Chapter XVIII: Ten Gallons of Air

Johnny’s first visit on the following morning was at the old mill. He found Donald Day busy as usual, compressing liquid air.

“Glad to see you, Johnny,” were his welcoming words.

“Thanks,” Johnny grinned. “Had a bolt of lightning from the blue sky yet?”

“Not yet, Johnny, but soon,” Donald smiled a mysterious smile.

“How’s the chance of helping you?”

“Fine, Johnny, when the time comes. Just now though, there’s something else you might do.”

“What’s that?” Johnny was ready for anything.

“Got something for the aviator down there in the valley. Want to take it?”

“Sure do!” Johnny’s reply was full of enthusiasm. “He helped us take your grandfather to the hospital. Never forget that.”

“We sure won’t, Johnny. Just now he wants some liquid air. This is the tenth order I have received from him. He wants ten gallons. It’s ready, so if you’ll take it down, you’ll be doing me a great favor.”

“Liquid air,” said Johnny. “What does he want with liquid air?”

“Don’t know. Going to peddle it, like as not. Good profit in it. And an airplane’s the thing for carrying it. Gets it there quick so there’s little loss by evaporation.”

“Mebby that’s it,” Johnny agreed. Down deep in his mind, however, he did not agree. He had quite another notion, a very startling notion it was too.

“More foot-pounds of energy,” he muttered as he went on his way. “Wonder if that could be true.”

“Good!” exclaimed the young aviator, as, an hour later, Johnny appeared with a two wheel cartload of liquid air. “I’m just wanting that.”

“So you’re really going to use it?” Johnny grinned. “I thought so.”

“Going to use it,” the man stared at him. “Sure I am! Why not?”

“Donald thought you might be going to peddle it.”

“Not I,” the aviator laughed. “I’ll be using a lot of it. Want to stay and watch me?”

“Sure I do!”

Ten minutes later, Johnny found himself looking at the strangest airplane motor he or anyone else had even seen.

“And does it really use liquid air for fuel?” he asked.

“Sure it does!” The aviator had reached for a small jug of liquid air. “Watch and see. Liquid air and carbon, that’s what she eats.

“You put the liquid air in here and the carbon here. The mechanism mixes it and throws it into the combustion chambers in just the right quantity.

“I’ve had a tough time,” he straightened up. “Liquid air was so cold it froze up all my lubricants. But I’ve solved that. Got two sets of feeders. One set is being thawed out by the exhaust while the other’s working. Going to be great now. Stick around until I get the motor hooked up and we’ll take a ride on air—liquid air.” He laughed a joyous laugh.

“But say!” His voice changed. “Tell that boy up at the mill that his grandfather is much better. Got that word on my short wave wireless. He’ll be coming home soon. Fine thing. Great old man!”

“Never was any finer,” Johnny said huskily. “He’s done a lot for these people. He helped them to make a living. On Sunday he talked to them like a father. He told the ones who have been doing a lot of fighting—”

“Feud fighters?”

“Yes, feuds. He told them they couldn’t do it and be good citizens.”

“Right too, exactly right.” The aviator reached for a pair of pliers.

“Now!” his tone changed. “Just give me a lift shoving this thing into place and we’ll be away before you know it.”

A half hour later the airplane rose above the meadow and soared away. It was a trial flight and the stout little ship was handled with greatest care. They climbed far up into the blue sky but never was the narrow meadow out of their sight. Johnny knew enough about flying to realize that from that height, even though their motor went dead, they could go gliding down to a safe landing.

“Working perfectly,” he shouted in the pilot’s ear.

Just then, as if to give the boy a shock, the motor let out a sudden pop-pop-pop. The aviator, after touching a lever, tapped his head with his knuckles as much as to say:

“Knock on wood.”

A half hour later they came soaring back to earth. “She’s working.” The pilot heaved a sigh of content. “Two or three more days and I’ll be ready to cross the continent. Tell that boy at the mill to freeze me up a good lot of liquid air.”

“All right, I’ll tell him,” Johnny agreed. “It’s—it’s wonderful!” he cried. “Riding through the air with only air and carbon for fuel. Is it practical, a truly great thing? Will people everywhere be using liquid air for airplane fuel before long?”

“No-o,” the pilot replied slowly. “I’m afraid not. Fuel that costs two or three dollars a gallon is hardly practical. Besides, there may be other drawbacks that haven’t appeared yet. How will the steel parts stand freezing and thawing? Things like that.

“I’m afraid it’s just a sort of sporting proposition,” he added. “Anyway, I’m just sort of playing at it.

“There’s this much about it though,” the drawl left his voice. “On a very long trip it would be wonderful, this liquid air fuel! It has more power per pound than any fuel you can carry. And that means more miles. I shouldn’t wonder,” he grinned broadly, “but that if they get this stratosphere flying worked out perfectly, some fellow will one of these days load his motor with liquid air and circle the globe in a non-stop flight. I—I’ll take you on a regular trip some of these days.”

“But not around the world,” Johnny chuckled.

“No. Not quite yet.”

Truth was, this “regular trip” was to be taken much sooner than they imagined, and for a very important reason.

“Guess I better get going,” Johnny said.

“All right. Don’t forget to tell that boy about his grandfather.”

Johnny did not forget. He hurried away at once to break the good news.

“Thanks,” Donald smiled his gratitude when the message had been delivered. “That takes a load off my shoulders. Now, perhaps I can get my mind on other things.”

“What things?”

“Old Uncle Mose and Blinkey Bill come first,” Donald’s brow wrinkled. “Blinkey Bill claims he owns the coal rights on Uncle Mose’s land. He’s stopped him mining coal there. Old tight wad! That’s making things hard for Uncle Mose. No coal to mine. Poor old Mose and his wife will starve. Think of it, the oldest couple in the mountains! You’d think—”

“There’s nothing fair about it,” Johnny broke in. “I doubt if Blinkey Bill owns the coal rights on that land. If he does, his father got it by some sharper methods that Uncle Mose didn’t understand. And Uncle Mose didn’t get a thing for it, you can be sure of that.”

“Thing is,” Donald turned to Johnny, “you and Ballard have got to play your part, sort of work up the psychology, my professor would say. This evening,” his voice dropped, “just before dark, you boys just happen by Blinkey Bill’s house and stop to talk. He’ll say:

“‘Jest come up and set a while and rest yourself,’ he always does. So you just go up and set.” He laughed a low laugh.

“And while you set,” he went on, “you start talking about Uncle Mose, what a hard time he has, how old he is and how wicked it would be if any one would take a mean advantage of him. Just get Blinkey Bill to feeling about as low down as the hind leg of a glow worm.

“Then just casually,” he took a long breath, “just slow like, as if it sort of occurred to you, say something about how deadly lightning can be, especially when it comes out of a clear sky.

“The sky’s going to be real clear tonight,” he added as if it were an afterthought.

“Yes,” Johnny agreed, guessing he knew what would happen. “It’s going to be uncommonly clear.”

Sometime later, an hour after darkness had fallen, Johnny and Ballard found themselves seated on hickory-bottomed chairs on Blinkey Bill’s porch. They had been there for some time and had talked considerable, especially about poor Uncle Mose. Blinkey Bill had listened and as he listened, had appeared to shrink deeper and deeper into his chair. When, however, Johnny said quite suddenly:

“It sure is queer about lightning—the kind that comes out of a clear sky!” Blinkey Bill sat up quite suddenly.

“What’s that you all are a sayin’?” he demanded.

“I said it’s queer about lightning out of a clear sky.”

“I don’t believe there ever was any,” Ballard put in.

“Sure there were!” Blinkey Bill’s eyes were popping. “I saw hit my own self. Knocked me down. Might nigh kilt me, it did. I—”

He broke short off. His eyes shone like stars as he stared at the crest of the mountain, for there, sharp and distinct against a clear, black night sky, a flash of light went zig-zagging away. It was followed ten seconds later by a low, rumbling roar.

“Lightnin’! Lightnin’ out of a clear sky!” The look on Blinkey Bill’s face at that moment was a terrible thing to see.

“It does sort of seem like lightning,” Johnny said quietly.

“Seem like!” Ballard had not been let into the entire secret. “It IS lightning!”

“Shore! Shore hit’s lightnin’!” Blinkey Bill was trembling like a cottonwood leaf in a high wind.

Once more there came the zig-zag flash across the sky. This time the roar that followed was fairly deafening.

“Hit’s judgment!” Blinkey Bill mumbled. “Judgment of the Lord almighty!”

“What you all been a doin’?” Ballard asked, dropping into native speech.

“Nothin’. Not nary a thing! I tell you nary a thing!” Blinkey Bill fairly screamed these words.

“How about Uncle Mose and his coal mine?” Johnny suggested softly.

“That no-count old—” Blinkey Bill broke off. Mouth open, eyes staring, he once again took in that terrifying spectacle that, so far as he knew, was a special act of God, a bolt from the blue.

“Tell you the truth,” he was fairly whimpering now. “Fact is I ain’t for sartin’ sure my Pappy bought in them coal rights.”

“Then,” suggested Johnny, “you better let Uncle Mose mine his coal.”

“I reckon as how I orter do that,” Blinkey Bill agreed.

“Wait. I’ll write it out.” Johnny drew pencil and paper from his pocket and pretended to write. Truth was he and Donald had carefully prepared the release on Uncle Mose’s coal rights hours before.

“There,” he exclaimed at last. “You sign right there.”

“Now wait a leetle,” Blinkey Bill began to hedge. “I ain’t plumb sure fer sartin that—”

Just then the most dazzling flash of all zig-zagged its way across the blue-black sky. It was followed at once by a terrific roar.

“Here! Here!” Blinkey Bill’s voice trembled so he could scarcely speak. “Here! Gimme that air paper. Hit’s proper to sign hit, plumb proper.”

So the paper was signed. The boys departed and old Uncle Mose’s coal mine was saved for all time.