“I don’t know that I want it,” explained Roy, “but I guess I’ll take it. My mother’ll be interested in it.”
The work in the aeroplane corral the next day attracted an even larger audience. But toward evening when it was understood that no flight of the car was possible before the following day, the spectators began to withdraw. An early caller was Mike, the bartender in “Joe’s” restaurant. He had a few moments’ talk with Mr. Cook, and then disappeared.
“Mike’s tired of Bluff,” said Mr. Cook, sententiously. “He’s hittin’ the trail.”
By noon the rubberized-silk plane coverings were attached to the 32-foot wing-like surfaces--the fore plane, 3 feet 9 inches, and the rear one, 3 feet 10 inches deep. Then came the bracing of the front rims of these, which was accomplished with piano wires tightened over arms extending from the upright section frames. The rear of each wing surface, left free to move at the will of the operator, was then attached to the flexing wires, which ended in the controlling stirrups at the operator’s feet.
While Roy, assisted by Weston--who persisted in giving help--finished this work, blacksmith Hagerman carefully opened the engine crate. All were in ecstasies over the engine. It had been mounted on the aeroplane in the factory, and it was not a difficult job to readjust it. Chris., the horseshoer, was enough of a mechanic to be of material assistance. By ceaseless effort, the engine was in place, the arm holding the two propellers was attached, the shaft braces and the arm braces were bolted on and the propeller chain-gears rigged up by supper time.
Mr. Cook was anxious to see the engine tested. So, in the twilight, the cooling coils and gasoline tanks were quickly mounted and everything was ready.
“Will the engine go, now?” asked the anxious manager, as this work was done. The splash lubrication, feed and oil gauges were in place and Roy had just had the joy of putting the last touch on the magneto-ignition.
Quickly adjusting his valves and gasoline supply, and testing the ignition, the proud but nervous boy gave one turn of the fly-wheel crank. With a buzz and a welcome “spit, spit” the four-cylinder motor slipped into a smooth whirr that was music to those who understood.