Chapter XIV: Dastardly Work

Ping was a badly demoralized Chinaman. He had watched, with soulful admiration, every flight Matt had made; he had swelled out like a toad every time the work of his master was applauded in his hearing; and he crept around Matt as though he was a joss--a wizard more superhuman than a mere mortal.

But the _June Bug_ seemed to have become a part of the Chinaman. He gloated over it, he patted it affectionately, he crooned strange gibberish to it, and he kept watch of it while in the air and on the ground as though it was the apple of his eye.

After Matt had finished his last flight before the Tuesday trials, Ping crept off into the woods by himself, dipped some water into a small china bowl, and dropped into it a cake of India ink. Then he stirred the ink until it was dissolved, found a big, smooth bowlder that answered for a table, and squatted down beside it.

First, he placed the china bowl on the bowlder; next, he brought from the breast of his blouse a camel's-hair brush, and half a dozen strips of rice paper; then, on each strip of paper, he began painting potent prayers.

Having finished his peculiar labors, he threw the little bowl into the lake, hid the slips of rice paper under the bowlder, put the brush in his pocket, and sneaked back to Camp Traquair, arriving just in time for supper.

That night Matt went to bed early, and McGlory soon followed him. The _June Bug_, drawn up to the left of the tent, looked like a ghost in the gathering dusk. Around her were the four armed and alert guards.

Then, again, Ping stole away to the bowlder. On its flat top he started a little fire of dried twigs, and one by one he dropped the slips of rice paper into the blaze.

When the last prayer was consumed, and the fire had died down to a little heap of white ashes, Ping felt that he had done everything possible to insure Motor Matt's safety and success.

It was nearly midnight when he stole back toward Camp Traquair. He saw a little glow of light in the vicinity of the aëroplane, and he wondered what it could be. Creeping forward, he investigated, and laughed at himself for his fears.

The guards had secured a lantern, and, in its light, they were smoking and playing cards on a blanket.

With the idea of curling up under one of the wings of the _June Bug_ and passing the night near the machine, Ping made a wide detour around the soldiers, and started toward the aëroplane from the other side.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a crawling form moving back and forth, now showing darkly against the white canvas of the planes, and now vanishing in the deeper shadow under them.

Presently he heard a queer, rasping note, as of a file biting into steel. In a second he knew what was going on.

Siwash Charley was meddling with the aëroplane--was weakening it here and there so that an accident would be certain on the following day.

With his heart in his throat, the Chinese boy arose to his feet, and started toward the soldiers, his lips framing a cry.

But the cry was never uttered.

Ping had not taken two steps toward the guards before he was felled by a cruel blow from behind, and a black, impenetrable pall dropped over his brain.

"Begorry, what was thot?" exclaimed Sergeant O'Hara, starting up from his seat on the ground and looking toward the machine.

"What's the matter with you, sarg?" asked one of the others.

"I've a notion, d'ye moind, thot I heard somethin'," answered O'Hara.

"Your wits are woolgatherin', old man," said another of the men.

"I'll make sure av it, annyways," averred the sergeant.

Taking the lamp, he walked over to the aëroplane, and looked under it, inside it, and all around.

"Iverything's all roight, so far as I can see," he reported, coming back to his comrades, "but divil another card do I play this noight. To yer posts, iviry wan o' ye, an' we'll kape our eyes peeled. Th' leftinnint an' Motor Matt sail in thot machine to-morrow, an' there's a rumor thot Siwash Charley was seen in Divil's Lake City th' day. Cut out th' card playin', b'ys. We've done too much of it already."

In the shadow of the woods, three men were carrying a senseless Chinaman.

"Let's toss him inter the lake, Siwash," suggested one of the men.

"What's the good, hey?" answered Siwash. "We'll rope an' gag him. He'll not be found till too late, an' mebby he'll never be found."

"But if he saw you, an' recognized who ye was----"

"He didn't; he didn't have time. Put the ropes on him. Twist a cloth into a gag, Pete."

"The lot o' us would swing fer this if it's ever found out," demurred Pete.

Ping opened his eyes before the scoundrels had left him. He recognized Siwash Charley by his voice, and he saw his face by a ray of moonlight that drifted in among the trees.

Ping tried to cry out, but his lips were sealed; and he tried to use his hands and feet, but found them bound.

With an inward groan, he sank back and the night of unconsciousness once more rolled over him.

When he again revived, the sun was high, and there was a murmur of life from far off in the direction of Camp Traquair. He lay on his back, his face upward, and he could see the high bluffs of the lake, over toward the post. They were covered with people.

What was the matter? he asked himself. How had he come there? Why was he bound, and why was the cloth tied between his jaws?

In a flash, his bewildered mind remembered all that had happened.

He heard again the rasp of the file biting into steel; he recalled his suspicions, his attempt to cry out to the soldiers, the blow that had felled him; then, too, the moment of consciousness in the woods came back to him, bringing the raucous voice and ill-omened face of Siwash Charley.

The aëroplane had been tampered with by Motor Matt's enemies! And this was Tuesday, the day of the trials!

If Matt attempted to fly in the _June Bug_, there would be an accident, and he would be killed!

Like a demon, the boy fought to free himself. He must get to Camp Traquair and tell what he had seen and heard. If he did not, the fiendish work of Siwash Charley would spell destruction for Motor Matt and the joss of the clouds.

What passed in that little heathen's mind will never be known. He was a Chinaman, and the workings of a Chinaman's mind, while following the same lines as the workings of a Caucasian's, are yet never quite the same.

Ping's fight with the cords that bound his wrists and ankles brought pain and drew blood, and his tongue, from a frenzied gnawing of the gag, was sore and swollen; but he could not free himself. Siwash Charley and his mates had performed their work only too well.

In sheer desperation, Ping attempted to roll in the direction of Camp Traquair.

He got perhaps twenty feet over the sharp stones and rough tree-roots, and then his mind faded into an oblivion--quite as much the result of his own horrifying thoughts as of his physical pain and weakness.

He awoke to hear cheers, and to piece together, once more, his battered notions of the trend of events.

As he lay staring dumbly upward, he saw the cloud joss winging across the woods like a huge bird, high, very high in the air.

Motor Matt was there, guiding the joss, and making it do his will; and beside Motor Matt was Lieutenant Cameron. Only a moment did the aëroplane show itself to Ping's restricted vision, and then the tops of the trees shut it from his sight.

Far away somewhere the helpless boy could hear wild cheering.

What good were choice prayers, painted on rice paper, and burned to the heathen deities?

This is what Ping's bruised and quivering mind asked itself.

By every means in his power, Ping had tried to avert disaster.

One prayer had been for a calm day. This seemed to have been answered, for there was hardly a breath stirring the tree tops.

Another prayer was for a safe start. That, likewise, must have been answered, or Matt would not now be on the wing.

Yet another prayer was for the flying machine's safety while in the air; a fourth had been for the machinery; a fifth for the wings; a sixth for a safe descent; a seventh had been general in its terms, and had most to do with Motor Matt's fame and fortune after the trial was over.

Ping had burned no prayer for Lieutenant Cameron. In some manner, he could not understand how, the lieutenant had escaped his mind.

While he lay there, miserably going over these heathen things which were all terribly real and important to him, a roar of fear, horror, and consternation came from the distance.

Turning his head a little, Ping was able to see people scrambling over the bluffs, wildly excited.

The accident had happened.

With a groan, Ping closed his eyes, and turned his face to the earth.