The Flyers

The Flyers

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Flyers, by George Barr
McCutcheon (#5 in our series by George Barr McCutcheon)
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Title: The Flyers
Author: George Barr McCutcheon
Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5848] [Yes, we are more than one
year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on September 13,

2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE
FLYERS ***

Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.

THE FLYERS
BY GEORGE BARR MCCUTCHEON
Author of "Graustark" "Beverly of Graustark" etc.

CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE FARAWAY CLUB II. THE FLYERS CATCH THE FLYER
III. THE MORNING AFTER IV. MRS. VAN TRUDER INTRUDES
V. AS NIGHT APPROACHES VI. THE ROAD TO PARADISE

ILLUSTRATIONS
Anne Courtenay ..... Frontispiece
Eleanor was still sitting. . . stiff and silent

Seated side by side. . . two miserable partners in the fiasco
Windomshire
"Hush, Joe, I LOVE it," she cried
CHAPTER I
THE FARAWAY CLUB
A cold, thick drizzle, blown by a biting wind that sent chills to the
marrow, marred the early spring night, and kept indoors the few hardy
members who had haunted the clubhouse since the season's opening a
week before. Not more than a dozen loyal devotees to the sports of the
open air lounged about the big clubhouse. Three or four rangy young
women in sweaters and jackets strove bravely to dispel the gloom of
the night as it settled down upon the growling masculine majority. The
club steward hovered near, anxiously directing the movements of a
silent and as yet undrilled corps of servants who flitted from group to
group with decanters and checks, taking and mistaking orders with the
usual abandon. A huge fireplace threw out heat sufficient to make the
big lounging room comfortable. Now and then a spiteful gust of wind
swept the rain against the western window-panes with a menace that set
the teeth on edge.
"Rotten night," reflected the big man who monopolised the roomiest
chair and the best position in front of the blazing logs. "Going to town
to-night?" The question was general: there were half a dozen answers.
Every one was going in by the last express. All of them had dined well:
they had been hungry and the club was a wealthy one; even the most
exclusive of appetites could be entertained at the Faraway Country
Club. The last 'bus was to leave the clubhouse at ten minutes past ten,
and it was then half-past eight. Ten minutes' drive from the clubhouse
on the edge of the little town to the railway station--then thirty minutes
to the heart of the big city in which the members lived and died at great
risk to themselves.
Each succeeding spring saw the formal opening of the Faraway

Country Club. The boards were pulled down from the windows and the
door hinges were oiled properly after a winter of discontent. May saw
the reopening, but it was not until June that crowds began to fill the
house and grounds. Only the more restless and hardy had the temerity
to test the pleasures of the raw spring days and nights. The M.F.H. was
a loyal, eager chap; he knew what was required of him in his official
capacity. With the first symptoms of softening soil he led his followers
through field and wood, promising the "real hunt" inside of a month.
Following a pack of overfed hounds was what every one at Faraway
Club called a "real hunt."
The night so meagrely described at the beginning of this tale followed
hard upon a grey, chill day. A few golfers had spent the afternoon upon
the course, inanely cursing the temporary tees and greens. A couple of
polo enthusiasts tried out their ponies, and several men and women
took their hunters over the course, that fairly bristled with spectres of
last year's anise-seed. Now they were comfortably ensconced in