As the gas rushed into its container, the folds started to round out, and in fifteen minutes the bag began to assume its cylindrical shape. Before the machine became too buoyant, however, Jack and Tom secured it to the ground by the anchors, the “trip-lines” of which were led on board. Then the work of filling went on, and soon the Flying Road Racer—a “Road Racer” no longer—was tugging at her bonds.
“All right,” announced Jack, after a while, and they prepared to “cast off.”
But just as they were about to pull on the triplines and release the anchors, there was a sudden commotion on the road behind them. They looked around and saw a farmer approaching in a small wagon drawn by a dilapidated-looking mule. The mule was careering about, and evidently objected to coming closer to the weird-looking structure—half auto, half flying machine—that was drawn up in the road in front of it.
“Whoa, thar, you obstreperous critter!” shouted the farmer, getting out and hitching his refractory animal.
This done, he came rapidly toward the boys and their—to him—extraordinary machine.
“Waal, what under ther sun be this yar contraption?” he demanded, gazing curiously at the big balloon bag which was swaying and tugging at its bonds.
“It’s a sort of flying machine,” rejoined Jack, repressing an inclination to laugh; “didn’t you ever see one before?”
“Ya’as, I seen one at ther country fair, but it warn’t nuthin’ like this yar.”
“If you’ll wait a minute you’ll see us fly,” said Jack; but the former didn’t seem to hear him.
The countryman’s eyes were riveted on the notice concerning the bridge.
“Gosh all hemlock!” he exclaimed, in a vexed tone, “if that ain’t jes’ ther peskiest kind er luck. I suppose ther crick has swolled frum ther rain an’ ther old bridge has busted at last. Consarn it all!”
“Isn’t there any other bridge?” asked Mr. Jesson.
“Ya’as, but it’s ’bout a mile further daown, and a roundabout way ter git thar, and I’m in a hurry. Yer see Betsy Jane is mighty sick, and I’m goin’ arter ther doctor.”
“Where does he live?” asked Jack, imagining that Betsy Jane must be the farmer’s wife.
“’Cross ther crick a piece. Consarn it, what am I goin’ ter do?”
“Tell you what,” said Tom, “we’ll take you over in our machine, and bring you and the doctor back. You can leave the mule tied here.”