The papers they read were full of the one great popular current theme: “The Lost Aviators.” It was a strange situation for Ben to read column after column covering every phase of public interest, anxiety and speculation in regard to the missing Dart and its crew.
It was before daylight the next morning that Ben bade a temporary adieu to Bob and the count. This was at a railroad junction between Blairville and Woodville.
“I must see the folks,” he said. “I feel that my first duty. I will come straight on to Blairville afterwards.”
Ben’s mother shed joyful tears to welcome home again the lost boy whose disappearance had brought many anxious hours of hope and fear. Ben had a hasty breakfast and then took the first train for Blairville.
He was thinking most of the result of the long-distance race as he started for the aviation field. It was with a token of interest, however, that he glanced down the street where the man with the gig lived. Ben had it in mind always to fathom the mystery surrounding that individual when he had aero affairs out of the way.
“Hello,” he exclaimed, coming to a halt. “There’s the gig standing right in front of the house at this very moment. My man must be at home.”
A little girl with golden curls, evidently the child of the man he had sought so vainly, sat alone on the seat of the gig. The horse was secured to an iron ring on the stone curb.
Ben irresistibly started to walk slowly in the direction of the house before which the gig stood. Then with a thrill he sprang into lightning action.
A coal wagon half a block away suddenly dumped its load down an iron chute through a manhole in a sidewalk. The unusual rattle started up the mettled animal attached to the gig.
With a jerk the horse snapped the hitch rein, and with a wild leap the animal darted down the street. The terrified little child on the seat uttered a shrill shriek.