“Sure do, and right naow I kin glimpse a big—looks like our Fokker, agoin’ to drop daown.”
“Yes, possibly belongs to either of the latest lines using Candler Field for a base—Eastern Air Transport, for passengers and mail; and Southern Air Fast Express—covering the route between Los Angeles and Atlanta—both now-a-days carrying capacity loads, the papers have been saying.”
“Shucks! takes yeou to git things daown pat, Big Boss,” Perk went on to comment. “Where do we go from here, Mister?”
“After we’ve made arrangements for housing our crate,” explained Jack, good-naturedly—although he had told his chum the same thing at least twice before the present occasion—Perk could be so forgetful, he remembered—“we’ll make straight for the Henry Grady Hotel, where we’ll find a letter in code awaiting us, unless there’s been a nasty hitch in the arrangements.”
“But—yeou said we had to meet up with some gent here, partner?”
“That’s right, too, Wally; but only after I’ve decoded the letter from Headquarters, which is going to put us wise about the nature of our present big adventure. No great hurry to get moving on, as far as I know at present; so it might be we can hang around Atlanta a day or more. But both of us will have to play our parts, and fend off any too inquisitive newspaper men. I’ve learned that the Atlanta reporters are keen on picking up every scrap of aviation news possible, so’s to make up a story that will go well. We shun that sort of notoriety, don’t forget, brother, as the devil does holy water.”
They were by this time circling Candler Field, which seemed to be bustling with feverish activity—planes of various types were either landing, or else starting up; while several could now be seen cruising at sublime heights, either being put through their paces by pilots, or what was more likely carrying excursionists in the shape of “sandbags,” greenhorn air holiday makers, out to get an experience that would give them a superior advantage over friends who had never as yet gone aloft.
Jack made an exceptionally clever landing, and then turned over the stick to his mate, as if eager to make it appear that Perk was the real article when it came to being the head pilot of the multi-motored cabin Fokker, that had not the least sign of a name, nor yet a number to identify it.
A number of men came running toward the rather retired spot where Jack had purposely come down. Leading them was a little whipper-snapper specimen, in a rather loud checkered suit, who gave all the recognized signs of being a hustling, live-wire newspaper man, always on the scent for some unusual happening such as could be turned into a thrilling story,—such keen investigators are to be found at nearly every airport worth while, eager to satisfy the curiosity of the multitude of readers who are developing air mindedness at a rapid rate.
“Greetings gents;” he started in to say, with a cheerful grin on his sharp features, and holding a pencil in one hand while he had a pad of blank paper all ready in the other. “If you would kindly give me a few facts connected with your identity, where you jumped off, whither bound, and so forth the many readers of my paper would be glad to extend to you a warm welcome to the Gate City of the South.”