Chapter IV

West of the Palisades the Jersey country rises in slow undulations like the swell after a storm in mid-ocean.

The village of Dumont is perched upon one of the highest of these hills, the top of which is flattened into a well tilled plateau.

At full speed the Phillips' auto swept through the town of Tenafly northward along the country road, took a cross road on the bias, tore through the village of Cresskill and disappeared to the west where the Dumont plateau spread level with the wooded tops of the distant Palisades.

Behind it came a roaring cloud of dust and gasoline fumes. Boston Willie clung to the wheel, steering the machine more by instinct and faith in the luck of careless youth than by the use of his keen young eyes, for his goggles were encrusted with oily earthflakes torn up by the car ahead.

The two machines fairly leaped to the Dumont plateau. The Phillips' car turned into the farm road of Peter Westervelt and the one behind kept on its way to the farm of Guy Verdon, an ancient native with broad acres and whiskers.

In two big barns a quarter mile apart Angelo and Willie got busy twanging the fine wires that held widespreading wings to the hollow steel piping frames of two air machines.

It was an early spring afternoon toward the time of the coming of dusk and where the fields were not turned up by the husbandman they showed goldenwide with dandelions and buttercups.

White clouds were piled in the eastern sky and a faint touch of gold tipped the scrollery of their edges, for the sun was dipping toward the western hills. The air was still save for the evening songs of the robins.

In the Westervelt barn Angelo tied a bit of string about the nifty walking skirt of Ione, hobbling her for safety's sake and not for fashion's. She took her seat behind the little perch of the aviator and Angelo wheeled the machine to a stretch of clover.

From the Verdon barn Willie Winthrop wheeled his monoplane to a stretch of level which a farmer had cleared of every stick and stone. Then Willie climbed to the hayloft and scanned the Westervelt field through a pair of field glasses. He saw a rival biplane in position and heard its exhaust snapping dully in the distance. He clambered down the ladder and jumped into his seat in the monoplane.

"When'll ye be back, young man?" asked the old farmer.

"God knows," replied Willie. "This is--ah--only my second flight and I have far to go."

"Don't be a danged fule now, son," said the Jerseyite kindly.

"Ha!" laughed Willie.

"Any of them flying men git killed down at the city to-day?" asked Verdon.

"Not a one," replied Willie, scanning the heavens above the Westervelt farm. "Four landed on the decks of the Italian warship and are now safely stowed below."

The ruffle of propellers sounded across the fields and the biplane with the elopers soared aloft.

Willie gave a warning, threw on his power, took firm hold of his steering levers and was off in pursuit through the air.

Like two great dragonflies the air machines soared in a southeast course. They crossed the Palisades and steered to the south above the gleaming Hudson.

The biplane soared higher and higher in the air, Angelo knowing that he would thus avoid the counter currents of air made by the skyscrapers of downtown New York. Willie's monoplane, like a swallow, soared in his wake.

The gold touching the clouds in the east had deepened to crimson. The evening star was pallid in the skies and far over to the northeast the lights of Coney, Brighton and Manhattan winked in the sunset shadows beneath a crescent moon.

The Italian Cruiser _Il Vincitore_ had already drawn anchor and was lying, with just enough steam in use to keep her motionless, at the mouth of the Ambrose channel. She was ready to start under full speed for the other side.

The biplane headed for it, dipped, made several wide circles and landed lightly on the aeroplane deck where a swarm of sailors were ready to catch it and hold it fast.

Three pillars of black smoke shot from the funnels of the war vessel as she got under way, gathering a great bone in her teeth as her speed increased.

Above and around her soared Boston Willie in his monoplane.

Thousands of commuters crowding the ferryboats watched, fascinated. They could hear the hum of his propellers.

Nearer and nearer the winged thing circled to the cruiser. With a last downward dip it swept around the fighting masts and then landed on the deck of the speeding vessel.

"Good Lord; what a feat!" cried a harbor skipper. "That birdman must be a lunatic!"