“Now go back and sleep.”
“Yas, sir,” replied Bunk, who staggered to his couch, tumbled upon it and almost immediately sank into a heavy, dreamless slumber. It must have lasted a long time, for when he awoke the morning sun was shining through the open door. The Professor was not in the room, and after recalling his confused senses, Bunk rose from his bed. He was slightly dizzy from the effects of the drug and waited until he could steady himself before picking his way along the passage to the outside. He expected to see the aviator, but he was not in sight and a glance at the hangar showed it was empty. Professor Morgan and his helicopter were gone. Bunk was alarmed.
“I wonder if he’s started for Afriky and furgot me! If he has he’s played a low down trick.”
Reflection removed this fear and he decided that his friend or enemy, as the case might be, had only gone to the village for his morning meal. Against that theory was the fact that he had taken his machine with him, or more properly the machine had taken him. With the distance so short, it was not reasonable that he would bother to make the trip by aerial sea.
Bunk sat down outdoors and tried to decide upon the best thing to do. Suddenly the thought came to him that it would not only help to pass away the dismal minutes of waiting, but would be the proper thing to write a letter to Mootsport. He entered the building again, stepping very gingerly, for he had a mortal terror of the wires and contraptions that were all around him. At the farther end of the room was a small desk, with paper, envelopes and pencils, but no ink. First peeping out of the door to make sure the Professor was not near, Bunk sat down on the bench provided and with pencil wrote a letter to Harvey. He paused with every labored word and listened. He knew he would detect the returning aviator in time to play the part of innocence. We remember the substance of that missive, which was the means of giving Harvey Hamilton his first tangible clue to the whereabouts of his colored friend.
The letter being finished, the problem of mailing it remained. It required a stamp and must be carried to the post office. Now there were fully a dozen stamps lying on a corner of the desk, but it was to Bunk’s credit that he did not use one of them. Those little red rectangles were each worth two cents, while the value of the paper and envelope was so vague as to amount to nothing. It would be dishonest to appropriate a postage stamp, but not dishonest to use the other material. Bunk was always supplied with a moderate amount of funds and it occurred to him that it would be right to take a stamp provided he left a nickel in its place, thereby making generous payment for the accommodation.
“De Perfesser will notice it,” was the belief that stayed his hand; “he told me not to send any letter home and if he finds out I’ve done it he’ll blow me all to pieces.”
He thrust the missive into his coat pocket and once more passed outside of the workshop. The location of the cabin as we know was in a lonely spot, and not a person was in sight. The village of Dawson lay within easy reach and he believed he could run thither and back before the return of the Professor. But he hesitated after passing down the path to where it met the highway. He felt that if seen by the aviator he could make the excuse that he was merely stretching his legs and had no thought of going farther.
While he stood debating whether to make a dash for it, good fortune favored him. Around a bend in the road, and approaching him, strode a man dressed as a farmer. He carried a rough staff in one hand and his trousers were tucked in the tops of his boots. He responded with a nod to Bunk’s cheery “Good morning.”
“Am yo’ gwine to Dawson?” asked the African, though the course of the pedestrian made the question superfluous.