When Abisha brought out his chair and lighted his corncob pipe, it was fully dark. The night was without a moon, and the sky had so clouded that only here and there a twinkling star showed.
“Do you ever fly at night?” asked their host.
“We have never done so,” replied Harvey, “because there is nothing to be gained and it is dangerous.”
“Why dangerous?”
“We can’t carry enough gasoline to keep us in the air more than two hours, and it is a risky thing to land in the darkness. If I hadn’t caught sight of this open space, it would have gone hard with us even when the sun was shining.”
“It’s a wonderful discovery,” repeated Wharton, as if speaking with himself, “but a lot of improvements will have to be made. One of them is to carry more gasoline or find some stuff that will serve better. How long has anyone been able to sail with an aeroplane without landing?”
“I believe the record is something like five hours.”
“In two or three years or less time, they will keep aloft for a day or more. They’ll have to do it in order to cross the Atlantic.”
“There is little prospect of ever doing that.”
“Wellman tried it in a balloon, but was not able to make more than a start.”
“I agree with you that the day is not distant when the Atlantic will be crossed as regularly by heavier-than-air machines as it is by the Mauretania and Lusitania, but in the meantime we have got to make many improvements; that of carrying enough fuel being the most important.”
At this point Bohunkus felt that an observation was due from him.
“Humph! it’s easy ’nough to fix dat.”
“How?”
“Hab reg’lar gasumline stations all de way ’cross de ocean, so dat anyone can stop and load up when he wants to.”
“How would you keep the stations in place?” gravely inquired Wharton.
“Anchor ’em, ob course.”
“But the ocean is several miles in depth in many portions.”
“What ob dat? Can’t you make chains or ropes dat long? Seems to me some folks is mighty dumb.”
“I’ve noticed that myself,” remarked the host without a smile. Failing to catch the drift of his comment, Bohunkus held his peace for the next few minutes, but in the middle of a remark by his companion, he suddenly leaped to his feet with the gasping question:
“What’s dat?”
CHAPTER VII
THE DRAGON OF THE SKIES
The others had seen the same object which so startled Bohunkus. Several hundred feet up in the air and slightly to the north, the gleam of a red light showed. It was moving slowly in the direction of the three, all of whom were standing and studying it with wondering curiosity. It was as if some aerial wanderer was flourishing a danger lantern through the realms of space.
“What can it be?” asked Abisha Wharton in an awed voice.
Not knowing the proper answer, Harvey Hamilton held his peace, but Bohunkus had an explanation ready.
“It am de comet!” he exclaimed, having in mind the celestial visitor named in honor of Halley the astronomer, over which the world had been stirred a short time before; “it hab broke loose and is gwine to hit de airth; we’d better dodge.”
And he plunged into the house, where the wife had lighted a candle and set it on the table in the front room. The others left him to his own devices while they kept their eyes on the mysterious visitant to the upper world.
They saw that the light was moving in a circle a hundred feet in diameter, and gradually descending. Whatever connection anything else had with it was invisible in the gloom. If the peculiar motion continued, it must come down in the clearing where Harvey’s biplane had settled to rest some time before.
Suddenly a fanlike stream of light shot out from a point directly above the crimson glow. It darted here and there, whisked over the small plain, flitted above the treetops and then flashed into the faces of the two persons who were standing side by side.
“It’s another aeroplane!” cried Harvey; “it carries a searchlight and the man is hunting a spot to land.”
At this juncture, Bohunkus’s curiosity got the better of him. He came timidly to the open door and peeped out.
“Hab it struck yet?” he asked; “it’ll be mighty bad when it swipes yo’ alongside de head. Better come in here – ”
At that instant the blinding ray hit the dusky youth in the face, and with another gasp of affright, he dashed to the farthest corner of the room, where he cowered in trembling expectancy.
The couple outside were too much absorbed in what they saw to give heed to him.
“You’re right,” said Wharton; “it’s an aeroplane and the aviator means to alight.”
The searchlight continued darting here and there, but the spreading glow finally settled upon the ground near where the biplane stood silent and motionless.
“It is unaccountable that it makes no noise. Look!”
The aviator now demonstrated that he was an expert in the management of his machine. He oscillated downward, zig-zagging to the right and left, until he gently touched the earth and the wheels running a short distance settled to rest. The searchlight flitted toward different points several times and then was abruptly extinguished. Harvey and Wharton walked across the ground toward the machine. Before they reached it, they made out the dim forms of a monoplane and a man standing beside it. To the youth he was the tallest and slimmest person he had ever seen. His stature must have been six and a half feet and in common language he was as thin as a rail. He had observed the approach of the two and silently awaited them.
“Good evening!” saluted Harvey, who was slightly in advance of his companion.
“How do you do, sir?”
The voice would have won an engagement for the owner as the basso profundo in an opera troupe. It was like the muttering of thunder, and as Abisha Wharton expressed it, seemed to come from his shoes.
Since Wharton left it to his young friend to do the honors, Harvey, pausing a few paces away, exerted himself to play the host.
“I see that your machine is a monoplane; you seem to have it under good control.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I made every part of it.”
“Even to the searchlight?”
“Of course; is that biplane yours?”
“It is; we landed several hours ago, having been kindly furnished a meal and lodgings for the night. I presume you will keep us company; my friend here, I am sure, will be glad to do what he can for you.”
“Kerrect,” added Wharton; “you’re as welcome as the flowers in spring.”
“Don’t you travel by night?” asked the visitor, ignoring the invitation.
“Not when I can avoid it; it is too risky to land in the darkness.”
“Night is the favorite period with me.”
“But you can’t keep in the air all the time.”
“What do you know about it, young man?” asked the other in his sepulchral tones; “I don’t expect to make a landing till after sunrise to-morrow.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“There are lots of things you never