For some seconds after he had been taken up in the atmosphere in his airship, Uncle Ezra said nothing. He just sat there in the padded seat, clutching with his hands the rails in so tight a grip that his knuckles showed white.
Up and up they went, Larson skillfully guiding the craft, until they were a considerable distance above the earth.
"That's—that's far enough!" Uncle Ezra managed to yell, above the throb of the now throttled-down motor. "Don't go—any higher!"
"All right," agreed the aviator. "But she'll work easier up a little more."
"No—it—it's too far—to fall!" said Mr. Larabee, and he could not keep his voice from trembling.
Really, though, he stood it bravely, though probably the thought of all the money he had invested in the craft, as well as the prize he was after, buoyed up his spirits.
"How do you like it?" asked Larson, when they had circled around over Mr. Larabee's extensive farm for some time.
"It's different from what I expected," remarked Uncle Ezra. "But it seems good. I don't know as I'll stand it all the way to San Francisco, though."
"Oh, yes, you will," asserted Larson. "You'll get used to it in time."
"Is she working all right, Lieutenant Larson?"
"Yes, pretty well. I see a chance to make one or two changes though, that will make her better."
"Does that mean—er—more money?" was Uncle Ezra's anxious question.
"Well, some, yes."
"Not another cent!" burst out the crabbed old man. "I won't spend another cent on her. I've sunk enough money in the old shebang."
Larson did not answer. He simply tilted the elevating rudder and the biplane poked her nose higher up into the air.
"Here! What you doing?" demanded Uncle Ezra.
"I'm going up higher."
"But I tell you I don't want to! I want to go down! This is high enough!" and Uncle Ezra fairly screamed.
"We've got to go higher," said Larson. "The carburetor isn't working just right at this low elevation. That's what I wanted the extra money for, to get a new one. But of course if you feel that you can't spare it, why, we'll simply have to fly higher, that's all. The carburetor we have will work all right at a high elevation on account of the rarefied air, but with a different one, of course we could stay lower—if we wanted to.
"Still, if you feel you can't afford it," he went on, with a sly look at the crabbed old man who sat there clutching the sides of the seat, "we'll have to do the best we can, and make this carburetor do. I guess we'll have to keep on a little higher," he added, as he glanced at the barograph.
"Say! Hold on!" yelled Uncle Ezra in his ear. "You—you can have that money for the carburetor! Go on down where we were before."
"Oh, all right," assented Larson, and he winked the eye concealed from his employer.
The aircraft went down, and flew about at a comparatively low elevation. Really, there did not seem to be much the matter with the carburetor, but then, of course, Larson ought to know what he was talking about.
"She's working pretty good—all except the carburetor," said the former army man, after they had been flying about fifteen minutes. "The motor does better than I expected, and with another passenger we'll be steadier. She needs a little more weight. Do you want to try to steer her?"
"No, sir! Not yet!" cried Uncle Ezra. "I can drive a mowing-machine, and a thresher, but I'm not going to try an airship yet. I hired you to run her. All I want is that twenty-thousand-dollar prize, and the chance to sell airships like this after we've proved them the best for actual use."
"And we can easily do that," declared Larson. "My mercury stabilizer is working to perfection."
"When can we start on the race?" Mr. Larabee wanted to know.
"Oh, soon now. You see it isn't exactly a race. That is the competing airships do not have to start at the same time."
"No?" questioned Uncle Ezra.
"No. You see each competing craft is allowed to start when the pilot pleases, provided an army officer is aboard during the entire flight to check the results, and the time consumed. Two landings will be allowed, and only the actual flying time will be counted.
"That is if the trip is finished within a certain prescribed time. I think it is a month. In other words we could start now, fly as far as we could, and if we had to come down because of some accident, or to get supplies, we could stay down several days. Then we could start again, and come down the second time. But after that we would be allowed no more landings, and the total time consumed in flying would be computed by the army officer."
"Oh, that's the way of it?" asked Uncle Ezra.
"Yes, and the craft that has used the smallest number of hours will win the prize," went on Larson. "I'm sure we can do it, for this is a fast machine. I haven't pushed her to the limit yet."
"And don't you do it—not until I get more used to it," stipulated the owner of the airship.
The former army officer sent the aircraft through several simple evolutions to test her. She answered well, though Uncle Ezra gasped once or twice, and his grip on the seat rail tightened.
"When do you plan to start?" Mr. Larabee wanted to know, again.
"Oh, in about a week. I have sent in an application to have a representative of the government assigned to us, and when he comes we'll start. That will give me a chance to buy the new carburetor, and make some other little changes."
"Well, let's go down now," suggested Uncle Ezra. "Hello, what's this?" he cried, looking at his coat. "Why, I'm all covered with oil!"
"Yes, it does drip a little," admitted the aviator. "I haven't tightened the washers on the tank. You mustn't mind a little thing like that. I often get soaked with oil and gasolene. I should have told you to put on an old suit."
"But look here!" cried Uncle Ezra, in accents of dismay. "I didn't put on an old suit! This is my second best. I paid thirteen dollars for it, and I've bad it four years. It would have been good for two more if your old oil hadn't leaked on it. Now it's spoiled!"
"You can have it cleaned, perhaps," suggested the lieutenant as he sent the biplane about in a graceful curve, before getting ready for a descent.
"Yes, and maybe have to pay a tailor sixty-five cents! Not much!" cried Uncle Ezra. "I'll clean it myself, with some of the gasolene. I ain't going to waste money that way. I ought to charge you for it."
"Well, I'll give you the gasolene to clean it," said the aviator, with another unseen wink.
"Humph!" ejaculated Uncle Ezra with a grunt, as he tried to hold on with one hand, and scrub off some of the oil spots with his handkerchief.
"Well, I guess we'll go down now," announced Larson, after making several sharp ascents and descents to test the efficiency of the vertical rudder.
"Why, we're quite a way from the farm!" exclaimed Mr. Larabee, looking down. "I didn't think we'd come so far."
"Well, I'll show you how quickly we can get back there!" boasted Larson. "I'll have you at your place in a hurry!"
He turned more power into the motor, and with a rush and a roar, the biplane shot forward.
But something happened. Either they struck an air pocket, or the rudder was given too sudden a twist. Anyway, the airship shot toward the ground at a sharp angle. She would have crashed down hard, only Larson threw her head up quickly, checking, in a measure, the momentum.
But he could not altogether control the craft, and it swept past a tree in an orchard where they were forced to land, the side wing tearing off the limbs and branches.
Then, bouncing down to the ground, the airship, tilted on one end, and shot Uncle Ezra out with considerable force. He landed in a heap of dirt, turned a somersault, and sat up with a queer look on his face.
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