There was great hilarity in the Giants’ camp that night, and this feeling was shared by the entire city. Now the Chicagos would have to take all the remaining games to win, and with Joe and Hughson pitching two of them, this seemed altogether unlikely.
Joe was on his way to the grounds the next morning to get a little preliminary practice. He just wanted to “toss up a few” to make sure that his arm was in perfect working order for the game that afternoon. He wanted to settle the thing then and there, so that the long strain would be over and the two remaining games would be simply for the sake of finishing out the schedule.
He had plenty of time, and for the sake of the walk he left the elevated train two stations this side of the Polo Grounds and walked north through Eighth Avenue. There were many vacant lots in this locality, and there were not very many people on the avenue at that hour.
He glanced carelessly at a man who passed him with his hat drawn down over his face. It struck him that there was something about the fellow that was vaguely familiar. Where had he seen that lean, sharp-featured face?
Suddenly it came to him and he turned about like a flash.
The man was Talham Tabbs!
By this time the crazy man was nearly a block away, and he too was looking back as though the recognition had been mutual.
Joe did not hesitate for an instant. Fate had thrown this chance in his way and he might never have another. He started to run and then checked himself for fear of alarming his quarry and subsided into a swift walk.
But the cunning of the insane man had seen Joe’s first movement and interpreted it correctly. He turned into a vacant lot and broke into a run.
Joe hesitated no longer at following his example; and the next moment a lively chase was on.
By the time Joe turned into the lot, Tabbs was three hundred feet ahead and running hard. But he was no match for a young man who was in the pink of condition and who was able to circle the bases in fifteen seconds flat. In less than a minute Joe was close on his heels. Tabbs turned and twisted desperately and just as Joe reached out his hand to grasp him, he dodged under his arms and doubled on his tracks. Joe swung around as though on a pivot, and in another moment his hand was on the collar of the panting man. He dug his knuckles into Tabbs’ neck and the latter ceased to struggle.
For a moment neither spoke, each trying to regain his breath. Then, to Joe’s astonishment, Tabbs grinned affably and twiddled his fingers as he had done previously in the Riverside jail.
“Hello, brother,” greeted Tabbs. “That was a good game of tag, wasn’t it? I guess I’m it.”
There was such an utter absence of malice or resentment, that Joe, who had been bracing himself for a struggle, was taken aback, and his heart smote him a little as he saw Tabbs’ friendly signal. But he was quick to follow his lead.
“I guess you are,” he laughed. “It’s just the morning for a little run. You’re certainly a dandy sprinter.”
A look of gratified vanity came over Tabbs.
“Let’s try it again,” he suggested. “I’ll chase you this time and I’ll bet you can’t get away from me.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Joe, “but first I want to rest a little. It isn’t every one who can keep it up like you, you know. Suppose we go down to your rooms and have a little talk about lodge matters first. Where are you living?”
“Up here in Amsterdam Avenue,” replied Tabbs, promptly. “Come right along.”
They walked out to the avenue, Joe cudgeling his brains as to what the next step should be. As they reached the corner, he saw one of the policemen who had been assigned to duty at the Polo Grounds. He was in citizen’s clothes and bowed cordially to Joe.
“Excuse me just a moment, while I speak to this friend of mine,” said Joe to his companion.
“Certainly,” said Tabbs, politely.
Joe led Reardon, the policeman, aside.
“Reardon,” he said, hurriedly, and in a low voice, “this man is crazy. I want you to keep out of sight but follow us. When you see us go into a house, call up the Marlborough and tell a Mr. Varley there to come up right away. Then stand guard at the door until I turn this man over to you to be sent back to the asylum he escaped from.”
“All right,” said Reardon, who had been too long on the force to be surprised at anything.
A few minutes’ walk brought Joe and Tabbs to a comfortable old-fashioned boarding house.
“Here we are,” the crazy man said, and led the way to a large room on the second floor. Joe noted in a corner a large valise with Tabbs’ initials on it.
They sat down and chatted about various things, and except for an occasional foolish remark that had no bearing on the subject, Joe would not have known that he was talking to a lunatic. Tabbs had evidently been a man of keen intelligence and wide observation. Joe kept leading him on, trying desperately to kill time till Reggie should arrive.
“If you’re rested enough now, we’ll go out and finish that game of tag,” Tabbs had just remarked, when a taxi whirled up to the door. Joe flung open the door of the room and Reggie came flying up the stairs and dashed in, followed by Reardon, who carefully closed the door and put his broad shoulders against it.
Tabbs looked in surprise at this sudden invasion of his rooms. Then he recognized Reggie and smiled genially.
“How do you do, Mr. Varley?” he said.
“Where are my securities?” demanded Reggie, breathless with excitement.
“Your securities?” repeated Tabbs. “Let me see. Perhaps I have them over here.”
He walked over to the valise, unlocked it, took out a package and looked it over.
“These must be the ones,” he continued. “They’ve been in my way for some time and I’ve thought more than once of throwing them away. I was trying to remember how I got hold of them.”
With trembling fingers Reggie thumbed the papers. Then he gave an exclamation of delight.
“Every one of them here!” he cried. “Joe, I can never thank you enough for getting them back for me.”
“Well, now,” said Tabbs, blandly, “let’s go and have that game of tag.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to let that go just now,” said Joe, rising to go. “But this friend of mine will take my place,” pointing to Reardon.
Tabbs assented cheerfully and waved a gay farewell to Joe and Reggie, as they went downstairs to the taxi, leaving him in Reardon’s custody.
“Poor old fellow!” sighed Joe, as he looked for the last time on the wreck of what had been a splendid man.
Reggie was eager to share his rejoicing with Mabel and Joe would have gone with him if he could. But so much time had been consumed that the young pitcher had no more than time to get a light lunch and hurry off to the Polo Grounds.
But when he reached the clubhouse, distressing news awaited him. A disaster had come upon the New York camp.
The great Hughson had had his arm twisted in an auto accident and was out of the game for the series!
Joe was knocked off his balance by the news. He realized at once the far reaching consequences of the calamity. He knew the panic it would create in the New York camp and the renewal of heart and hope that would come to the enemy now that their most dreaded foe was out of the running.
McRae was stamping about the clubhouse like a crazy man. Robson sat moodily in one corner, his arms folded on his breast. The players, in various conditions of undress, were white and shaken at the report that had just come over the telephone from Hughson’s house.
It was not advisable to approach McRae in his present frantic condition and Joe made his way over to Robson.
“How did it happen?” he asked. “And how bad is it?”
“So bad that it may knock us out of winning the pennant,” groaned Robson. “I don’t know anything about how it happened. Mrs. Hughson, who called us up, was so excited that she couldn’t tell us very clearly. Mac has sent for a taxi, and as soon as it comes we’re going up to Hughson’s house.”
At that moment word was brought that the taxicab was waiting, and McRae and Robson hurried toward the door.
McRae caught sight of Joe standing near.
“You come along with us,” he ordered. “Even if Hughson’s arm is hurt, his tongue and brain are probably all right, and he may be able to give you some fresh pointers on those Chicago sluggers after facing them yesterday.”
Joe was only too willing, and they bundled in. The driver, under the promise of a generous tip, made fast time on his way to Hughson’s house.
They found the great pitcher reclining on a lounge with his arm in bandages and his face drawn with pain. He greeted them with a smile that was evidently an effort.
“Come up to look at the wreck?” he inquired, as they crowded anxiously around him. “Well, I’m worth a dozen dead men yet, even if this arm of mine is on the blink.”
“In the name of hard luck,” moaned McRae, “how did it all happen?”
“Got caught between two trolley cars,” replied Hughson. “I was in a taxi on Eighth Avenue on my way to the grounds and the driver tried to cross the tracks. Thought he could just slip by between cars coming in opposite directions, but missed his guess. I might just as well have been killed as not, but all hands did their best, and I got off with a wrenched back and a strained arm.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing broken?” inquired Joe anxiously.
“Dead sure,” was the reply. “The doctor’s just got through fixing me up, and he says that there are no bones or ligaments broken. But I’ll be on the shelf for two or three weeks.”
“Two or three weeks!” groaned McRae. “And this series will be over in two or three days!”
“It’s tough luck,” said Hughson bitterly. “I’d have given my share of the World’s Series money not to have had this thing happen.”
“Just when we had those fellows on the run, too,” remarked Robson gloomily. “That beating you gave them yesterday took a good deal of vim out of them and we’d probably have cleaned ’em up today. But when they hear of this they’ll be like wild men and there’ll be no holding them.”
“I’ll trust Matson to tame them,” was Hughson’s comforting remark. “He’s as good a man at this moment as I ever dared to be.”
“Nobody’s as good as you are, Hughson,” was Joe’s answer to this generous praise. “But you can do an awful lot for me just now in giving me pointers on what to feed those fellows,” he added.
“And you’ll have to hurry,” broke in McRae, looking at his watch. “We haven’t much more than time now to get back to the grounds.”
For five minutes there was an animated discussion, and then, with a cordial goodby to Hughson, the three entered the waiting taxicab and were whirled back to the Polo Grounds.
Consternation sat on every face. The easy confidence of the night before was gone. A thunderbolt had come out of the blue. The chief prop had been knocked from under them. The easy way in which Hughson had tamed the men from the wild and woolly West had made it seem a dead certainty that he would win if he should be called on to repeat.
There was hot scurrying to and fro among the leaders. McRae and Robson, with drawn faces, were deep in discussion as to the best thing to be done. The program would have to be radically changed.
McRae came hurrying over to Joe when the latter entered the clubhouse.
“I was going to pitch you today,” he declared, “but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have to save my ace to take the last trick, if necessary. I’m going to keep you for the final. Markwith goes in today and I’ll take a chance on Barclay tomorrow. That spitter of his may fool them.”
But neither Markwith nor Barclay fulfilled the hope of their manager. The Chicagos, who were like wild men, now that they seemed to have another chance with the dreaded Hughson out of the way, batted like fiends, and the two games went to their credit by scores of seven to two and six to four. Jim had held them to a tie up to the eleventh inning, but then he faltered and they batted in the winning runs.
Now the score was even. The result of the last game would decide the championship and tell whether the flag would fly in the East or the West.
It was up to Joe. Upon his shoulders rested the fortunes of his team. Would he be equal to the task? That question was being asked in every city between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Reputation, the pennant, the chance to get into the World’s Series—all of these depended upon the skill and strength of that right arm of his.
The enormous crowd that packed the stands gave him a tremendous greeting when he came on the field and began to warm up. But in all that sea of human faces, the only one that Joe looked for was in an upper box where a handkerchief waved at him. And in the pocket of his baseball shirt a tiny glove lay close to his heart.
“How did he warm up, Robbie?” asked McRae anxiously, as the bell rang for the game to begin and Robson came back to where he was sitting on the players’ bench.
“All to the good,” declared Robson. “The ball came into my mitt almost hard enough to knock me down. They won’t be able to see them.”
For a moment, as Joe took up his position, he had a touch of stage fright. His head whirled and everything seemed to swim before his eyes. Then his vision cleared, his heart ceased its thumping, and his nerves became like steel.
“Zimmie,” the big third baseman of the Chicagos, who led off in the batting order, swaggered up to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away two of them and gripped the remaining one tightly and glared at Joe.
“Trot them out, kid,” he called, “and I’ll murder them. You’re only a false alarm, anyway.”
Joe shot the first one over for a beautiful strike and the crowd yelled in delight.
“That’s the way, old man!” sang out Larry from second. “They can’t touch you.”
The second was a ball and the next a foul. Then a high, fast one with a hop to it, eluded Zimmie’s bat and sent him back to the bench looking sheepish.
The next one up hit a slow one to short that got to first in plenty of time, and the third man closed the inning with a two-balls-three-strikes record.
A tempest of cheers compelled Joe to remove his cap as he came in to the bench.
“You’re going like a runaway horse, Matson,” said McRae. “Keep it up and the flag is ours.”
“We’ll hand you a couple of runs to start off with,” declared Larry, as he strode to the plate.
But neither in that inning nor in the next three, did the promised runs come in. Hamilton, the Chicago pitcher, was at his best, and his famous drop ball was working to perfection. It seemed as though the game were going to resolve itself into a duel between the pitchers, and the crowd held its breath as man after man went down before the rival boxmen.
“Isn’t he a wizard?” exclaimed McRae, as Joe mowed the enemy down as fast as they came to the plate. “They’re so much putty in his hands. That rise ball of his has a jump on it that’s got those fellows buffaloed. They miss it by six inches.”
“And his fadeaway,” put in Robson. “Do you see how he mixes it in with the fast ones? He’s outguessing them all the way.”
Joe’s heart was beating high with elation. The sense of mastery thrilled him. He was absolutely in control of all his curves. They broke just where he wanted them. The Chicagos knew that their only chance was to rattle him, and their coachers danced up and down on the side lines, hurling out jibes and jeers that they hoped would “get under his skin.” But they fell away from him like water from a duck’s back.
But in the fifth inning the Giants “cracked.”
Denton, at third, fumbled an easy roller and when at last he had stopped juggling the ball, he threw over the first baseman’s head and the batter got to third on the error. The fielders played close in to get him at the plate, but a “Texas leaguer” that Larry could easily have gobbled if he had been in his usual position, dropped behind him and the man on third came home for the first run of the game.
The next man up rapped a fly to right, that Curry lost in the sun, and made the round of the bases, driving his comrade in ahead of him. Three runs to the good for the Chicagos and not one of them earned!
Joe put on steam and fanned the rest of the side, but the damage had been done. In so close a game as that, three runs seemed like a winning lead.
McRae was raging, and stormed among his players like a cyclone as they came in to bat.
“Get after them!” he cried, furiously. “Give Matson something to go on. Your bats have holes in them. You’re hitting like a lot of old women. Knock the ball out of the lot. We’ve got to win.”
They made a gallant effort and got two men on bases. But although they hit the ball hard a Chicago fielder always seemed to be in front of it.
The sixth inning was full of thrills and it looked for a time as though the New Yorks would score, and score heavily.
Joe had got through the first half with nothing against him but a base on balls—a decision which led to an acrimonious discussion between McRae and the umpire in which the scrappy manager narrowly escaped being ordered off the field.
In the Giant’s half, Iredell, the first man up, was given his base on balls. McRae thought he detected signs of wobbling on Hamilton’s part and began to “ride” him from the first base side lines. Larry, who was coaching at third, ably seconded his chief, and the crowd joined in trying to make the pitcher “crack.”
Hamilton was a veteran and used to such tactics, and ordinarily they would not have affected him. But there was so much at stake on this game and the strain up to now had been so tremendous that for a moment he faltered and passed the second man.
The yells of the crowd increased at this, nor was his agitation lessened when McRae entered a vehement protest against his delivery, claiming that he lifted his foot from the ground when releasing the ball.
There was some ground for this and the umpire cautioned Hamilton, who by this time was plainly rattled. He pulled himself together, though, and made the next batter put up a high fly to short.
The next man went out on strikes and Chicago breathed more easily. But Hamilton was not yet himself and a third pass filled the bases.
The crowd was crazed with excitement now, and Meyers, the next man up, was entreated to “kill the ball” as he came to the plate.
There were “two and three” on him when at last he got the ball he wanted. It left his bat with the crack of a bullet and soared high in the air toward center. It had all the earmarks of a home run and the crowd went wild, while the three men on bases tore around them toward the plate like so many runaway horses.
On, on, the ball went as though it were going clear to the fence. But Lange, than whom there was no swifter center fielder in either of the major leagues, had started for it at the crack of the bat, running with his back to the ball and looking back over his shoulder from time to time to gauge its course. At the last second he leaped high in the air, clutched the ball with one hand, and fell to the ground, rolling over and over, but coming up still holding on to the ball.
A groan rose from the New York bench and the yells of the jubilant crowd in the stands were suddenly stilled. It was hard to have their soaring hopes so suddenly brought to earth. But it was a magnificent play, and generous applause greeted the center fielder as he came in to be hugged and pawed by his exulting comrades.
At the “lucky seventh” the crowd rose and stretched loyally but in vain. Only two more innings remained and the crowds were like mourners at a funeral.
Five minutes later they were shouting and screaming like maniacs.
It was the last half of the eighth, and the Giants’ turn had come. Larry led off with a rattling two base hit to right. Denton sacrificed him to third. Curry lined out a single to center, bringing Larry home. He stole second by a close margin. Byrnes clipped a two bagger just inside the third base line, and Willis cleaned up by lacing a three bagger between left and center. The score was tied and the crowd promptly went mad. The next two men went out in order, and the Chicagos, sore and raging, came in for their last time at bat.
But Joe felt now that he had the strength of ten. The ball shot over the plate like a bullet and not a man reached first.
“Now for the World’s Series, boys!” encouraged McRae. “Now for fifty thousand dollars! Here’s where you win it!”
But it was the tail of the batting order that was coming up now. The first two men were easy outs and then Joe came to the plate.
“It looks like an extra inning game,” was the remark that went around the stands.
Like all pitchers, Joe was only a moderately good batter and his average hovered around the two hundred mark.
Perhaps on this account Hamilton was too confident, for he took a chance and put one over “in the groove.” Joe caught it square on the end of the bat and the ball sailed far away into right over the fielder’s head.
Joe was off with the crack of the bat. He rounded first like a frightened jackrabbit and straightened out for second. The ground fell away from under his flying feet. He was running like the wind. He heard the frantic roar of the crowds, the yells of the coachers. On he went toward third, touched it and thundered down to the plate. He knew the ball was coming, he saw the catcher set himself. Twenty feet from home he launched himself into the air and slid into the rubber, just eluding the catcher’s outstretched hand.
The game was over, the Giants had won the pennant, and had put themselves in line for the great Series that would decide the championship of the world!
How they came through that ordeal will be told in our next volume entitled: “Baseball Joe in the World’s Series; Or, Pitching for the Championship.”
Joe could never quite remember just what happened for the next few minutes. The gleeful shouts of his team-mates, the rush and roar of the great crowd that surged down upon him, the tugging and pulling that seemed to be rending him apart—all this he sensed but dimly. He only knew that he was blissfully, supremely happy. He had played his part gallantly. He had made good on the Giants. He had won the flag!
But had he not won more than that? Was he not now free to speak? He touched the little glove that lay in his pocket.
He dressed as rapidly as he could and emerged with Jim into the street. He hailed a passing taxi.
“Where are you going, Joe?” asked Jim.
“Going?” repeated Joe. “I’m going straight to the Marlborough Hotel.”
THE END
UP-TO-DATE BASEBALL STORIES
The Baseball Joe Series
Author of “The College Sports Series”
12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
In this volume, the first of the series, Joe is introduced as an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and is particularly anxious to make his mark as a pitcher. A splendid picture of the great national game in the smaller towns of our country.
Joe’s great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. He got to boarding school but found it harder making the team there than it was getting on the nine at home.
From a preparatory school Baseball Joe goes to Yale University. He makes the freshman nine and in his second year becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games.
In this volume the scene of action is shifted from Yale College to a baseball league of our central states. Baseball Joe’s work in the box for Old Eli had been noted by one of the managers and Joe gets an offer he cannot resist.
From the Central League Joe is drafted into the St. Louis Nationals. At first he has little to do in the pitcher’s box, but gradually he wins favor. A corking baseball story that fans, both young and old, will enjoy.
How Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay in the box makes an interesting baseball story.
Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
The Y. M. C. A. Boys Series
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
This new series relates the doings of a wide-awake boys’ club of the Y. M. C. A., full of good times and every-day, practical Christianity. Clean, elevating and full of fun and vigor, books that should be read by every boy.
Telling how the boys of Cliffwood were a wild set and how, on Hallowe’en, they turned the home town topsy-turvy. This led to an organization of a boys’ department in the local Y. M. C. A. When the lads realized what was being done for them, they joined in the movement with vigor and did all they could to help the good cause. To raise funds they gave a minstrel show and other entertainments, and a number of them did their best to win a gold medal offered by a local minister who was greatly interested in the work of upbuilding youthful character.
Summer was at hand, and at a meeting of the boys of the Y. M. C. A. of Cliffwood, it was decided that a regular summer camp should be instituted. This was located at a beautiful spot on Bass Island, and there the lads went boating, swimming, fishing and tramping to their heart’s content. There were a great many surprises, but in the end the boys managed to clear up a mystery of long standing. Incidentally, the volume gives a clear insight into the workings of the now justly popular summer camps of the Y. M. C. A., throughout the United States.
Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
White Ribbon Boys Series
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
This new series deals with the great modern movement for temperance. Clean-cut, up-to-date stories that will please all growing boys and girls and do them a world of good.
Chester was a typical factory town with its quota of drinking places. The father of one of the boys was a foreman in one of the factories, and he advocated temperance so strongly that some of the men, urged on by an old tavern keeper, plotted so that he lost his position. One day, when partly intoxicated, the tavern keeper’s son climbs in a factory window, smashes things, and is badly burned by acid. He is rescued by the boys who are advocating temperance, who take him to his mother. When the tavern keeper sees the condition of his son, he breaks down, and confesses to the plot against the discharged foreman. Temperance wins out, and the town of Chester becomes far more prosperous than ever before.
In this tale the scene is shifted to the seashore, where the boys are having a vacation for the summer. Encouraged by the temperance work done in their home town, they join a local crusade to close the various drinking and gambling houses. They fall in with another lad, the son of a well-known drunkard of the summer resort, and do all they can to aid him. A good, clean-cut boys’ story, full of life and action, not at all preachy, but teaching the best of morals.
Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
The Motor Boys
SECOND SERIES
(Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of.)
12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
This, the Second Series of the now world famed Motor Boys virtually starts a new series, but retains all the favorite characters introduced in the previous books. The Motor Boys Series is the biggest and best selling series of books for boys ever published.
Fresh from their adventures in their automobile, their motor boat and their airship, the youths are sent to college to complete their interrupted education. Some boys at the institution of learning have heard much about our heroes, and so conclude that the Motor Boys will try to run everything to suit themselves.
A plot is formed to keep our heroes entirely in the background and not let them participate in athletics and other contests. How the Motor Boys forged to the front and made warm friends of their rivals makes unusually interesting reading.
Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
The Motor Girls Series
Author of the highly successful “Dorothy Dale Series”
12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
Since the enormous success of our “Motor Boys Series,” by Clarence Young, we have been asked to get out a similar series for girls. No one is better equipped to furnish these tales than Mrs. Penrose, who, besides being an able writer, is an expert automobilist.
Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
The Motor Boys Series
(Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of.)
12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
Every Boy’s Mechanical Library
Price, per volume, 60 cents, Net. Postage extra.
AUTOMOBILES
This is a subject in which every boy is interested. While few mechanics have the opportunity to actually build an automobile, it is the knowledge which he must acquire about every particular device used, that enables him to repair and put such machines in order. The aim of this book is to make the boy acquainted with each element, so that he may understand why it is made in that special way, and what the advantages and disadvantages are of the different types. To that end each structure is shown in detail as much as possible, and the parts separated so as to give a clear insight of the different functions, all of which are explained by original drawings specially prepared to aid the reader.
MOTORS
To the boy who wants to know the theory and the practical working of the different kinds of motors, told in language which he can understand, and illustrated with clear and explicit drawings, this volume will be appreciated. It sets forth the groundwork on which power is based, and includes steam generators, and engines, as well as wind and water motors, and thoroughly describes the Internal Combustion Engine. It has special chapters on Carburetors, Ignition, and Electrical systems used, and particularly points out the parts and fittings required with all devices needed in enginery. It explains the value of compounding, condensing, pre-heating and expansion, together with the methods used to calculate and transmit power. Numerous original illustrations.
AEROPLANES
This work is not intended to set forth the exploits of aviators nor to give a history of the Art. It is a book of instructions intended to point out the theories of flying, as given by the pioneers, the practical application of power to the various flying structures; how they are built; the different methods of controlling them; the advantages and disadvantages of the types now in use; and suggestions as to the directions in which improvements are required. It distinctly points out wherein mechanical flight differs from bird flight, and what are the relations of shape, form, size and weight. It treats of kites, gliders and model aeroplanes, and has an interesting chapter on the aeroplane and its uses in the great war. All the illustrations have been specially prepared for the work.
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
The Webster Series
Mr. Webster’s style is very much like that of the boys’ favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date.
Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors.
Price per volume, 40 cents, postpaid.
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK