Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane; Or, Daring Adventures over the Great Lake

Produced by Sean Pobuda
Or Daring Adventures Over The Great Lakes
By Roy Rockwood
Telegram, sir.
Who for?
Dave Dashaway.
I'll take it.
The messenger boy who had just entered the hangar of the great prize monoplane of the aero meet at Columbus, stared wonderingly about him while the man in charge of the place receipted for the telegram.
The lad had never been in so queer a place before. He was a lively, active city boy, but the closest he had ever seen an airship was a distance away and five hundred feet up in the air. Now, with big wonder eyes he stared at the strange appearing machine. His fingers moved restlessly, like a street-urchin surveying an automobile and longing to blow its horn.
The man in charge of the place attracted his attention, too. He had only one arm and limped when he walked. His face was scarred and he looked like a war veteran. The only battles this old warrior had been in, however, were fights with the elements. He was a famous wind wagon man who had sustained a terrible fall in an endurance race. It had crippled him for life. Now he followed the various professional meets for a living, and also ran an aviation school for amateurs. His name was John Grimshaw.
The messenger boy took a last look about the place and left. The old man put on a cap, went to the door and rather gruesomely faced the elements.
A cold drizzling rain and gusty weather generally, he said to himself in a grumbling tone. I'll face it any time for Dashaway, though. The telegram may be important.