The picture was that of a most beautiful young woman. Perfect features and masses of glorious hair made the face seem almost unreal, but its chief charm was the look of happiness that filled it.
“Who can she be?” the boy Lawrence asked himself. She did not seem over fifteen or sixteen years of age. Lawrence put the bag and its contents back in his trunk but could not forget the lovely, laughing face. He buckled down to work with a new ambition. Past he had none. He determined to make for himself a future that he could be proud of. And because he had no one, actually no one in the whole world to call his own, he adopted the picture for his “folks.” He never named her sister or mother; he just worked for her and looked at her when the way seemed hard.
As time passed he developed a perfectly amazing sense of balance and direction, coupled with more common sense than falls to the lot of most, and one day he left the factory and went out to the nearest aviation field as assistant mechanician. From this he rose by bounds until he was accounted the best airman on the field. After he found that most of his time was to be spent far above the earth, he commenced to worry about the picture. What if his things should be burned up? What if the picture should be stolen? So, cutting a piece of cardboard the exact size, he went down and bought a leather pocket case in which he placed the picture, and always after that he wore it buttoned securely in his pocket. He felt better then; his “folks” were with him. Back of the picture he placed the two scraps of paper, and with this frail safeguard spread his wings and took flight courageously toward the goal he had set for himself.
Five years had passed since the signing of the Armistice and many of the wounds of that unforgettable war had healed. Many things had happened, both in America and abroad.
Aircraft had changed both in nature and construction. Mufflers were in widespread use, indeed were required by law, and now the wing-filled sky did not rattle and reverberate with the roar of engines unless on special class or instruction work. Traffic machines went with silent, steady directness along their uncharted courses, while dainty troops of pleasure craft flitted everywhere, their brightly painted wings and hulls glistening in the sun.
To Lawrence Petit the upper air seemed his home. He remained on the earth only so long as it was positively necessary; and now, writing busily on his tablet, he felt that he was on the eve of an adventure which promised to carry him higher and farther than any which he had yet attempted. He referred to the letter before him. It was long and typewritten on handsome paper. Hamilton Ridgeway, the writer, was one of the greatest powers in the United States. It was in obedience to his summons that Lawrence had come to Washington and was now waiting impatiently for the hour of his interview with the great man.
Young as he was, Lawrence had learned to respect that powerful personality who numbered the kings and princes of the earth as his friends, who handled millions as other men handle pennies, who always stood ready to finance any great national undertaking, yet who was so simple and kindly that he never failed to send back a cheery hello to the newsie who happened to know and speak his name. Hamilton Ridgeway had been told of the remarkable feats of the young aviator, and with his shrewd ability to pick men he was about to interview the boy to see of what material he was really made.
It was an ordeal that would have made most boys so nervous that they would have appeared ill at ease, but Lawrence, as he noted that it was almost time to start for his appointment, calmly put up his writing, brushed his hair, glanced at his wrist watch, and seeing that he still had five minutes to spare, sat down by the window and opened the pocket case. Long and tenderly he gazed at the pictured face.
“I will do the very best I know, just for you,” he said, smiling back at it. “I don’t suppose I will ever know who you are, but we belong to each other somehow, don’t we? And I am going to make good just so I can always like to look at you. Gee, you are sweet! You must be old enough to be my mother because you have looked just like you do now ever since I first saw you back there at Moll’s. Too bad she died! I always thought she could have told me something about you, you Pretty, but I reckon I will never get to know any more of you than I do now.”
He shook his head sadly. “You are so pretty,” he murmured. “A fellow would do anything for a mother like you; live clean and keep straight, and work his head off besides, to make you proud of him. Tell you what I will do, Pretty. I am going to make believe that you are waiting for me somewhere, and I have got to make good before we meet. How’s that? A bargain?” he smiled back at the smiling pictured eyes and, placing the case carefully in his pocket, put on his hat and overcoat and started off to meet Mr. Ridgeway.