Nothing had been further from Poke’s intention than such a wild ride as that in which he now found himself engaged.

All he had proposed was a sort of “dock trial”—to use an expression he had once employed in talking with Sam; but now, to his bewilderment and alarm, he was going to sea, so to speak. Great pains had been taken in the adjustment of the bicycle wheels under the plane, and Master Mechanic Step had been proud of their smooth running on their ball-bearings. Indeed, so well had friction been reduced that the Saracen could be wheeled about easily; but now it was all too evident that the wheeling by engine power was also easily accomplished. The push of the swiftly-whirling propeller and the slope was producing a most effective combination. The Saracen shot away from the anchorage as an arrow shoots from a bow, and then bettered the performance of any arrow by traveling faster and faster as it advanced.

Poke did his best to stop the machine—and failed signally. Perhaps in the haste of his surprise he lost his head for a moment, and managed to do the wrong thing; perhaps—and this is quite as probable—the fault lay in the mechanism. The devices for controlling the engine and the wings were still in the experimental stage; and, as it happened, were really more the products of Step’s ingenuity than of Poke’s. Unchallenged credit for the basic idea of a flying machine belonged to the latter, but practical working out of the plans had fallen more and more to his partner in the enterprise; and Step’s way of doing things was not likely to be anybody else’s way. Moreover, Step’s extraordinarily long arms and legs gave him a reach for which pudgy Poke could not hope; and all the levers and controls were adjusted to Step’s liking. Sitting in the saddle, Poke was unable to touch certain cords of high importance in the general scheme of navigation of the craft; his feet swung clear of pedals, also essential to its management. As for the levers upon which he laid hold—well, they wouldn’t work, at least, as he wished them to work. The net result of his early endeavors seemed to be merely a further quickening of the already terrifying speed of motor and propeller and of the pace of the Saracen.

The aircraft dashed down the gentle slope almost as a toboggan might slip down its chute; though its motion had a curiously buoyant quality no toboggan could claim. It was riding such as Poke had never before known. The broad planes seemed to lift it smoothly and lightly over the irregularities in the turf of the field. It swayed, to be sure, but there was something easy and graceful in the lateral motion; something almost birdlike, something which roused Poke’s hope and ambition, once his first panic passed and he discovered that he was not only still alive but also unharmed. He hadn’t intended to try to fly that day, but the feeling of “lift” was undeniably luring. He thought of the doubting Thomases who were watching his performance. He reached decision. He’d show ’em, and show ’em then and there!

He bent forward. Again he seized the levers, by which he expected to shift his planes for the rise clear of earth. He tugged valiantly. Nothing happened. He threw all his strength into another effort—and something did happen! Nothing but the back of the seat saved him from tumbling bodily from the machine, as one of the bars of wood broke short off under the strain.

Poke recovered his balance by a mighty effort. Also he strove to keep his wits about him. Plainly, he could not fly. Seemingly, he could not stop the motor. It was behind him, and placed low down in a peculiarly inaccessible spot. Even the long-limbed Step, in cranking it, had been forced almost to crawl under the machine, while as for reaching it from the seat—that was wholly out of the question. The so-called safety devices of Step’s contrivance were out of commission. Poke, summarizing his situation, set his jaw stubbornly. If he couldn’t fly and couldn’t stop, he might at least be able to steer the Saracen and circle the big field to the edification of all beholders; and trust to luck to halt the motor sooner or later.

Now, the Saracen’s rudder might have been mightily effective in mid-air—this was a matter fated to be left in uncertainty—but it was poorly calculated to guide a runaway machine on the ground. It was a small trailing plane, set vertically. Poke’s attempts to adjust it were in vain, at least so far as securing the desired effect. The Saracen merely lurched to one side; then swung back, dipping its wing deeply; regained an even keel, but began to zigzag in most distressing fashion. Poke again was almost thrown from his seat, and was glad to cling for support to the uprights of the framework. The truth burst upon him that he was purely a passenger on this amazing voyage of his.

Every voyage has to end. Poke began to wonder most apprehensively how this would end. He had read accounts of tremendous speed made by ice-sleds equipped with propellers working in air; but, of course, the big field was not an icy expanse. The pace he was making suggested ice-records—at least, to his fancy—but so far it had been due in part to the slope. Just before him was an almost level stretch. Then came a slight rise, to a low stone wall bordering the road. It occurred to him that it would be very evil fortune to strike that wall.

It must be understood that things had been happening very rapidly for Poke, and very little time had elapsed since he shot away from his friends. It was a mere matter of seconds till he was crossing the level, and beginning to mount the low ridge. There was a diminution of speed, but it was not a marked diminution; and he saw with terror that the Saracen’s momentum would not be checked before the wall was reached.

Then, in hot haste, he did anything and everything he could in a desperate, last chance effort. But the engine roared as violently and rapidly as ever; indeed, he seemed to have contrived to rouse the ancient mechanism to a frenzy of energy. The planes dipped and rose with the swaying of the monster. There was a queer, sidewise lunge; then, swiftly, a bewildering change. A thrill ran through Poke. Of a sudden, the motion of the craft had become smooth, buoyant, marvelously exhilarating. The vibration of the motor remained, but there was no longer the jar of wheels on uneven ground. He could still see the threatening wall, but it was no longer before him, barring the way. It was beneath him. He was vaulting it with a dozen feet to spare. The Saracen was flying!

That second was like no other Poke had known.

Wonderful elation filled him. Forgotten in the glorious instant were his past labors and the uncertainties of his immediate future. Where were the doubters and scoffers now? What wouldn’t the most cynical and pessimistic among them give to be able to share that triumph of flight achieved! His faith was justified; Step’s ingenuity was confirmed by practical performance. The Saracen was in flight!

No dream of Poke’s had ever been more delightful—and no dream could end more speedily than this fleeting jubilation.

The Saracen had risen; now the Saracen fell. In truth, the machine’s performance suggested a tremendous bound rather than soaring; and Poke hardly had grasped the amazing fact that he was going up before the equally important circumstance was impressed upon him that he was coming down. There was nothing for him to do. He was merely a passenger. He was aware of a sharp swerve of course to the left. Instead of a high barrier of trees before him, there was an opening—and the opening was the highway. By sheer good fortune the change of direction in mid-air had saved him from crashing into the further bank, and had brought him into the road leading toward the lake. He felt the jar as the wheels again touched the ground, and came to understanding of what was happening, even if he had no clear notion of how it had been brought about. As by a miracle he was in the road, and traveling at a great pace, the gentle slope of the country lakeward doing its part in promoting his sensational progress.

And what a startling performance it was! Picture a quiet country road, of a sudden invaded by a fiercely panting monster, a sort of winged dragon, rushing along in a tumult of uproar and stirring dense clouds of dust in its passage; the tips of its wings brushing the trees on either hand. Poke, deafened by the whir of the propeller and the savage detonations of the motor, clung to his seat and closed his eyes that he might not behold the perils lurking in his path. What would happen if he met a heavily loaded wagon, or overtook one of the big trucks carrying lumber to the new settlement? Or suppose some rash motorist was speeding toward him! Suppose——

But there was no need to worry himself with conjectures. The real thing impended. Something made him open his eyes. A big touring car was turning a bend in the road just ahead of him. In a flash he recognized the man at the wheel—Lon Gates. In another, he was aware that by some marvel of dextrous steering Lon had shot his car into the ditch, that the Saracen’s wing was grazing his head, that by a miracle a collision had been avoided. Poke couldn’t have seen it, but, somehow, he knew that Lon, wide-eyed with amazement, was staring after the swirl of dust in which the strange chariot was roaring along.

What Lon said Poke couldn’t know. But the words were these:

“Jee-whillikens and Jupiter crickets! Talk about a Scary Hen! A million old biddies cacklin’ and runnin’ from a hen hawk wouldn’t be a marker to that there crazy road rioter! But what’s Poke thinkin’ he’s tryin’ to do? And where’s he supposed to be headin’ for? Way he’s takin’ up the whole road and then a leetle more he’s bound to have trouble and a heap of it mighty quick and enthusiastic! Guess I’d better be follerin’ along, so’s to be able to help pick up the pieces.”

And with that Lon threw on his power, turned the big car about, and hurried in the hazy wake of the Saracen.

Poke, meanwhile, was continuing his wild ride, keeping the road by some freak of fortune. The slight but steady fall in the grade was making amends for any eccentricities of conduct on the part of the ancient motor, which, it must be confessed, was beginning to betray some of its weaknesses. It was missing fire now and then; but, curiously, the breaks seemed to make the uproar all the greater and more ear-splitting. It sufficed, at any rate, to give warning of his approach to a woman, who had been driving tranquilly toward town. Poke, sweeping along, had a glimpse of a frightened horse plunging through a wayside thicket, of a white-faced driver plying a whip frantically, of a buggy careening dizzily. Then his second escape from collision had been made and he was dashing through woods, and praying that the sidewise plunge he believed to be inevitable would not come until he was again in open country.

The snorting of his motor was more irregular—and a bit more terrifying. The whir of the propeller appeared to grow shriller. The “lift” of the machine was less noticeable. One wing, indeed, had suffered much damage at its tip by contact with branches, and on the other side there was an observable sag of the planes. Something had gone wrong astern—just what the trouble was he could not discover. Not that it mattered, though. By this time he was ready enough to let the Saracen go to the scrap-heap, if only he could escape with his life.

He was coming, now, to the border of the wooded tract. Through the trees to the left he had brief sight of the gleaming blue water of an arm of the lake. At that his courage rose a bit. He could swim. If the machine ended its runaway career in the depths, he would fare well enough, if he could avoid going down with the ship. It behooved him to make sure that he would not be caught by parts of the machine if he tried to jump. He bent forward, he strove for firmer footing on the cross braces. And then——

The ending of the Saracen’s dash was as sudden as its beginning. A lurch to the right was not followed by recovery. Instead, the machine held its new course, left the beaten track of the road, plunged into a tangle of undergrowth, which served as an efficient, if painful, brake. Thorns raked Poke’s arms and tore his clothes, just as branches ripped the planes to ribbons and saplings, bending before the machine’s charge, yet contrived to check it. The broken roar of the motor ceased; the whir of the propeller died away. In a second or two the monster of the road was stripped of all terrors, and lay in the midst of a tangled heap of debris, half contributed by its own parts and half by the brush and vines it had uprooted.

Poke had pitched forward from his saddle. Indeed, it was as if a giant arm had picked him up and tossed him bodily through another clump of dense undergrowth—and thereby supplied him with a sort of natural shock absorber. There was a tremendous cracking and crashing of small branches and twigs; and from the farther side of the thicket Poke rolled out upon the ground, shaken from head to foot, bleeding from a score of scratches, his garments fit only for the rag-bag. Yet almost miraculously he had escaped serious harm. Not a bone was broken. He might be sore and aching from forehead to toe, but all his wounds were superficial. He could raise himself on hands and knees, and this he did. Instead, though, of attempting to get upon his feet, he remained as he was for a moment, staring in amazement at the sight which met his eyes.

Poke, as it happened, had been catapulted into a tableau, so to speak, in which Zorn and Hagle figured. Apparently, the noisy approach of the Saracen had interrupted Zorn in the process of disciplining the smaller boy; for he still held Hagle by the collar, while with his victim he gazed spellbound at the picture presented by Poke in the rôle of the human projectile.