Frank Reade, Jr., Fighting the Terror of the Coast

Toward the close of a cool, pleasant day in September, 18—, the residents of the village of Readestown were startled by seeing a horseman come dashing furiously into the town.

He was a middle-aged man, with dark, swarthy features, piercing black eyes, a black mustache and dark hair. His slender figure was clad in the costume of a native Mexican, and he rode like an expert.

The man bestrode a fine, swift bay mare, and as he went thundering through the main street enveloped in a cloud of dust at the top of the mare’s speed, he attracted considerable attention.

The horse finally paused before a palatial mansion, out of the gate of which a beautiful young woman was coming, and the Mexican politely raised his sombrero and asked in good English:

“Senora, can you direct me to the home of Frank Reade, Jr.?”

“This house is his residence,” replied the lady, curiously eyeing the man.

“Ah! Thank you! Do you know if he is in?”

“He has gone away.”

“Gone!” gasped the man in startled tones.

“Half an hour ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I should know, as I am his wife.”

“But he will return soon?” eagerly asked the man.

“No; perhaps not for several weeks.”

“Dios mio! How unfortunate for me! The train I came on from Boston broke down a league from here, and in my haste to reach this place in season to catch him ere he departed, I hired this horse and came in the saddle.”

“What a pity you arrived too late!”

“Yes, indeed; for it is with me a matter of life or death.”

“I am astonished.”

“He has, of course, gone in his new flying machine?”

“Exactly so, sir.”

“When I landed from Mexico I read in the daily paper that he had finished his marvelous invention, and intended to make a trial trip in it this evening.”

“Was your business important, sir?”

“Very. So much so that I came all the way here from Mexico to see him in relation to his new air-ship.”

“I am very sorry you failed to get here in time.”

“You have no idea of my own anxiety, senora.”

“Perhaps I might direct you so you could find him.”

“Do so, and I shall be very grateful indeed.”

“Well, the machine ran against the wind, which blows from the southwest, and made a successful ascension. The last I saw of it it was heading due southwest of here. Just five miles away in that direction lies the town of Foxhall, at which Frank intends to pause awhile to examine the air-ship and see how it stood the initial test. By going there with all speed, you might reach him before he sends the air-ship aloft again.”

“Thank you a thousand times. I shall try the plan.”

And doffing his hat to her again, he started his mare off in the indicated direction at a furious gallop.

Off sped the gallant beast, watched by the wife of the inventor of the flying machine, and he soon reached the open prairie and urged his steed along at a breakneck pace.

The Frank Reade, Jr., in question was a famous inventor of steam, electrical and mechanical inventions of various kinds.

He had completed building the greatest air-ship he had ever conceived of, and had added a crown to the glory of his great talent.

The inventor was then a mere youth in years, and had as companions on his pleasure trip two tried and trusted friends.

One was a rollicking Irishman, with a good-natured, freckled face, a red head, and a devil-may-care disposition, named Barney.

The other was a short darky, with long arms and a comical face, who answered to the name of Pomp.

The Mexican knew all about the three, as the newspapers of the period frequently referred to them in relation to the journeys they had made together in former inventions which Frank had conceived.

He rode along at a pace that was bound to kill his horse if he maintained it too long, and kept his burning, eager glance fixed upon the sky in expectation of seeing the strange invention.

It was a long ride, and to the rider it seemed to occupy ages.

“I shall—I must see him!” he muttered, desperately, as his mare sped over the broad expanse of prairie. “If Frank Reade, Jr., will do as I ask he shall be rewarded with a treasure which must surpass that of a king. Oh, my poor little boy! He will certainly be sacrificed by the Terror of the Coast if the inventor refuses to aid me in rescuing him!”