The Brighton Boys in Transatlantic Flight

"Br-r-r-r, but this is a chilly section of the map!"

The speaker was Jack Carew--Big Jack Carew, they had called him at Brighton. The descriptive prefix had clung to him throughout all the changes and vicissitudes of the Great War, and the indications were now that he would continue to be known as Big Jack Carew through the balance of his natural life.

And well he deserved the cognomen, for as he stood in the doorway of the little shack-like building in which he and his three comrades had spent their first night in Halifax, he showed up well over six feet in height, with a depth of chest and breadth of shoulder which bespoke tremendous strength and almost unlimited physical endurance.

Indeed, it was a fact well known to scores of men that but for Carew's possession of these two qualities, coupled with his timely arrival at a desolate and isolated spot in northern France one bitterly cold night in January, 1918, Donald Harlan would not have been alive to be in Newfoundland now as a member of the American crew which Carew captained, and which was even now making ready for participation in the first Transatlantic aeroplane contest.

The story was a somewhat old one now, but Harlan himself never tired of giving his big chum full credit for having saved his life. Harlan had been in battle with a Hun plane, and although he had come off victorious, he had sustained such damage to his own machine that he was compelled to make a speedy landing in which the law of gravity figured more prominently than did his own control over wings, elevators and rudder. The inevitable result was a smash-up, with Harlan on the very bottom of the débris. There he had lain for four hours, barely conscious, half frozen, and bleeding from a dozen serious cuts, when Big Jack Carew, out on a lone reconnoitering expedition afoot, had by the merest accident come upon him.

It was five miles from that spot to the nearest dressing station, and it was partly enemy territory at that; but Carew had carried the injured man the entire distance in no more time than it would have taken the ordinary unburdened man to do it, and the surgeons had said afterward that it was only this quick rescue work that had prevented a loss of blood which would have cost Donald Harlan his life.

No wonder that Big Jack Carew was admired, respected, loved by all who knew him, and especially so by the three other men who made up his crew.

As he stood now, after his abrupt appearance and brief remark about the Halifax weather, silhouetted in the open doorway by the meager Newfoundland dawn, the trio of lads within the one-room building looked up suddenly from their respective tasks with smiling nods of greeting.

Fred Bentner, the wizard wireless operator, who had won his right to that title by his many feats of efficiency with the radio key and earpiece, was for the fiftieth time reinspecting an expensive and highly-prized fleece-lined leather coat which had been presented to him just before the crew had left the States for the bleak Newfoundland shore from which the flight was scheduled to start.

A few feet away Don Harlan was down on his hands and knees, cramped into a most uncomfortable position, almost exhausted from blowing an auxiliary draft into the grate of a balky stove, on which Andy Flures with equal difficulty and no greater success was endeavoring to fry four husky portions of ham and eggs.

Harlan was the navigator of the American crew, while jolly Andy Flures was alternate pilot with Big Jack. The four of them made a most happy and congenial group, and at the same time an aggregation of experienced birdmen to give just cause for anxiety to the contestants of any other nationality.

"Hey, you!" Donald commanded, when he had sufficiently recovered from his arduous efforts to talk. "No charge for admission, you know. Come inside and shut the door. Permit me to give you my place. You've got more lung power than I have; maybe you can put the spark of life into this stove. If I may be pardoned for the perpetration of an innocent pun, you may thereby blow us all to a substantial refreshment of 'ham-and.'"

He arose and, with a most stately bow and wave of the hand, proffered the position of honor and place of official stove-blower to his erstwhile rescuer.

"Nothing doing," responded the huge Carew, with good-natured emphasis. "I'm no blow-hard."

Nevertheless he immediately dropped his heavy bulk to where Donald's most persuasive puffing had failed to stir the fire to even the faintest indications of enthusiasm.

"Say," queried Big Jack, when he had taken a long and judicial squint into the dull glow within the grate, "what are you trying to burn in this stove--asbestos? Pity you three poor weaklings couldn't even get a breakfast while I'm doing the early bird stuff, out scouting for the real news."

With which he settled himself in place for the first gusty blast at the grate.

"What is the news? Did you get any? Don't be selfish about it--let the rest of us hear it," they fired at him, almost in unison.

Carew merely grunted. His expanding chest burst a button from his coat, and it went bouncing across the floor to a further corner of the room. He was getting ready to go into action, was Big Jack Carew, and he never did anything half-heartedly.

"What'd you get?" demanded Donald Harlan again, impatient to know of the slightest hint or tip or bit of speculative gossip that might throw the least light upon the all-important question of when they might start upon the first aeroplane journey ever attempted across the Atlantic.

But he had scarcely uttered the query when there was a miniature explosion like the blowout of a 35x5 automobile tire under ninety pounds pressure, followed by a very audible grunt and a reflex cloud of cinders and ashes which for the moment entirely enveloped and obscured the tremendous proportions of Big Jack Carew. The first sound thereafter was a muffled gasp from that person; and when finally the ash cloud had sufficiently settled, the first view the other youths had of Carew he was pawing viciously at eyes, nose and ears with both hands.

"What'd I get?" he repeated, in genuine bad humor for the moment. "I got gas and liquid fire all in one. Don't ask me what I got. Can't you see! I think somebody touched a match to old Vesuvius. Here, one of you fellows pump this old stove. I give it too much energy."

But as he found that he still retained the vision of both eyes, that he could hear as well as ever, and could even breathe through his nose, although with some difficulty, his natural good nature asserted itself and he joined in the no-wise gentle guffaws of Andy Flures and the milder laughter of the other two.

"Holy smoke is right," Jack ejaculated; and then, improvising:

"Ashes to ashes, And dust to dust, If the Huns don't get you An old stove must."

Nevertheless, despite his unpleasant experience, Carew's efforts had been successful, and he had, indeed, imparted the spark of life to the fire. It was now crackling and blazing right merrily, to the accompanying sizzle of the frying ham and eggs. And in five more minutes the four young men were seated at table, putting those same ham and eggs beyond hope of redemption. There was nothing whatever the matter with their appetites.

"Well, you haven't yet told us what you learned while you were out scouting around this morning," Fred Bentner prompted Big Jack.

"Nothing definite, of course," Carew replied. "But everybody's here, ready and anxious for the hop-off. The Henryson people are awfully confident of the staying powers of their single-engine machine; and the Falcon crew is just as strong for that type. But I want to tell you that for both speed and endurance, as well as for safety and emergencies, I believe our dual motor hydro has got them all topped, and that, all other things being equal, we'll beat them to it when the real contest comes."

"Righto!" echoed Andy Flures.

"And may that not long be delayed," added Donald Harlan.

"Were you down to the freight station?" Fred asked, seeming naturally to take the rôle of interrogator.

"Yes, and there is some stuff there for us that came in during the night," Carew answered. "But I doubt whether our elevator will get here before tomorrow. However, there isn't any real rush, and I think we did the right thing in deciding to risk that delay in order to have that light copper binding put on. The stress of a sudden storm may prove its value."

"Sure," Donald supplemented. "No room for argument about that. But we don't want to let any other crew get the jump on us at that. There's an awful lot of satisfaction in being the first off, or at least to be among the first."

"I don't think any other crew will be able to make a get-away before we are ready," Jack assured them. "Why, I was talking to a native a while ago on that very subject. He doesn't pretend to know anything about aeronautics. He's been a whaler all his life. But he does set himself up as something of a weather sharp, and after having listened to him for quite a time I'm more than half inclined to believe that he knows what he is talking about. Weather prognostications seem to be a natural instinct with whalers, you know, and with this fellow you might call it a sixth sense."

"Well, what did he say?" Don interrupted.

"That we wouldn't get away before the end of this week, anyway, and likely not until the middle of next, if then," Jack finished.

"Yes," said Andy, "the mud's so deep in front of two of the hangars that there isn't a chance of running the machines out until it has dried off a great deal."

"Well, the ham and eggs being gone, I'm through," interjected Fred. "Let's all hustle down to the dee-po and see what Santa Claus left us during the night. I'm anxious to get our craft together, and particularly to make some necessary final tests with the radio apparatus."

"Right!" agreed Jack, surveying the table rather ruefully and becoming convinced that Fred was right about there being no more ham and eggs. "And don't make any mistakes about that wireless, either, Fred," he continued, as they all shoved back their chairs. "I've got all sorts of confidence in our plane, but nevertheless it would be nice to realize that we could let the world at large know our approximate whereabouts in case we should come down in old Father Neptune's lap, somewhere in about the dead center of the Atlantic."

"It'll be as right as every other part of our vehicle when we start," the wireless expert assured them; and with that they set off for the freight station.