CHAPTER III
FOR THE TROPHY OF THE FLEET
As Ned had prophesied, the next day was bright and clear. There was just enough of the coolness of early summer to give a crisp tang to the air. It stirred the blood like martial music. It was a day which challenged every athlete in the squadron to do his best. That is, so far as external conditions were concerned.
The ground selected for the trying out of the championship of the squadron was a flat field, some five acres in extent, not far from the shore. It stood on slightly rising ground. Trees, fresh and green, stood in a thick mass on one side. Seaward the ground sloped gently, and beyond could be seen the grim sea-fighters, swinging at anchor; from some of the smoke-stacks vapor curled lazily. The basket-like fighting masts resembled the work of some geometrically inclined spider.
Cheering and laughing, the contingents from the various ships were landed after dinner. In their midst, guarding them jealously, as bees would their queen, each ship's company surrounded their group of athletes. And a fine showing they made when they assembled in the dressing-rooms under the grandstand. This structure was already occupied by the officers of the division, headed by Rear Admiral Cochran, a white-haired veteran of the seven seas. A sprinkling of ladies in bright costumes lent a dash of color to the scene.
The course had been laid out, and the officers who had constituted themselves a committee in charge of the sports were already busy about it, when the Manhattan's boats landed their laughing, singing, cheering blue-jackets. Among them were Ned and Herc. Neither of them had yet changed to their running togs. Merritt and Chance had, however, but they both wore long raincoats, which prevented Ned from sizing them up, as he was anxious to do.
Both the Dreadnought Boys were quiet and self-contained as usual. But Merritt and Chance were talking loudly and flinging remarks right and left. Atwell, Turner, Simpkins, Jessup and a dozen other Manhattan entries in various events formed the remainder of the athletic contingent from the big dreadnought. As they entered the dressing-rooms – or rather the big space under the grandstand – a babel of cries of welcome and jocular defiance surged about the Manhattanites.
"Here come the champions of the squadron," shouted some one.
"Say, Jack, wait till they are champions before you start giving the title to them," hailed another voice. It was that of Chalmers of the Louisiana. He wore dark-green running trunks with a white shirt. Across his chest was a red, white and blue sash, on which was blazoned the name of his ship. Several of the other runners and athletes affected this touch of dandyism. Ned and Herc, however, wore plain running suits: trunks and sleeveless shirts and good track shoes.
Chalmers lost no time in seeking out Merritt. The two conversed in a corner in low tones. After a time, Ned and Herc, too, succeeded in getting away from a crowd of their shipmates and found time to pass a word or two.
Merritt had cast off his long coat to adjust his trunks. Ned found his eyes riveted on the fellow. If physique were any criterion, Merritt should have been a fine runner.
Clean-cut as a race-horse, his skin was smooth and of good color, with lithe muscles playing under it. He was the beau ideal in build of a speed machine. Chance, on the other hand, was heavier-set, but he showed up well in that assemblage of athletically built men and youths. Both Ned and Herc agreed that the two whom they instinctively regarded as enemies were by no means to be rated lightly.
But a sharp bugle call cut short further observation. The games were beginning. The hundred-yard dash was third on the program, and Ned did not emerge till just before the starting time. The wind was sharp, and he did not want to contract his muscles by letting the cold air blow on his limbs. Herc, in a heavy navy coat, went to the starting line with him. He stood by his chum, giving him some last words of advice. Ned appeared to listen, but his thoughts were actually elsewhere. He had already made up his mind to his course of action. He was going to run a waiting race, depending on a sharp spurt to win.
In a quick glance over the six entrants, he saw that Chalmers and Merritt were the only ones he had cause to fear. He noticed them whispering together, and resolved to keep a sharp lookout on their actions.
The air was filled with shouts and suggestions and greetings from blue-jackets, who were encouraging the men from their own ship. Every man in the squadron who could be spared was there. They made a big throng, lining the track on the side away from the grandstand.
"Hey, there, Springer! Do your prettiest for the Merrimac."
"Oh, you Polthew! Don't forget the Massachusetts!"
"Say, Polly, look out for that Manhattan bunch."
"Hi, Chalmers, you're the man. You're carrying the Luzzy's money."
"That's right, and don't you forget it."
"And you, Strong! My month's pay's on you."
"You'll lose, then; Merritt's the man."
"What's the matter with Carter? Guess you'll know there's a Kansas in the fleet."
"Stand back, please! Stand back!" cried those in charge of the course.
The line-up was quickly arranged. The starters crouched ready to dart off. Carter made a false start, and the excitement waxed furious.
"Ready?"
Lieutenant Steedforth, of the Louisiana, the starter, put the question.
Like greyhounds preparing to leave the leash, the contestants flexed their muscles.
The starter lifted the pistol. A puff of smoke and sharp report followed.
Merritt, Chalmers and Polthew got off at the same instant. They made a showy start, and the grandstand as well as the field buzzed with enthusiasm.
Springer, of the Merrimac, and Carter, of the Kansas, came next. Strong came last, and was almost unnoticed in the frenzy of excitement.
The pace was terrific. In the first twenty-five yards Polthew and Carter dropped behind, hopelessly out of it. Far in front, Merritt, Chalmers and Springer were fighting it grimly out. Springer hung like death on the heels of the two leaders.
Ned had crept up, and kept his pace steadily. Suddenly Springer spurted. This carried him past Chalmers and Merritt, who were about even. But the effort had been made too soon. In a second's time he dropped back again.
The Dreadnought Boy knew that the two tricksters in front were going to concentrate on stopping him if he crept up too soon. So he crawled up till he felt it would be foolish to delay longer. Then, letting out all his reserve power, Ned spurted. His burst of speed was easy and genuine. It was not forced.
In a flash he was abreast of Chalmers before the latter could "pocket" him according to prearranged plans. Merritt, as he saw this, exerted every ounce of strength in his wiry body.
The jackies went wild. It was anybody's race, for now Chalmers had recovered from his surprise. Spurting, he caught up with the leaders. Spurt followed spurt. The air vibrated with cheers, yells, whoops and every kind of noisy demonstration.
Above it all, there suddenly rang out from the throats of the Manhattan's crew, one ear-splitting cry of triumph.
In the midst of it, carried on its wings as it were, Ned suddenly dashed ahead of his competitors and staggered across the tape into the arms of his shipmates. Chalmers was second and Merritt a bad third. Tobacco had found the weak spot in his heart. He was almost exhausted as he reeled across the line.
CHAPTER IV
THE AERO SQUAD
One by one the other contests were decided. The hammer throw was won by Melvin, of the Idaho, a giant of a man. Smithers, of the Manhattan, was second in this event. So the Dreadnought's crew continued to keep up their spirits. The half-mile was captured by Remington, of the Louisiana, while the mile went to Hickey, of the Manhattan, a man with hair of right good fighting red, and a great chest development.
Then came the pole jump. As usual, this picturesque event excited great interest.
Chance came first, and set a mark that made the other contestants gasp.
"You'll have to be a grasshopper to beat that, Herc," whispered Ned.
Herc nodded. "I'll do my best," he said simply.
"That's the stuff, shipmate," said "Ben Franklin," who happened to be close at hand, "as poor Richard said:
"'You'll beat the rest;
If you do your best.'"
"I never saw that in 'Poor Richard' that I can recollect," said Ned, with a laugh.
Steve Wynn looked pained, as he usually did when any of his quotations was questioned as to its accuracy.
"It's in the book some place," he said confidently.
"Well, maybe it is," agreed Ned. "It's good advice, anyhow."
At last came Herc's turn.
Merritt had now been joined by Chance. With set teeth, they stood watching the agile lad from the farm prepare for his preliminary run.
"You want to watch closely now," said Chance, with an unholy grin, "you're going to see something."
"What? You've – "
But a horrified cry from the spectators interrupted the words. Herc had risen gracefully at the bar, and had seemed about to sail over it. Instantly bedlam had seethed about the field.
"Taylor, of the Manhattan, wins!"
"Good boy, red-top!"
"Go to it, freckles!"
But in a flash the cries of enthusiasm had been changed to that peculiar sighing gasp that runs through a crowd at a sudden turn to the tragic in their emotions.
As Herc had lifted his body outward to sail over the bar, the pole had suddenly snapped beneath him.
The horrified spectators saw the lad's body hurtled downward. Herc, as he fell, narrowly missed impalement on the jagged, broken end of the pole. But the lad's muscles were under prime control. Even as he fell, he seemed to make a marvelous twist.
The cheers broke forth anew as Herc, instead of landing in a heap, came to earth gracefully on his feet. He had not sustained the least injury, a fact which he soon demonstrated to the judges and other officials of the track who crowded about him.
"I tell you, it's that blamed secret of theirs," growled Chance, turning pale.
"We'd better get out of here," warned Merritt hastily. "Look, they are examining the pole. I imagine that they'll find it was cut."
"I imagine so, too," said Chance, in a low, rather frightened tone, as the unworthy two hastened off. "But they can't prove anything on me," he added defiantly.
In the meantime Herc had selected another pole. He examined it carefully and found it perfect. Bracing himself for the effort of his life, he essayed the jump once more.
He sailed over the bar as gracefully as a soaring sea gull.
"Chance is tied! Taylor's tied him!" yelled the crowd.
"Good boy, Herc," whispered Ned, as Herc prepared for a fresh effort. "Now this time beat him, and beat him good."
Herc set his teeth grimly. His usually good-natured face held an expression very foreign to it.
"I'll do it," he said. "And then," he added significantly, "I've got another job to attend to."
Flexing his muscles, Herc crouched for an instant. Then he hurled himself at the bar. He cleared it with almost six inches to spare above Chance's hitherto unapproached record.
If the field had known enthusiasm before, it was pandemonium that broke loose now. Like wild-fire, the word had gone about that Herc's pole had been tampered with. The spirit of the Yankee blue-jacket is keen for fair play. A foul trick stirs his blood as nothing else will. If Ned or Herc had breathed their suspicions at that instant, it is likely that, in spite of discipline, it would have gone hard with Merritt and Chance. But Herc sought another way.
That night word ran through the fleet that Hercules Taylor, of the Manhattan, had challenged Chance, of the same ship, to a boxing match, and that Chance had refused. Possibly he anticipated that Herc might lose control of himself and strike out a little harder than is consistent with "sparring." At any rate, from that time on, Chance was rated as "a flunker," which, in the navy, is a very undesirable appellation.
Herc, however, was the idol of the Manhattan. His winning of the pole jump had captured the athletic supremacy pennant for the Manhattan. It had been the climax of a day of triumphs for the lads of the Dreadnought. From thenceforth the big fighting craft was entitled to float both the athletic pennant and the coveted "Meat Ball," the latter the red flag for the best gunnery. How the meat ball was won at Guantanamo, readers of "The Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice" are aware.
It was on a Monday, a week after the sports, that a line of trim, athletic looking, young blue-jackets were lined up in a field, some ten miles out of Hampton, and in the heart of a rural community. Off, at one side of the meadow, was a row of barn-like structures, painted a dull gray color and numbered. There were six of them.
These sheds housed the aeroplanes with which the experiments for the purpose of selecting a naval "aerial-scout class" were to be conducted. The eyes of the row of aspirants, who had been winnowed from a perfect crop of such applicants, were fixed longingly on the gray barns. They housed, not only the aeroplanes, but the ambitions and hopes of that row of young men – the pick of the squadron.
But there were more than twenty candidates for the scout corps lined up, and only nine would be selected. No wonder that there was anxiety reflected in their eyes, as Lieutenant De Frees and his assistants, Ensigns Walters and Jackson, paced down the row of blue-jackets, putting questions here and there, and weeding out those who were either too heavy or cumbersome for aero work, or else did not give evidence of the keen, hawk-like intellectual faculties that an airman must have. These include the power of instant decision in an emergency, courage of a high order, but not recklessness, and a mind capable of grasping the mechanical qualities of the craft with which they have to deal. As may be imagined, then, the task of the officers was not a simple one.
One by one, the eager applicants were sorted and sifted, till finally, the chosen nine stood shoulder to shoulder. Ned and Herc had both passed, although, for a time, the fate of the latter had hung in the balance. His heavy frame was against him. But the naval officers had decided that the lad's quick intelligence and bulldog tenacity made him desirable in other ways. For the present Herc Taylor would be held in reserve. There was a certain grim suggestiveness in this – a hint of the dangers of aerial navigation which might result in the ranks being thinned before long.
Ned had had no trouble in getting by. Lieutenant De Frees had said with a pleasant nod:
"I've heard of you, Strong. We want you. You are, of course, willing to sign a paper absolving the navy from responsibility in case of your death or serious injury?"
This question had been put to all the applicants in turn. They had all signified their willingness to do this. It was understood, of course, that the contract, or pledge, did not in any way affect their pensions or "disability" money.
When Ned's turn came, he thought a moment. Such was his habit. Then he spoke.
"If I'd thought only of the risks, sir, I wouldn't be here," he said, in a respectful but decisive manner.
Among the others who passed the ordeal were Merritt and Chance; a slender, greyhound-like chap from the Kansas, named Terry Mulligan; a bos'un's mate from the Louisiana, called Sim Yeemans, a typical Yankee from Vermont, or "Vairmont," as he called it; a comical German blue-jacket from the Idaho, Hans Dunderblitz, and some others whom we shall probably become acquainted with as our narrative progresses.
The disappointed ones were spun back to the ships in a big auto chartered for the purpose. The successful candidates and the defeated ones parted without animosity.
"Better luck next time," hailed the chosen nine, as their shipmates drove off.
"Oh, your ranks will thin out quick enough," cried one of the departing ones, with sinister humor.
The men selected for the aviation "classes," as they may be called, were, they soon found out, to board at a big stone farmhouse not far from the aviation field. Little more was done that day than to pay a series of visits to the different sheds – or "hangars," in airmen's parlance. In each of these the embryo airmen listened to a short talk on the type of machine they were viewing and heard its qualities discussed. In addition, that night, each of the ambitious ones received a set of books on the science of mastering the air, with instructions to study them carefully. It was implied that those who failed to pass certain examinations at a future date would not be allowed to partake further in the experiments.
"Well, talk about your ease and luxury," said Herc that night when the Dreadnought Boys were in the room assigned to them at the farmhouse, "we're as well off here as middies at Annapolis. What a contrast to the forecastle! I feel like a millionaire already."
"Umph!" grunted Ned, who was already deep in his books. "You'd better get to work and study. We've lots of hard work ahead of us."
"And excitement too, I guess," said Herc, dragging a bulky volume toward him.
Neither of the two lads at the time fully appreciated how much of both was shortly to be crowded into their lives.
CHAPTER V
UNCLE SAM'S MEN-BIRDS
"Py golly, dot feller Neddie he fly like vun birdt, alretty, ain'd it?" exclaimed Hans Dunderblitz one day two weeks later.
He was standing by the side of Herc Taylor, watching the evolutions of the bi-plane of Bright-Sturgess model, which Ned Strong was manipulating far above them.
"You're pretty good yourself, Hans," encouraged Herc.
"Ach nein! Efferey time I gedt oop midt der air I schneeze. Undt den – down I go tumble, alretty."
"You'll have to learn to stop sneezing," commented Herc; "maybe the engine doesn't like it – see a doctor."
"Phwat's thot about docthors?" asked Mulligan, coming up. "Shure talkin' uv doctors reminds me uv one we had at home in Galway. He was a successful docthor, understan', but whin he wos a young mon he was not so well-to-do. In fact, the only ornament he had in his parlor was Patience on a Monument, a stathoo, ye understan'. Wun day a frind calls ter see him in the days whin the doc was prosperous.
"'Doc,' says he, 'you ain't got Patience on a Monument any more.'
"'No,' says the docthor, says he, 'shure I've got monumints on all my patients now, begob!'"
"Puts me in mind of what I once read in a paper up in the Catskills," laughed Herc. "The item read: 'Dr. Jones was called, and under his prompt and skilful treatment Hiram Scroggs died Wednesday night.'"
"By Chermany, dere vos a docthor vunce – " began Hans.
But what the doctor "by Chermany" did or said, was destined not to be known, for an order came to the group to resume their practice. Immediately they hastened off to get their machines in trim once more.
Lieutenant De Frees' system of instruction had proved effectual. By this time almost all of his squad had learned to fly. Some of them could only take "grasshopper jumps," but others, Ned, Merritt and Chance among them, had proven themselves really capable airmen. They had learned with wonderful aptitude.
Ned would never forget his first day in an aeroplane. The officer had taken up a biplane and given a daring exhibition. Then he descended and announced that instruction would begin. His assistants took up Herc and Merritt, while Ned was ordered to seat himself on the narrow little place beside the officer. The Dreadnought Boy experienced then, not exactly fear, but a curious sort of sinking feeling born of his initiation into a hitherto unknown experience. He braced his feet against the slender struts of the machine, as he was instructed, and held tightly to the handholds provided for the purpose. Then he stole a glance at Lieutenant De Frees. The officer's face was as calm as that of a man who was about to take an afternoon's drive behind a favorite horse.
Suddenly the officer twitched a brass contrivance attached to a quadrant on his steering handle, which was not unlike that of an automobile. He pressed a pedal with his foot and a mighty roar and vibration began at once as the motor opened up.
The acrid reek of castor oil, which is used to lubricate aeroplanes, filled the air. The stuff was expelled from the cylinder vents in blue clouds, shot with lambent smoky flame. The mighty power exerted by the eight cylinders shook the frail fabric of the aeroplane as an earthquake might.
"Hold on tight now!" shouted the officer to the pupils, who were gripping the machine tightly, grasping on to the rear structure. Had they not done so, it would have darted off at once before the two propellers gained top speed and driving power.
"Now!" shouted the officer suddenly.
Instantly they let go, as they had been instructed. Ned felt as if he had suddenly been plunged into a runaway express train that was careening over a newly ploughed field. The shocks and vibration of the machine, as it rushed straight forward, like a scared jackrabbit, over the uneven surface of the field, made it hard to hold on.
Just as Ned felt that he must inevitably be hurled from his seat, the motion suddenly changed. The contrast was violent. From the jouncing, rattling, bumping onrush of a second before, the novice seemed to have been suddenly transported to the softest of feather-beds. The aeroplane glided upward without any apparent effort. It appeared to Ned as if the land was dropping from under his feet, rather than that they were rising from the earth.
Higher they soared and higher. Suddenly their pleasant drifting, as it seemed, though the aeroplane was making sixty miles an hour, changed to a terrifying drop.
It was like rushing downward in a runaway elevator. Ned choked, caught his breath, and turned faint and dizzy. Without wishing to do so, he found himself compelled to close his eyes. The qualms of incipient nausea began to rack him. His head pained, too.
"Gracious," he thought impatiently, "what's the matter with me, anyway? Am I a baby or a girl? If the lieutenant can stand it, I can."
With a supreme effort of will, the Dreadnought Boy compelled himself to open his eyes. He stole a side glance at his companion. Lieutenant De Frees was as cool as an iceberg.
"I must be, too," thought Ned, steeling himself. As he did so, the alarming downward motion ceased. They began to rise once more, swinging upward and climbing the sky in long, lazy circles.
It was then and there that Ned's attack of air fever left him, never to return. Compared to the experiences of his companions, he learned later he had had a comparatively mild attack.
Ned now began to look about him. The other two aeroplanes were soaring below them, like big birds of the buzzard kind. He felt a wild desire suddenly gripping his heart to go higher – right up among the fleecy clouds that hung above them. Perhaps the officer read his thoughts. At any rate, they continued to climb the aerial staircase. At a height of four thousand feet, they plunged into a fog. The sudden change from the bright sunlight was bewildering.
"We are passing through one of those clouds that you saw from below," volunteered the officer. He glanced at the barograph and read off to Ned the height to which they had arisen.
"Good gracious," thought the lad, "four thousand feet above the earth, and nothing between me and it but the soles of my shoes!"
But Ned's terror had gone. He began to take a real interest in the operation of the aeroplane now. It was fascinating to a degree. All at once they emerged from the wet fog bank and glided into the sunlight. Condensed moisture covered the planes. Drops of water, turned to miniature rainbows by the sunlight, slid down the wire stays and supports.
"Want to go higher?" asked the officer presently.
"If you want to, sir," said Ned.
"We might as well. You are standing it splendidly, Strong."
Ned felt himself glow with pleasure. Words of praise from an officer are not plentiful in our or any other navy. But, as we have seen, the discipline on the aviation squad was not exactly as rigid as on board a battleship.
But presently Ned's pleasant glow gave way to a shivering sensation. It was growing bitterly cold. His teeth chattered and his hands turned a beautiful plum color. The moisture from the cloud began to freeze on the machine.
"Enough for to-day," decided the officer, and he started to descend.
The drop was rapid, yet now that Ned was more used to it, he felt no particular alarm. In an incredibly short time, so it seemed, the earth rushed up to meet them, and they landed on the aviation field as lightly as a wind-wafted feather.
The next day Ned and the two other most proficient pupils – Merritt and Chance – were given a chance to handle the levers alone. They acquitted themselves well. Their advancement proved rapid, living up to the promise of their first efforts. On the day which we described at the beginning of this chapter, Ned, as we have seen, was capable of handling an aeroplane alone. So were Merritt and Chance. Herc was a fair airman, and the others were progressing favorably.
But the real rivals of the air were, at present, Ned, Merritt and Chance.