drop like a stone. It was impossible to come back to the starting point, for a glider depends entirely for its flying power on the wind striking upwards on the cambered surfaces of its planes, and the moment it turns with the wind it is bound to fall.

Curt was in an agony as he followed just below the tossing, quivering glider. He was not the sort ever to make favourites among his boys, but now he had to acknowledge to himself that red-haired, cheeky, cheery Jack Milner was the one of them all whom he could least easily spare. It seemed to him too that he was the one whom his country could least spare, for a boy like Jack would make a splendid man.

A sharp puff caught the glider and lifted her several yards, and for a moment it seemed as if she were clean out of control. Beads of cold sweat started on Curt’s forehead as he waited for what seemed the inevitable crash. But again Jack cleverly got control, and again he forced her nose down.

Got a bit of a bump that time, sir, he called cheerily. But the wind’s all right now, and I’m doing fine.

Keep down, begged Curt. If you go too far you’ll get into calm air and stall.

All right, Jack answered. Coming down now, sir.

Down he came as easily and smoothly as any old hand.

The boy’s a marvel, said Curt to himself, and the words were hardly out of his mouth before the crash came.

The breeze at this lower level seemed to fail completely, the glider stalled, her nose came up, then she turned right over and dropped–dropped straight into the centre of one of those clumps of bramble on the near edge of the leasowe.

Curt felt sick as he heard the crash of the crumpling framework, and he ran madly towards the spot.

As he reached it Jack came crawling out from among the ruins. A large bleeding scratch ran all down one cheek, but that was not what was making his lips quiver.

Oh, sir, I’ve broken it badly! he cried in despair.

Broken it, you lunatic! answered Curt. What does that matter if you haven’t broken yourself? Don’t you understand that you’ve had about as narrow an escape from death as any chap ever had?

Jack’s eyes grew round as billiard balls as he looked at Curt.

I–I didn’t know that, sir, he stammered. I hadn’t thought–

I don’t suppose it would have mattered if you had known it, returned the Scoutmaster; but don’t do it again, Jack. You’ve taken ten years off my life in these last ten minutes.

I’m awfully sorry, sir, said Jack, and Curt saw that he meant it.

At this moment the hoarse hoot of a klaxon came echoing across the hillside from the distant road. All Jack’s gloom vanished.

It’s Mr. Trask, sir. He’s come to take us to Fandle. Isn’t it jolly good of him?

II. SLEUTHS OF THE AIR

DICKY TRASK lay back in the deep driving seat of his great car.

Hullo, you chaps! he said in his odd squeaky voice. Thought I’d drop round and run you up. It’s the dooce and all of a walk over the fell.

It’s uncommon good of you, Dicky, said Curt. Jack, you come in front with me; the rest of you pile in behind. And mind the paint, or Mr. Trask will never give you a lift again.

They all piled in, and Dicky sent the big car rolling noiselessly up the long slope.

What the dickens were you chaps doing? enquired Dicky, glancing round lazily. Looked to me as if you’d got some sort of a big kite up, but I was too far off to see what happened except that it came down.

Curt told him of Jack’s exploit, and Dicky whistled softly.

Great snakes, Curt, but you do keep a menagerie! Jack, ain’t you ashamed of scaring the hair off your kind teacher?

I didn’t think of it that way, sir, replied Jack seriously.

Dicky glanced at the boy.

Make a proper old bus driver, wouldn’t he, Curt? he observed thoughtfully, and after that devoted his attention to driving the car at a very high rate of speed along the rough and narrow hill road.

It was not the Pipit’s first visit to Fandle Fell Aerodrome, for owing to the kindness of Dicky Trask, who was by far the richest and therefore in a sense the most important member of the Flying Club, they had a sort of general invitation to be present at Meets, where they made themselves useful, and in return got a good deal of useful teaching from the mechanics and an occasional flip from a member. All of them, but more particularly Jack Milner and Kip Carter, were mad on flying, and not one, except, perhaps, Butter Briggs, but would make a good pilot. Butter was just as keen as the rest, but he was a bit slow in the uptake. That was the only thing against him.

Topping afternoon, eh? remarked Dicky, as he pulled up by the big shed. Ought to be quite good topside. Want a flip, Jack?

Jack Milner’s eyes glowed with delight. Oh, thank you, sir! he cried.

All right. I’ll be ready in two shakes, replied Dicky.

He stepped leisurely out of his car and walked slowly over to the little Club House.

You lucky brute! growled Kip Carter, digging Jack in the ribs with his elbow. You’ve had one go already to-day.

You shall have the flip, if you like, Kip, said Jack, who was the most generous soul alive. I mean it, Kip.

Kip’s freckled face flushed a little.

Rot! You go of course. Perhaps some one else will take me up.

Dicky’s idea of two shakes ran to something more like ten minutes before he came out in pilot’s cap and goggles thrust up over his eyes, and walked slowly across to his plane which his mechanic, Joe Worthy, was warming up for him. She was a lean and shapely Moth with a bright yellow body and silver wings. She had two seats set tandem fashion in two separate cockpits, and was fitted with dual control. Dicky found this convenient because on a long flight he could hand over to Joe whenever he felt like it.

He panted a little as he hoisted himself up on to the lower wing and flung his leg over into the after cockpit.

You’re getting much too fat, Dicky, said Curt reproachfully. You ought to take up golf or something energetic.

Don’t you call flying energetic? retorted Dicky. Come on, Jack.

Jack slipped into his place like an eel and snuggled down comfortably. At once the engine accelerated to a roar, the little plane rolled off over the hard ground, and within fifty yards was in the air.

Like it, Jack? asked Dicky through the ‘phone.

It–it’s almost too jolly, sir, stammered Jack. It–it makes you feel like an eagle must feel.

Swooping, chuckled Dicky, as he cut out and let the machine sweep into a deep volplane. Then up again to corkscrew in circles to a height of a thousand feet. He gave the boy a good twenty minutes, came down, then, seeing the longing look in Kip’s blue eyes, took him for a short spin. And now we’ll have tea, he said.

The big car never travelled without an elaborate tea basket, and Joe already had the kettle boiling. All six, the two men and four boys, stretched themselves on the turf and drank tea from white enamel cups and ate most delicious sandwiches and large pieces of rich cake. Meanwhile they watched two other planes stunting over the ground.

I say, Dicky, said Curt presently, a rum thing happened to- day.

You have all the luck, returned Dicky. Nothing rum ever happens to me. But get on with it.

Curt told him about the piece of newspaper which had bubbled up out of the spring.

And it was a bit of a Dutch paper, he ended.

Gosh! You’re not suggesting that your spring started in Holland and came all the way under the North Sea? said Dicky.

No, you duffer. The paper must have been dropped into some pot hole up on the Fells.

Dicky grinned. If the War was still on we’d have to start the Patrol hunting for German spies, he chuckled. As it is–...

I found a Dutch paper at home, sir,