Ben Hardy's flying machine; or, Making a record for himself

“NOBLY REWARDED!”

“Take care—that engine is going to run wild!”

Those words, yelled out by a brawny mechanic, announced a moment of excitement in the Saxton Automobile Works, the home of the celebrated Estrelle machine.

The big steam engine of the plant had slipped the belt. There was a jar and then a crash. Then the big driving wheel of the engine began speeding like an uncontrollable monster. Clouds of steam covered the boiler room like a snow bank. The machine shop gearing snapped and vibrated, and the building began to shake from end to end.

One big man with a shout of dismay ran for the front of the shop, and disappeared through its doorway into the street. This was Jasper Saxton, the owner of the establishment. His example was followed by several of the clerks in the glass-partitioned office at the front of the building. Most of the twenty odd machinists in the shop, however, stuck to their posts.

“Danger—look out!” shouted old Caleb Dunn, the foreman.

Every man at a lathe immediately slipped the belt of his special machine. Those at the further end of the shop did not attempt this. They dodged and ran away from their posts of duty.

There was a reason for this. One end of the big shaft nearest the engine had dropped. The jar of the engine had either broken a connection of the shaft or it had slipped a bearing. At all events, the shaft had taken a sidelong swing and had struck the floor, reducing a plank to splinters. There it turned, wobbled about and slammed up and down, smashing everything that came in its way.

“Do something, men!” shouted Martin Hardy, head machinist of the auto works.

As he spoke Mr. Hardy started on a run for the rear of the machine shop, but he was anticipated. His son, Ben Hardy, had arrived on the scene just in time to take part in the thrilling event of the moment.

It was after school hours, and Ben always had free run of the plant. His father was an expert in his line and an old and valued employee, and his son, with his cheerful, accommodating ways, was always a welcome visitor with the workmen, with whom he was a general favorite.

Ben was familiar with every turn and corner of the shop. In a flash his eye took in the unusual situation as it presented itself. He guessed out the cause of the commotion intuitively.

“Don’t go, father!” he cried, seizing his father’s arm and detaining him. “I know the way.”

Ben did, indeed, know the way. A sliding iron door separated the engine room from the machine shop. Above it was an open space, and through this the steam was pouring. Ben knew that it was many chances against one that the iron door was caught on the other side. Besides this, the wobbling shaft piece was still threshing about, a formidable barrier, although the power was dying down as the connecting dismantled shafts revolved less rapidly.

In a far corner of the machine shop there was a sashless window frame. Through it Ben had clambered many a time. It was used for ventilation. It opened upon the roof of a small brick oven which was used to bake the sand cores used in the molding flasks.

Ben leaped through the aperture and landed on the roof in a second. Beyond it rolled the iron drum which ground the fine charcoal for the dust bags employed in drying the wet sand in the molding frames. This Ben cleared at a bound.

He heard a timber fall in the machine shop, and there was an ominous quaking of the staunch timbers all over the place as his feet landed on the hard cindered floor of the boiler room.

“Where is Shallock, the engineer, all this time?” murmured Ben, and running alongside of the boiler he discovered that the man was mysteriously missing from his post at a critical moment.

Through the clouds of steam fast escaping from the overheated boiler Ben made out the engineer. He knew Tom Shallock well, and was not astonished at his present condition. He knew the son of the engineer, Dave Shallock, still better. Ben had no reason to feel particularly friendly towards either, but he sought honestly to save the engineer from the loss of his position and disgrace.

Shallock sat huddled back in the big heavy armchair in which he rested between spells of alternate duty to engine and boiler. He was his own fireman, and his chair was directly in front of the furnace door. Ben ran at him and shook him forcibly by the arm, with the urgent words shouted into his ear:

“Wake up, Mr. Shallock, there’s trouble!”

But the engineer simply grunted in an incoherent way, and a half-filled bottle that had slipped from his hand to the floor told the whole miserable story.

Ben darted past the helpless man and ran down two stone steps to the engine pit. It was well that he was a boy who noticed things and usually kept his bearings well in mind, for he had to grope his way. A thrill of gladness ran through his frame as his hand finally rested on the valve wheel. Two turns, and Ben drew back gasping for breath and reeking with perspiration. The whiz of the great driving wheel lessened, the governor slowed down to a stop. Returning to the boiler room, Ben set the escape valve on the boiler and knew that he had saved the day.

Some men came running in from the molding room. One of them went to the iron door and unset its latch and rolled it open, for some one was hammering vigorously on it on the other side. It was Mr. Hardy.

“Rouse him up, quick,” spoke Ben to one of the molders, and with a motion of his foot he kicked the tell-tale liquor flask towards the ash pit.

The man laughed, winked, and with the aid of a comrade dragged the engineer to his feet. By this time Mr. Hardy had reached the spot. Pressing past him, the foreman faced the blinking engineer sternly.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Faugh!” as he caught a whiff of the engineer’s breath—“at the old trick again, eh?”

“Steam overcame me,” stammered Shallock.

The shop foreman turned to Ben.

“Did you do that?” he inquired in his sharp, crisp way, waving his hand towards the engine.

“I shut off the power—yes, sir,” replied Ben.

“What was this man doing?”

Ben hesitated and flushed up. He did not wish to tell on anybody, much less a person who disliked him and would be sure to ascribe any “peaching” to spite.

“You needn’t answer,” suddenly spoke the foreman, his keen eye catching sight of the bottle, and picking it up. “Get out of here, you,” he added disgustedly, giving the engineer a shove towards the door.

“Look here, Mr. Dunn——”

“You get!” reiterated the foreman.

Shallock began to snivel.

“See here, you may be sick yourself some time,” he declared in a maudlin tone.

“Sick!” repeated the foreman contemptuously.

“I’ve run my engine two years——”