CHAPTER X
A FRIEND IN DISGUISE
“Dave, I’m famous!”
Hiram Dobbs burst into the little space just beyond the threshold of the hangar, which he had called “the office.” The partitioned-off corner held some chairs and a table. Dave was busy glancing over a catalogue of aeroplane accessories, and he looked up with an inquisitive smile at his excitable assistant.
“Well, what now, Hiram?” he questioned.
“Look—your picture, my picture, the burning building, the Ariel. ‘Daring aeronaut’—that’s you. ‘Heroic assistant’—that’s me. See, isn’t it great!”
The impetuous speaker had just come in from breakfast. He spread out a morning newspaper. Its first four columns held a vivid description of the warehouse fire. There had certainly been reporters at the scene, and photographers also, for four excellent pictures illuminated the printed page.
There was one scene of the swoop of the Ariel to the roof of the building where the stenographer had stood, with clasped hands gazing helplessly down at the awed crowd, fourteen stories below.
Then there was a view of the ruins after the fire, showing a low smouldering heap, all that remained of the skyscraper.
When the Ariel had last landed, the photographer had made a close snap shot of pilot and assistant. The aeroplane, Dave, and Hiram were all clearly shown. The final picture was a view of thousands of persons waving hats and handkerchiefs in enthusiastic adieu to the machine disappearing over their heads.
“It’s a smart fellow who did that story,” declared Hiram. “Regular poet, too. ‘Nervy young aviator,’ ‘heroic lone figure of the handsome young fellow who ran the risk of his life to save a poor frenzied girl.’ Hum! I’ll have to look out if I’m in that list. How they learned who we were, and got your whole history, Dave, shows positive genius.”
“We were not interviewed,” responded the young airman, “so I suppose they naturally traced us here, and got their information from the manager. It makes quite a pleasant thrill, to see ourselves pictured as doing some good in the world; doesn’t it?”
“I know some folks who didn’t have any pleasing thrills over the affair,” remarked Hiram.
“Who is that?” questioned his chum.
“The Syndicate crowd. I came past there from the restaurant. One of them had a morning paper. Valdec saw me and scowled. Worthington looked up, and I saw his lips move as if he were wishing us up at Halifax. They don’t wish us any good luck I’m sure. But at headquarters the manager was delighted. He came up to me when I was eating breakfast, clapped me on the shoulder and smiled all over. ‘Tell Dashaway he’s given the meet a capital advertisement,’ he said. You see, it mentions that you will be one of the contestants in the International, Dave.”
Hiram was in good humor over the event. He whistled and sang in his routine work about the hangar. Dave was his friend and he was proud of him, and not for a moment doubted that he would “scoop up every prize in sight,” as he expressed it. When his chum sent him after some frame tape, down to the supply depot on the grounds, Hiram purposely took a detour by way of the Syndicate camp.
“Guess I’ve got a bad streak in me somewhere,” he chuckled, “for it sort of satisfies me to think we’re making that crowd wriggle. Hello—well, never! Oh, say, hello!”
Hiram walked on with sudden activity. He was passing the central hangar of the Syndicate people, when he noticed a man twenty feet ahead of him. This individual chanced to turn his face sideways. In an instant Hiram recognized him, and the youth came to a sudden stop for he ran squarely into the man.
“Mr. Borden!” Hiram cried. “Say, I’m awful glad——”
“Hush!” came the caution.
It was the tramp artist. He was now neatly dressed. The frowsiness he had shown at the Midlothian grounds was gone, and he seemed prosperous. As he evidently in turn recognized his friend of the past, a glad gleam came over his face, and then he became flustered. He seized Hiram by the arm, turned his back to the people near the hangar, and whispered quickly:
“Not a word! No names! Act out what I start in on.” And then in a tone of affected ferocity he gave Hiram a vigorous shake. “Who are you running into, clumsy!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Get away from here, and stay away!”
He gave Hiram a swing and a push. For only a moment was the latter bewildered. Then he was almost stunned. Amid the jeers of the Syndicate crowd near the hangars he went spinning almost twenty feet, stumbled and slid flat on the ground for a yard or two.
“I’ll get even with you!” he yelled at Borden, shaking his fist at him, affecting a boylike rage at his mistreatment, and then setting off on a run as his pretended assailant made a feint of pursuing. “Oh, say,” continued Hiram to himself, “Dave must know about this right away. ‘Acting,’ Borden called it. Good! Great! I see through it now!”
Hiram forgot about his errand for the time being. He was a quiet thinker, and he fancied he had made a big discovery. He rushed in on his chum, flustered, perspiring and gasping for breath.
“Dave,” he almost shouted, “that man—the tramp down at the Midlothian—you know—”
“Yes,” answered his chum, “Mr. Borden—what about him?”
“He’s here! He’s with the Syndicate crowd. I saw him. Listen,” and the words piled over each other recklessly as he recited his recent adventure. “Now what do you think of that? Plain as the nose on your face. ‘Acting,’ see? I took him unawares. He’s playing a part—for our benefit!”
“I believe you’re right,” agreed Dave thoughtfully. “It looks that way, anyhow. I don’t know why he should be so interested in our affairs and go to a lot of trouble to help us——”
“I do,” pronounced Hiram energetically. “I saw more of him than you did. He’s no ordinary tramp. You treated him like a gentleman and he appreciated it. You have a way of making everybody like you, Dave.”
“Thank you,” answered the young aviator, “but how about Valdec and the Syndicate outfit, Hiram?”
“I meant everybody good,” corrected Hiram. “That proves my argument. Borden is good. He shows it, good all over and all the way through. I think he has some track of the fellow whose picture he drew and that the trail led him straight to the meet here. Don’t you see? Vincent is in with Worthington and his crowd and Borden has found it out.”
Dave did not reply to the suggestion, but in his own mind he secretly sided with the views of his imaginative assistant. From the manner in which Borden had just acted, it would seem that his being with the Syndicate crowd was no accidental connection. If its motive lay in a friendly move on behalf of the airship chums, it was certain that the tramp artist had discovered something of value.
“If things are as you say,” spoke Dave, “we will be sure to hear from Borden in some way before long. It is evident that he does not want us to recognize him as a friend. That being so, he will act with caution in getting word to us.”
“You’ll find out I’m guessing right,” asserted Hiram, “you’ll find out that this Vernon, out of revenge, and because he’s paid, is working for Valdec to get us out of the contest.”
Hiram was much excited the rest of that day, expecting word from Borden, which did not come. The episode of the morning had somewhat disturbed Dave. If there was a systematic plot on foot to keep the Ariel out of the lists, extreme vigilance was necessary.
The management had a night patrol, but more to look after things in general than each individual hangar. Dave had known one Dennis Rohan at a former meet he had attended, a man who traveled about selling favors and souvenirs. He was an old man with one limb, crippled, not very active in getting about, but sober and reliable. Until the meet opened he had nothing particular to do. Dave sought him out. He arranged that Rohan was to act as watchman of the hangar, coming on duty at dusk, and remaining until daylight.
The usual practice of the day was gone through that afternoon. Hiram showed a good deal of restlessness, however. Just before supper Dave came up to him where he sat on a bench near the hangar looking in the direction of the Syndicate camp.
“See here, Hiram,” spoke the young aviator, “you’re letting this Borden affair get on your nerves, and it won’t do. I’m looking out for tricks, and things will develop of themselves. Get your mind in a new rut. What do you say to a flight out over the lake? It will be moonlight shortly after dark and the air spin will make us sleep soundly.”
“That suits me,” proclaimed Hiram, his usual animation restored—“you mean in the Ariel?”
“Why, just as you choose. If you want to take the Scout, it will give you fine practice.”
“That will be fine,” said Hiram, and just at dusk, after their evening meal, he ran the Scout out of the hangar near the high fence surrounding the grounds, and busied himself seeing that the machine was in perfect trim for the flight.
Dave was similarly employed with the Ariel, inside the hangar. He was ready to start out, but glancing at his watch and discovering that Rohan would be due on his night duty within a few minutes, he decided to await his arrival to give him some instructions.
“She’s in prime trim,” voiced his young assistant outside, as he climbed into the pilot seat and ran his hand over the various wheels, levers and buttons, to see that everything was in order. “Why doesn’t Dave come?” and he was about to give a customary signal whistle when he exclaimed with a start “Hello! what’s that, now?”
It was a shot, just outside the fence, and it was followed by shouts. Then there was a scraping sound on the surface of the outside of the boards.
“I declare!” cried Hiram, as a human head bobbed into view over the top of the fence. There was another shot. “Hi, you! what’s up?” challenged Hiram.
In a great hurry, the owner of the head pulled himself into view. He dropped to the inside, stumbled, recovered himself and then glared all about him. His glance lit on the machine and then on its pilot.
Whoever he was, whatever his purposes, the sight of the outfit seemed suddenly to infuse him with an idea. He gave the machine a push, sent it spinning ahead, ran around to its side and leaping up began climbing over the planes.
“Here! here!” shouted the astonished Hiram, “get off there. You’ll smash things.”
“Start her up,” ordered the intruder, “do it quick, without a word, or—”
The speaker must have known something about flying machines, for with a dexterous move he landed in the cockpit. As he did so, he completed his menacing words by holding a pistol close to the head of the startled Hiram Dobbs.