The Trail of the Hawk: A Comedy of the Seriousness of Life
he is sitting out in front of his tent talking to some of the Grand
Worthy High Mighties of it I guess--fat old boy with a yachting cap
and a big brass watch chain and an Order of Pyramid charm big as your
thumb, and a tough young fellow with a black sateen shirt and his hat
on sideways with a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth.
Since I wrote the above a party of sports, the women in fade-away
gowns made to show their streamline forms came butting in, poking
their fingers at everything, while the slob that owned their car
explained everything wrong. "This is a biplane," he says, "you can see
there's a plane sticking out on each side of the place where the
aviator sits, it's a new areoplane (that's the way he pronounced it),
and that dingus in front is a whirling motor." I was sitting here at
the work-bench, writing, hot as hell and sweaty and in khaki pants and
soft shirt and black sneakers, and the Big Boss comes over to me and
says, "Where is Hawk Ericson, my man." "How do I know," I says. "When
will he be back," says he, as though he was thinking of getting me
fired p. d. q. for being fresh. "Next week. He ain't come yet."
He gets sore and says, "See here, my man, I read in the papers to-day
that he has just joined the flying colony. Permit me to inform you
that he is a very good friend of mine. If you will ask him, I am quite
sure that he will remember Mr. Porter Carruthers, who was introduced
to him at the Belmont Park Meet. Now if you will be so good as to show
the ladies and myself about----" Well, I asked Hawk, and Hawk seemed
to be unable to remember his friend Mr. Carruthers, who was one of the
thousand or so people recently introduced to him, but he told me to
show them about, which I did, and told them the Gnome was built radial
to save room, and the wires overhead were a frame for a little roof
for bad weather, and they gasped and nodded to every fool thing I
said, swallowed it hook line and sinker till one of the females showed
her interest by saying "How fascinating, let's go over to the Garden
City Hotel, Porter, I'm dying for a drink." I hope she died for it.
_May 10_: Up at three, trying out machine. Smashed landing chassis in
coming down, shook me up a little. Interesting how when I rose it was
dark on the ground but once up was a little red in the east like smoke
from a regular fairy city.
Another author out to-day bothering me for what he called "copy."
Must say I've met some darn decent people in this game though. To-day
there was a girl came out with Billy Morrison of the N. Y. Courier,
she is an artist but crazy about outdoor life, etc. Named Istra Nash,
a red haired girl, slim as a match but the strangest face, pale but it
lights up when she's talking to you. Took her up and she was not
scared, most are.
_May 11_: Miss Istra Nash came out by herself. She's thinking quite
seriously about learning to fly. She sat around and watched me work,
and when nobody was looking smoked a cigarette. Has recently been in
Europe, Paris, London, etc.
Somehow when I'm talking to a woman like her I realize how little I
see of women with whom I can be really chummy, tho I meet so many
people at receptions etc. sometimes just after I have been flying
before thousands of people I beat it to my hotel and would be glad for
a good chat with the night clerk, of course I can bank on Martin
Dockerill to the limit but when I talk to a person like Miss Nash I
realize I need some one who knows good art from bad. Though Miss Nash
doesn't insist on talking like a high-brow, indeed is picking up
aviation technologies very quickly. She talks German like a native.
Think Miss Nash is perhaps older than I am, perhaps couple of years,
but doesn't make any difference.
Reading a little German to-night, almost forgot what I learned of it
in Plato.
_May 14, Sunday_: Went into town this afternoon and went with Istra to
dinner at the Lafayette. She told me all about her experiences in
Paris and studying art. She is quite discontented here in N. Y. I
don't blame her much, it must have been bully over in Paree. We sat
talking till ten. Like to see Vedrines fly, and the Louvre and the gay
grisettes too by heck! Istra ought not to drink so many cordials, nix
on the booze you learn when you try to keep in shape for flying,
though Tad Warren doesn't seem to learn it. After ten we went to
studio where Istra is staying on Washington Sq. several of her friends
there and usual excitement and fool questions about being an aviator,
it always makes me feel like a boob. But they saw Istra and I wanted
to be alone and they beat it.
This is really dawn but I'll date it May 14, which is yesterday. No
sleep for me to-night, I'm afraid. Going to fly around NY in aerial
derby this afternoon. Must get plenty sleep now.
_May 15_: Won derby, not much of an event though. Struck rotten
currents over Harlem River, machine rolled like a whale-back.
Istra out here to-morrow. Glad. But after last night afraid I'll get
so I depend on her, and the aviator that keeps his nerve has to be
sort of a friendless cuss some ways.
_May 16_: Istra came out here. Seems very discontented. I'm afraid
she's the kind to want novelty and attention incessantly, she seems to
forget that I'm pretty busy.
_May 17_: Saw Istra in town, she forgot all her discontent and her
everlasting dignity and danced for me then came over and kissed me,
she is truly a wonder, can hum a French song so you think you're among
the peasants, but she expects absolute devotion and constant amusing
and I must stick to my last if a mechanic like me is to amount to
anything.
_May 18_: Istra out here, she sat around and looked bored, wanted to
make me sore, I think. When I told her I had to leave to-morrow
morning for Rochester and couldn't come to town for dinner etc. she
flounced home. I'm sorry, I'm mighty sorry; poor kid she's always
going to be discontented wherever she is, and always getting some one
and herself all wrought up. She always wants new sensations yet
doesn't want to work, and the combination isn't very good. It'd be
great if she really worked at her painting, but she usually stops her
art just this side of the handle of a paint-brush.
Curious thing is that when she'd gone and I sat thinking about her I
didn't miss her so much as Gertie Cowles. I hope I see Gertie again
some day, she is a good pal.
Istra wanted me to name my new monoplane Babette, because she says it
looks "cunning" which the Lord knows it don't, it may look efficient
but not cunning. But I don't think I'll name it anything, tho she says
that shows lack of imagination.
People especially reporters are always asking me this question, do
aviators have imagination? I'm not sure I know what imagination is.
It's like this stuff about "sense of humor." Both phrases are pretty
bankrupt now. A few years ago when I was running a car I would make
believe I was different people, like a king driving through his
kingdom, but when I'm warping and banking I don't have time to think
about making believe. Of course I do notice sunsets and so on a good
deal but that is not imagination. And I do like to go different
places; possibly I take the imagination out that way--I guess
imagination is partly wanting to be places where you aren't--well, I
go when I want to, and I like that better.
Anyway darned if I'll give my monoplane a name. Tad Warren has been
married to a musical comedy soubrette with ringlets of red-brown hair
(Istra's hair is quite bright red, but this woman has dark red hair,
like the color of California redwood chips, no maybe darker) and she
wears a slimpsy bright blue dress with the waist-line nearly down to
her knees, and skirt pretty short, showing a lot of ankle, and a kind
of hat I never noticed before, must be getting stylish now I guess,
flops down so it almost hides her face like a basket. She's a typical
wife for a 10 h.p. aviator with exhibition fever. She and Tad go joy
riding almost every night with a bunch of gasoline and alcohol sports
and all have about five cocktails and dance a new Calif. dance called
the Turkey Trot. This bunch have named Tad's new Wright "Sammy," and
they think it's quite funny to yell "Hello Sammy, how are you, come
have a drink."
I guess I'll call mine a monoplane and let it go at that.
* * * * *
_July 14_: Quebec. Lost race Toronto to Quebec. Had fair chance to win
but motor kept misfiring, couldn't seem to get plugs that would work,
and smashed hell out of elevator coming down on tail when landing
here. Glad Hank Odell won, since I lost. Hank has designed new
rocker-arm for Severn motor valves. All of us invited to usual big
dinner, never did see so many uniforms, also members of Canadian
parliament. I don't like to lose a race, but thunder it doesn't bother
me long. Good filet of sole at dinner. Sat near a young lieutenant,
leftenant I suppose it is, who made me think of Forrest Haviland. I
miss Forrest a lot. He's doing some good flying for the army, flying
Curtiss hydro now, and trying out muffler for military scouting. What
I like as much as anything about him is his ease, I hope I'm learning
a little of it anyway. This stuff is all confused but must hustle off
to reception at summer school of Royal College for Females. Must send
all this to old Forrest to read some day--if you ever see this,
Forrest, hello, dear old man, I thought about you when I flew over
military post.
_Later_: Big reception, felt like an awful nut, so shy I didn't hardly
dare look up off the ground. After the formal reception I was taken
around the campus by the Lady President, nice old lady with white hair
and diamond combs in it. What seemed more than a million pretty girls
kept dodging out of doorways and making snapshots of me. Good thing
I've been reading quite a little lately, as the Lady Principal (that
was it, not Lady President) talked very high brow. She asked me what I
thought of this "terrible lower class unrest." Told her I was a
socialist and she never batted an eye--of course an aviator is
permitted to be a nut. Wonder if I am a good socialist as a matter of
fact, I do know that most governments, maybe all, permit most children
to never have a chance, start them out by choking them with dirt and
T.B. germs, but how can we make international solidarity seem
practical to the dub average voters, _how_!
Letter from Gertie to-night, forwarded here. She seems sort of bored
in Joralemon, but is working hard with Village Improvement Committee
of woman's club for rest room for farmers' wives, also getting up P.E.
Sunday school picnic. Be good for Istra if she did common nice things
like that, since she won't really get busy with her painting, but how
she'd hate me for suggesting that she be what she calls "burjoice."
Guess Gertie is finding herself. Hope yours truly but sleepy is
finding himself too. How I love my little bed!
CHAPTER XXIII
(THE DIARY OF MR. ERICSON, CONTINUED.--EDITOR)
_AUGUST 20_, (_1911, as before_): Big Chicago meet over. They sure did
show us a good time. Never saw better meet. Won finals in duration
to-day. Also am second in altitude, but nix on the altitude again, I'm
pretty poor at it. I'm no Lincoln Beachey! Don't see how he breathes.
His 11,578 ft. was _some_ climb.
Tomorrow starts my biggest attempt, by far; biggest distance flight
ever tried in America, and rather niftier than even the European
Circuit and British Circuit that Beaumont has won.
To fly as follows: Chicago to St. Louis to Indianapolis to Columbus to
Washington to Baltimore to Philadelphia to Atlantic City to New York.
The New York Chronicle in company with papers along line gives prize
of $40,000. Ought to help bank account if win, in spite of big