CHAPTER XVIII
A STRANGE MESSAGE
“Too worried to eat,” spoke Hiram Dobbs to himself at supper time. “Too busy to do any sleeping to-night.”
Dusk had settled down over the International grounds as he sallied forth after an impatient hour spent in waiting for darkness. He locked the hangar, and turned in the direction of the Syndicate camp.
“Slow, and cautious, and sure,” murmured Hiram. “I’ve got plenty of time, and I must be careful not to muddle matters through any haste. It’s Borden, first and foremost. When I locate him I’ll find some way to attract his attention.”
Hiram followed the fence, keeping away from casual pedestrians and crowds. He passed the hangar next in the line to the Syndicate camp. About to approach nearer, Hiram stretched himself carelessly along a slanting fence support as though taking a rest, for a man was coming towards him. It was one of the “White Wings” battalion, Hiram at once made out. The man wore the white khaki uniform of the men supposed to keep the grounds in order. He had a pronged stick, and slung at his side a light but deep basket.
Whenever he came to a piece of paper, rags, or the like, he would spear the same, and transfer it to his basket. Daytimes the sanitary squad kept the streets in order. Early in the evening they went about gathering up the refuse that littered the grounds.
Hiram decided to wait till the man got out of the way before he approached nearer to the Syndicate camp. He noticed that the man had an uncertain gait. He missed spearing several pieces of paper. One the wind kept scurrying along every time he neared it. Hiram would have been amused at any other time. Finally, in trying to corner a whirling fragment of paper, the man stumbled and fell flat, the basket on top of him.
“Here, let me help you,” proffered Hiram.
“That you, Palen?” spoke a sharp voice, as the unfortunate man was mumbling out his thanks to Hiram. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Hiram turned to observe one of the lieutenants in charge of the grounds-workers.
“Late again, and in a fine condition, aren’t you?” demanded the newcomer in a stern, censuring tone. “You’re discharged, do you hear? You’ve been careless for the last two days.”
“Yes, sir—bad cold. Not feelin’ well. Don’t like this job anyhow,” the man mumbled.
“Well, get through with your work, if you’ve sense enough to do it, and draw your pay. We can’t have your kind around here.”
The official walked away with these words. His subordinate steadied himself against a fence-support, and watched the other disappear. Then he threw the spear-stick to the ground, tossed the basket after it and muttered glumly:
“All right. Sick of the place anyhow. I’ll do no more work!”
Hiram had been casually interested in the episode. Suddenly it suggested an idea to his quick mind. He took a dollar bill from his pocket.
“Say, my friend,” he spoke, “I like exercise. You lend me your jacket and hat, and I’ll give you that, and do the rest of your work.”
“Well!” murmured the man stolidly. “Must have lots of money to waste it that way. That’s a bargain. Leave the old coat and hat where they’ll find it, will you? There you are,” and the speaker divested himself of the bulk of his uniform, and went off with the dollar, chuckling gleefully.
Hiram waited till the man was out of sight. Then he went to the side of a path and proceeded to daub his hands and face with dust. The clumsy jacket came nearly to his knees. The hat was helmet-shaped. It dipped both front and rear and well shadowed his face.
“I think I’ll do. I can surely pass for what I pretend to be, if I don’t get where it’s too light,” decided Hiram.
A more industrious “white wings” never worked on the International grounds. Hiram seemed to have eyes for every stray fragment of rubbish. He boldly invaded the precincts of the Syndicate camp. Just inside several hangar’s men were playing cards, smoking and conversing.
“I don’t see anything of Mr. Borden,” soliloquized Hiram disappointedly. “There’s Worthington, though, and his special man, Valdec.”
The humble, dust-covered grounds-man picking up rubbish, suggested nothing suspicious to the two men, as Hiram poked around a bench on which they were seated engrossed in earnest conversation. Hiram speared an empty cigarette box not three feet away from the foot of Valdec. He approached close to the side of the bench making a great ado of kneeling, and picking up the fragments of a torn programme of the meet.
“Yes, I’ve got the altitude stunt fixed for good,” he overheard Valdec observe.
“How is that,” inquired the big Syndicate manager.
“A dummy barograph,” chuckled the trick aeronaut. “Oh, I’ll beat ten thousand feet easy as pie! The Ariel might have made it, but—pouf! We’ve got that off our minds, more’s the luck! You’re sure there’s no chance of Dashaway coming on the scene to spoil things?”
“Dashaway won’t get away,” coarsely laughed Worthington. “I sent Borden down with Terry to double the guard on him this afternoon.”
Some one hailed the manager just then and the talk ended. Hiram’s spirits drooped. Borden had been sent away from the meet before he could get any further word to the Ariel hangar. For some time Hiram hung around, hoping to overhear some indication as to the place where his chum was undoubtedly held a captive. His energy was unrewarded, and he returned to his own hangar.
“I know two things,” he reflected, but disconsolately, as he tossed restlessly in bed some hours later. “Dave is alive—the Ariel is gone. Another thing; we won’t be in this meet. Poor Dave! How will it all come out?”
Hiram was fairly frantic when the next day passed, and there was no word from Bruce. The next morning he had decided to proceed to see Mr. Brackett himself, fearing that something had happened to his messenger, when Bruce himself appeared.
“What news? Quick!” spoke Hiram, in great excitement. “What kept you?”
“I was delayed. Mr. Brackett was away until yesterday afternoon. He listened to my story and asked me a hundred questions. Then he sent a note to you. Here it is.”
Hiram was so eager and anxious that he fairly tore a folded sheet from the hand of Bruce. Quickly his eyes scanned its contents.
And thus it read:
“Go right on, the same as if Dashaway and the Ariel were ready for the contest.”