“Tim! Tim!” called an anxious voice.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Ralph. Where are you?”
“Here at the southeast corner of the hangar. Look out you don’t fall into the ditch.”
“Say Tim, what are you up to to-night?” demanded Ralph as he panted up to the hangar. “There are all kinds of wild rumors floating around the office. Carson’s sitting at his desk watching the clock and getting whiter every minute.”
“I’m going to catch the gang that robbed the mail the other night,” said Tim quietly. He hoped that his voice did not betray his emotion for inwardly he was seething with excitement. The waiting was what got on his nerves. He was tense, eager to be in the air and away.
“I had a sneaking idea that’s what you were up to,” said Ralph. “Count me in on the expedition,” he continued. “I stopped at the police station and borrowed one of Chief Flaherty’s riot guns.” From beneath the topcoat which protected him from the raw night air, Ralph produced a sawed-off shot gun, capable of scattering a veritable hail of lead in whatever direction it was aimed.
Tim laughed heartily at his friend’s determination but his next words were not easy to say. Ralph and Tim had worked on many a story together and their bond of friendship was close, but Tim could not afford to risk any life other than his own.
“I’m sorry, Ralph,” he said, “but I can’t take you along tonight. You’re not used to flying, and, besides, this is a one man game.”
“But Tim, something might happen to you,” protested Ralph.