Curious to know what the invention might be, the young aviator started off alone. Quarter of an hour’s walk brought him to the address given. It was a large, dilapidated house, and looked to be vacant.
“It doesn’t look as if the inventor was very prosperous,” commented Ben to himself. “But I guess none of them are when they’re working on flying machines.”
He rang the bell, but no one answered. He looked up at the front of the house. Many of the windows were broken, and there was no sign of life.
“Guess I might as well walk right in,” he said. “I’ll probably find him in one of the back rooms puttering over some of his machinery.”
He went into the hall, his footsteps echoing through the empty house. He made a tour of the first floor, and soon came to the conclusion that the inventor must be in one of the upper stories. He got all the way to the top one before his search was successful. Then a voice hailed him from one of the rear rooms.
“Who is there?” a man called, speaking with a slight German accent.
“I’m Ben Hardy,” called our hero, not observing his questioner. “I came to inquire about a flying machine. Are you the inventor?”
“I am, my young friend. I am glad you have called. I am just about to make a flight, and you shall see it.”
A big man, in his shirt sleeves, and with a ragged pair of trousers on, stepped into view. He stood in the door of a room far down the topmost corridor. Ben advanced toward him, noting that the inventor was of great strength, as indicated by his powerful arms and shoulders.
“I shouldn’t think you could go up very far in a place like this,” said Ben pleasantly. “What sort of a flying machine is yours, an aeroplane or the gas-bag variety?”