Kitabı oku: «Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XVI
Desperate Chances
Bert’s stay at the pleasant seaside hotel was limited to a few hours only, but he gained incalculable refreshment from the short rest. It was with regret that he could not spend more time there that he took leave of the proprietor, and repaired to the motorcycle store where he had left the “Blue Streak” to have some very necessary work done on it. The engine had not been overhauled since starting from New York, and the cylinders were badly incrusted with carbon. He had left directions for this to be scraped out, and when he reached the shop expected to find his machine waiting for him in first-class condition. What was his chagrin therefore, when, on entering the place, the first thing he saw was the “Blue Streak” in a dismantled condition, parts of it strewn all over the floor.
He hunted up the proprietor, and indignantly asked him why the machine was not ready according to promise.
“I’m very sorry,” the man told him, “but as one of the mechanics was scraping the front cylinder it dropped on the floor, and when he picked it up he found it was split. So we can’t do anything with the machine until we get a new cylinder.”
“But haven’t you got a machine in the place you could take a cylinder from, and put it on my machine?” asked Bert. “I can’t afford to be held up here for a day while you send away for a new part.”
“There isn’t a machine in the place that would have a cylinder to fit yours,” said the proprietor; “if it had been a rear cylinder, it would have been easy enough to give you another, because we could take one off a one-cylinder machine that would fit. But, as it happens, I haven’t a twin cylinder machine in the place.”
“But how long will it take to get the new one here?” asked Bert.
“About half a day, I should say,” replied the other.
“Half a day!” echoed Bert, and his heart sank. “Why, if I lose that much time here it probably means that I’ll lose the race. Do you realize that?”
“I don’t see what we can do about it,” replied the proprietor, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll get the cylinder for you the first minute I can, but that’s the best I can do.”
Bert saw that there was no use arguing the matter. He walked out of the place without another word, but with a great bitterness in his heart. All his days of heartbreaking riding – the hardships he had undergone – the obstacles he had faced and overcome – all these things were in a fair way of being set at nought because of the carelessness of a stupid mechanician. The thought almost drove him frantic, and he hurried along the pavement, scarcely noticing where he was going. At last he collected his thoughts somewhat and pulled himself together. Looking about him, he saw that he was not far from the postoffice, and it occurred to him that there might be a letter for him from Tom or Dick.
With this thought in mind he entered the postoffice, in one corner of which there was also a telegraph station.
Walking up to the window, he inquired if there was any mail for Bert Wilson.
“No,” said the functionary behind the grating, “but there’s a telegram just come in for a party of that name. Bill!” he called, to the telegraph operator, “here’s Mr. Wilson now, him that you just got the telegram for.”
“Oh, all right,” replied the operator, “here you are, sir. I was just going to send it up to your hotel.”
“Much obliged,” said Bert, and tore open the yellow envelope.
“Ride fast,” it read, “have just heard Hayward is within three hundred miles of San Francisco. Hurry.”
The slip of yellow paper dropped from Bert’s nerveless fingers. Three hundred miles away. Why, Bert was as far from San Francisco as that himself, with mountainous roads still before him, and his machine out of commission!
If he could only do something, anything, that would be a relief. But he was absolutely helpless in the grasp of an unforeseen calamity, and all he could do was to pray desperately for the speedy arrival of the new cylinder.
He hastened back to the repair shop, and found that in his absence everything, with, of course, the exception of the front cylinder, had been put together. “We’ve done all we can,” the proprietor assured him. “A few minutes ago I called up the agents in Clyde and they said that their man was on the way with it. So it ought to get here early this afternoon.”
“Well,” declared Bert grimly, “I’m not going to stir out of this place till it does come, let me tell you.”
He waited with what patience he could muster, and at last, a little before two o’clock, the long-awaited cylinder arrived. With feverish haste Bert fastened it to the motor base himself, too impatient to let anybody else do it. Besides, he was resolved to take no chances of having this cylinder damaged. Ten minutes later the last nut had been tightened, and the “Blue Streak” was wheeled out into the street. Now that the heartbreaking waiting was over, Bert felt capable of anything. As he vaulted into the saddle, he made a compact with himself. “If my machine holds out,” he resolved, “I will not sleep again until I reach San Francisco;” and when Bert made a resolution, he kept it.
He scorched through the streets of the town regardless, for the time being, of local speed ordinances. In a few minutes he was out on the open road, and then, – well, the “Blue Streak” justified all the encomiums he had ever heaped upon it. Up hill and down he sped, riding low over the handlebars, man and machine one flying, space-devouring unit. The day drew into dusk, dusk changed to darkness, and Bert dismounted long enough to light his lamp and was off again, streaking over the smooth road like a flying comet. At times he slowed down as he approached curves, but was off again like the wind when he had rounded them. Sometimes steep hills confronted him, but the speeding motorcycle took them by storm, and topped their summits almost before gravity could act to slacken his headlong speed. Then the descent on the other side would be a wild, dizzy rush, when at time the speedometer needle reached the ninety mark.
But the country became more mountainous after a while, and Bert encountered hills that even the “Blue Streak” was forced to negotiate on low speed. This ate up gasoline, and about midnight Bert, on stopping a moment to examine his fuel supply, found that it was almost exhausted. Fortunately, however, about a mile further on he reached a wayside garage. He knocked repeatedly, but received no answer.
“Just the same, I’ve got to have gasoline,” thought Bert, and acted accordingly. With a screwdriver he pried open a window, and, filling a can from a barrel, returned to his machine and filled the tank. Then he replaced the can, and left the price of the gasoline in a prominent place.
“Needs must when the devil drives,” he thought, “and I simply had to have that juice.”
And now he was once more flying through the night, the brilliant rays from his lamp dancing and flickering on the road ahead, and at times striking prismatic colors from rocky walls as the road passed through some cut. Mile after mile passed back under the flying rider and machine, but still they kept on with no sign of slackening. Gradually dawn broke, misty and gray at first, but then brightening and expanding until the glorious light of full day bathed the hills in splendor. And then, as Bert looked up and around, slowing down so that he could the better drink in the glorious scene, he beheld, at a great distance, the roofs and towers of a great city, and knew that it was San Francisco, the golden city of the West. Sixteen days since he left New York and the goal toward which he had struggled so bravely was at hand!
But even now there was no time to be lost. At this moment, Hayward might also be approaching the city, and Bert was too wise to risk failure now with the prize so nearly within his grasp. He started on again, his mind in a whirl, and all thought of fatigue and exhaustion banished. The road was bordered by signs indicating the right direction, and in less than an hour Bert was riding through the suburbs of San Francisco.
Bert’s entrance into the city was signalized by a display of the wildest enthusiasm on the part of a big crowd that had turned out to meet the winner. The details of the thrilling transcontinental race in which he had been engaged had received their due share of space in the big dailies, and his adventures and those of the other contestants had been closely followed by every one possessing a drop of red blood in his veins.
Bert was totally unprepared for such a reception, however, and it took him by surprise. He had been through many adventures and had encountered many obstacles, but had pulled through by dint of indomitable will and pluck. But, as he afterward confessed to Tom and Dick, he now felt for the first time like running away. But he soon abandoned this idea, and chugged slowly along until at last he was forced by the press of people about him to stop.
When he dismounted he was deluged by a flood of congratulations and good wishes, and was besieged by a small army of newspaper men, each anxious to get Bert’s own account of the race. It was some time before he could proceed, but at last he started on, surrounded by a contingent of motorcycles, ridden by members of local clubs. They went slowly along, until in due time they reached the city hall. Bert was ushered into the presence of the mayor, who received him with great cordiality, and after a few words read the letters Bert handed him.
“Well, Mr. Wilson,” he said, when he had mastered their contents, “I am certainly glad to know you, and I only wish you were a native of this State. We need a few more young men of your sort.”
“I’m much obliged for your good opinion, your Honor, I’m sure,” replied Bert, and after answering many questions regarding his trip, took his departure.
Returning to the street, he mounted his machine, and, still accompanied by the friendly motorcyclists, proceeded to the hotel at which he had arranged to stop during his stay in San Francisco. Of course, Tom and Dick were there to meet him, and hearty were the greetings the three comrades exchanged.
“It hardly seems possible that I’ve won at last,” said Bert. “I wasn’t sure that Hayward hadn’t beaten me in, until I heard the crowds cheering.”
“Oh, you won, all right,” Dick assured him, “but you didn’t have much time to spare. I just heard somebody say that Hayward got in not five minutes ago. I’ll bet he nearly went crazy when he heard that you’d beaten him in spite of his crooked work.”
“Well, when I learned what kind of a fellow he was, I just had to beat him,” said Bert, with a smile.
Dick and Tom took charge of his machine, and stored it safely in the local agency, where it was immediately hoisted into the show window and excited much attention.
By the time they returned to the hotel, Bert had answered the questions of a number of newspaper men, taken a much-needed bath, and dressed.
In his well-fitting clothes, that set off his manly figure, he looked a very different person from the dusty, travel-stained young fellow he had been but a short time before, and he was delighted to feel that for a little while he was “out of uniform.”
But Tom and Dick immediately collared him, and, as he professed himself “fresh as a daisy,” took him out to see some of the town. They had not gone far before they were recognized by one of the riders who had formed Bert’s “Bodyguard” during his ride to the mayor’s office. He introduced himself as John Meyers. Nothing less than their immediately paying a visit to his club would satisfy him, they found, so at last they gave in and told him to “lead on.”
The other laughingly complied. “It isn’t far from here,” he assured them, “and if you like our looks we’ll be glad to have you stay to dinner. After that, if you’re not too fagged, a few of us will be glad to take you around and show you the sights. We’re all proud of it, and we want visitors to see it.”
“That programme listens good,” replied Bert, “and we’re ‘on,’ as far as the dinner goes. After that, though, I think I’ll be about ready to turn in. I was riding all last night, and I feel like sleeping without interruption for the next week.”
“Well, that’s just as you say,” agreed Meyers, “but here we are now. Pretty nifty building, don’t you think?”
It was indeed a handsome house into which he presently ushered them, and they soon saw that its interior did not belie its outward appearance. The rooms were large, and furnished comfortably and in good taste.
In the front room several fine looking young fellows were engaged in a laughing conversation. They broke off when they caught sight of Meyers and the three strangers with him. Introductions were soon made, and the three comrades found themselves made thoroughly at home.
Of course, the chief topic of conversation was Bert’s journey, and he answered questions until he was tired.
“Here, fellows,” said Meyers, perceiving this, “I think we’ve cross-examined Wilson enough for the present. Anyway, dinner’s ready, and we’ll see if you can eat as well as you can ride.”
“Lead me to it,” exclaimed Bert, “I’m as hungry as a wolf.”
They were soon seated around a table on which was set forth a substantial meal, and it is almost needless to say that they all did it ample justice.
During the meal the chief topic of discussion, next to Bert’s record-breaking feat, was the forthcoming race at the big saucer track, in which riders from all over the world were to compete.
Bert listened with great attention, for it was of the most vital importance to him to know as much as possible of the track on which he was scheduled to pit his skill and courage against the best and most experienced motorcyclists of the globe. Of course, he would be given ample time to practice and learn the tricks of the big saucer for himself, but his experience of life so far had taught him not to neglect even the slightest bit of knowledge that might make for success.
In due course of time the meal was despatched, and they returned to the lounging room. A couple of pleasant hours were spent in conversation and joking, and swapping tales of eventful rides under every conceivable condition of sunshine and storm.
At last Bert rose, and said, “Well, boys, I’ve certainly enjoyed my visit, but I’m afraid I’ll have to make a break” – consulting his watch. “I’ve had a mighty hard time of it lately, and I’m about all in.”
He shook hands all around, and with many expressions of friendship from the club members and amid hearty invitations to call again, Bert and his companions took their departure.
“I suppose you’ll begin practicing at the track pretty soon now, won’t you, Bert?” asked Tom, as they turned their steps toward the hotel.
“You suppose right, old timer,” said Bert, slapping him affectionately on the shoulder, “to-morrow, or maybe the day after, I’ll get down to business. I want to know that track as well as I know the back yard at home before the day of the race.”
“You can’t know too much about it, that’s certain,” said Dick, soberly. “You haven’t had much practice in that sort of racing, Bert, and I’m almost afraid to have you try it.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Bert, “why, I’ll be safer there than I would be dodging autos on Broadway, back in little old New York. Don’t worry about me. I’ll put the jody sign on all of them, provided, of course, that my machine doesn’t take it into its head, – or into its gasoline tank – to blow up, or something else along the same line.”
“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Dick, piously, “but I guess we’d better change the subject. It isn’t a very cheerful one at best.”
“You’re right, it isn’t,” agreed Bert, “but those club fellows gave me some good tips regarding the track. They seem to know what they’re talking about.”
“They’re a great crowd,” said Tom, enthusiastically, “and they know how to do things up right, too. They certainly gave us a fine dinner.”
“No doubt about it,” concurred Bert, “but it’s made me feel mighty sleepy. I haven’t slept in so long that I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how.”
“Well, here we are at the hotel, anyway,” laughed Dick, “so you’ll soon have the chance to find out.”
After a little more conversation they parted and went to their rooms.
The last thing Bert heard as he dropped off to sleep was the strident cry of a newsboy. “Wuxtra! Wuxtra! All about Wilson winning the transcontinental race. Wuxtra! Wuxtra!”
CHAPTER XVII
The Wonderful City
“And now for the Exposition,” cried Bert, as after a solid sleep and an equally solid breakfast they reached their rooms and looked out over the city glittering in the morning sun.
“For your Exposition,” corrected Tom. “Yes,” he went on, as he noted Bert’s look of surprise, “that’s exactly what I mean. For if it hadn’t been for you, when you discovered the plot to blow up the Panama Canal, there would have been no Exposition at all, or, at any rate, a very different one from this. The bands would have been playing the ‘Dead March in Saul,’ instead of ‘Hail Columbia’ and the ‘Star-Spangled Banner.’”
Nor was Tom far from the truth. Before the minds of the boys came up that night in Panama, when Bert, crouching low beneath the window of the Japanese conspirators, had overheard the plot to destroy the great Canal. They saw again the struggle in the library; the fight for life in the sinking boat in the Caribbean Sea; the rescue by the submarine and the cutting of the wires that led to the mined gate of the Gatun Locks. Had it not been for Bert’s quick wit and audacity, the carefully-planned plot of the Japanese Government to keep the larger part of the American fleet on the Atlantic side, while they themselves made a dash for the Pacific slope, might easily have succeeded, and, at the very moment the boys were speaking, the whole country west of the Rocky Mountains might have been fast in the grip of the Japanese armies. But the discovery of the plot had been its undoing. The matter had been hushed up for official reasons, and only a very few knew how nearly the two nations had been locked in a life and death struggle for the control of the Western ocean.
And now the peril was over. Never again would the United States be caught napping. War indeed might come – it probably would, some time – but America’s control of the coast was assured. At Colon on the Atlantic side and Panama at the Pacific end, impregnable forts and artillery bade defiance to all the fleets of East or West. Great navies on either side would be kept in easy reach in case of attack, and the combined land and sea forces would be invincible against any combination likely to be brought against them.
And it was this great achievement of American enterprise – the opening of the Canal – that the Exposition, now in full swing, was intended to celebrate. Its official designation was the “Panama-Pacific International Exposition.” And it was fitting that it should be held at San Francisco, the Queen City of the West, because it was of preëminent importance to the Pacific slope.
For this silver strip of water, fifty miles long, that stretched between the Atlantic and Pacific, brought the West nine thousand miles nearer to Europe by water than it had been before. The long journey round the Horn, fraught with danger and taking months of time, would henceforth be unnecessary. It gave an all-water route that saved enormously in freights, and enabled shipments to be made without breaking bulk. It diverted a vast amount of traffic that had hitherto gone through the Suez Canal. It gave a tremendous impetus to the American merchant marine and challenged the right of Great Britain longer to “rule the waves.” And, by enabling the entire naval strength of the country to be assembled quickly in case of need, it assured the West against the “yellow peril” that loomed up on the other side of the sea.
But, above and apart from the local interests involved, was the patriotic rejoicing in which all the nation shared. The American Eagle felt that it had a right to scream over the great achievement. For great it certainly was – one of the most marvelous in the history of the world. The dream of four hundred years had become a realized fact. Others had tried and failed. France with her scientific genius and unlimited resources had thrown up her hands in despair. Then America had taken it up and carried it through to a glorious conclusion. Four hundred millions of dollars had been expended on the colossal work. But this was not the most important item. What the country was proud of was the pluck, the ingenuity, the determination, that in the face of all kinds of dangers – dangers of flood, of pestilence, of earthquakes, of avalanche – had met them all in a way to win the plaudits of mankind.
In the case of the boys, this pride was, of course, intensified by the fact that they had visited the country and seen its wonders at first hand. From Colon to Panama, from the Gatun Dam to the Miraflores Locks, they had gone over every foot of ground and water. Its gates, its cuts, its spillways, its tractions – all of these had grown familiar by actual inspection. Add to this the exulting consciousness that they had been concerned in its salvation, when threatened by their country’s foes, and it can readily be imagined how eager they were to see all the wonders of the Exposition that was to celebrate its completion.
“It’s got to be a pretty big thing to satisfy my expectations,” said Dick, as they neared the grounds.
“Well,” remarked Bert, “I’ve never seen a world’s fair, but, from what I’ve heard, this goes ahead of all of them. Even the Chicago Fair, they say, can’t hold a candle to it. A fellow was telling me – ”
But just then, as they turned a curve, they came in full view of the grounds, and stopped short with a gasp of admiration.
It was a magnificent picture – a splendid gem, with the California land and sky as its setting.
A glorious city had sprung up as though by the waving of an enchanter’s wand. On every side rose towers, spires, minarets and golden domes. The prosaic, every-day world had vanished, and, in its place had come a dream city such as might have been inspired by the pages of the “Arabian Nights.” It almost seemed as though a caravan laden with silks and spices of the East might be expected at any moment to thread the courts and colonnades, or a regiment of Janissaries, with folded fez and waving scimitars, spur their horses along the road. The very names of the buildings were redolent of romance. There was the “Court of the Four Seasons,” the “Court of the Sun and Stars,” the “Tower of Jewels” and the “Hall of Abundance.” And the illusion was heightened by the glorious sunshine and balmy air that makes San Francisco the Paradise of the Western Continent.
The Exposition grounds, covering a vast extent of space, had been chosen with marvelous taste and judgment and a keen eye for the picturesque. The finest talent to be found anywhere had been expended on the location, the approaches and the grouping of the buildings, so as to form a harmonious combination of grace and fitness and beauty. It was a triumph of architecture and landscape gardening. Nature and art had been wedded and the result was bewildering and overpowering. It had never been approached by any Exposition in the world’s history.
The site was a level space surrounded on east, west and south by sloping hills. Standing on these heights, one looked down as upon a vast amphitheater. On the north it faced the waters of San Francisco Bay, the waves gleaming in the sun and the sea lions playing about the rocks of the Golden Gate. Across the Bay could be seen towering mountains, their summits alternately shrouded in a tenuous haze and glistening in golden glory.
On the harbor side was an esplanade, eighteen hundred feet long and three hundred feet wide, adorned with marble statues and gorgeous foliage and plashing fountains. Opening directly from this was the main group of palaces – fitly so called – devoted to the more important objects of the Fair. These were clustered about the great Court of the Sun and Stars. Around the Court stood over one hundred pillars, each surmounted by a colossal figure representing some particular star. Upon a huge column stood a globe, symbol of the Sun, and about the column itself was a spiral ascent, typifying the climbing hopes and aspirations of the human race. Nearby rose the splendid Tower of Jewels, four hundred and fifty feet in height, its blazing dome reflecting back the rays of the sun, while jewels set in the walls – agate, beryl, garnet and chrysolite – bathed the interior in luminous splendor.
The Court of the Four Seasons was designed to show the conquest of man over the forces of nature. The Hall of Abundance overflowed with the rich products brought from the four corners of the earth. The East and West were typified by two groups, one showing the customs of the Orient and the other exhibiting the progress made by Western civilization. Between them stood a prairie schooner, emblem of the resistless tide of immigration toward the setting sun.
“Westward the course of empire takes its way,
The first four acts already past;
A fifth shall close the drama and the day,
Time’s noblest offspring is its last,”
murmured Dick, yielding to his chronic habit of quotation.
Besides the central group of palaces devoted to machinery, invention, transportation and the fine arts, there were two other sections. One held the buildings of the various States and the official headquarters of foreign nations. The other was given over to the amusement concessions, consisting of hundreds of pavilions that catered to the pleasures of the visitors. Then, too, there was a great arena for open air sports and competitions. Scattered everywhere were sunken lakes and rippling cascades and verdant terraces, so arranged that at every turn the eye was charmed by some new delight.
But the transcendent beauty of the Fair when viewed by day yielded the palm to the glory of the night. As the dusk fell, thousands upon thousands of lights, like so many twinkling jewels, sprang into being. The splendor flashed on tree and building, spire and minaret, arch and dome, until the whole vast Exposition became a crystal dream. Great searchlights from the bay played on jets of steam rising high in the sky, in a perfect riot of changing color. The lagoons and fountains and cascades sent back the shimmering reflections multiplied a thousand fold. And beneath the witchery of those changing lights, one might well imagine himself transported to some realm of mystery and romance a thousand leagues from the Western Hemisphere and the twentieth century.
But, although the boys felt and yielded to the potent spell that the Exposition cast on those that came within its gates, they none the less devoted themselves to the wonders shown in the great buildings set apart for machinery and inventions. All of them were planning their life work on scientific and engineering lines, and they were keen for the new discoveries and appliances that were seen on every hand in almost endless profusion. Wireless telegraphy, aeroplanes, submarine and motor engines – these were the magnets that drew them irresistibly. Although they had prided themselves on keeping pretty well up to date along these lines, they were astonished to see how many things came to them now with the force of a revelation.
Before the models of the submarines they stood for a long time, as they took in every detail of the plan and construction. And with Bert’s admiration was mingled a sense of gratitude. One of these it was that had picked him up when he was battling with the waves and hope had almost vanished. Even now, he could see the saucy little vessel as it poked its nose into the entrance of the Canal and darted here and there like a ferret, sniffing the danger that it came just in time to prevent. He remembered the fascination of that memorable trip, as he stood at the porthole and saw the wonders of the sea, illumined by its powerful searchlight. But that had simply whetted his appetite, and he was hungry for further experiences. Somewhere among his ancestors there must have been Viking blood, and the haunting mystery of the sea had always called to him.
“Some day, perhaps” – he thought to himself, and then as he saw the amused expression on his companions’ faces, he realized that he had spoken out loud.
“What’s the matter, Alexander?” chaffed Tom. “Weeping for more worlds to conquer?”
“He isn’t satisfied with the victories won on the earth,” mocked Dick. “He wants the sea, too. You’re a glutton for adventure, Bert.”
“Yes,” laughed Tom, “he won’t be happy till he gets it.”
“Oh, cut it out,” retorted Bert, a little sheepishly. “Since when did you fellows set up to be mind readers?”
But they were mind readers and prophets, too, though none of them knew it at the time.
“There’s still one other field to be explored,” went on Dick, teasingly, “and that’s the air.”
“Well,” remarked Tom, “if Bert’s going to try that, too, he’d better get busy pretty soon. They’re going ahead so fast there, that before long there won’t be anything new left to do. When fellows can turn somersaults in the air and fly along on their backs, like that Frenchman, Peguod, they’re certainly getting a strangle hold on old mother Nature. The way things are moving now, a man will soon be as safe in an airship as a baby in his cradle. Look at this Bleriot monoplane;” and they were soon plunged deep in the study of the various types of flying craft.
In another department, one thing gave Bert unlimited satisfaction. Among all the motorcycles, native and foreign, before which he lingered longer than anywhere else, he saw nothing that excelled his own. His heart swelled with pride and confidence, as he realized that none of his competitors in the coming struggle would have a better machine beneath him than the “Blue Streak.” He could drop any worry on that score. If he failed to come in first, he himself must shoulder the blame.
