Morey had no trouble. He was frequently told to move on, but this did not bother him. Long before the President and the other important guests had arrived at the tent of honor the boy was a part of the group before the airship house. He forgot Amos, Betty and even Lieutenant Purcell. Pushing through the crowd he kept always in front, and, whenever it became necessary to clear out the interfering spectators, Morey was always the first one shoved aside.
In the intervals he saw the mysterious machine, drank in its details, watched all the fascinating work of preparation, gazed in open-mouthed wonder on the wizard who was to demonstrate the wonders of the fragile craft and, when he could, stole nearer to the magic apparatus. When the tooting band marched across the worn and dusty expanse of the parade ground, instead of rushing away with the crowd to welcome the Chief Magistrate and the other distinguished guests, Morey took advantage of the laxity of the guards to steal up to the shed itself.
On a box sat two men, one of them the celebrated aviator whom Morey had already seen inspecting the track, and the other a military man. A workman had already sung out “Skiddoo, kid!” when a familiar voice stopped the lad. Morey recognized at a glance Lieutenant Purcell, hot of face, black of hands and in his shirt sleeves, but the soldier in spite of all.
“Get out!” exclaimed Mr. Wright.
“One moment!” interrupted the officer, laying his hand on the aviator’s arm and whispering to him: “Come here,” he added, motioning to Morey.
“This is Morey, isn’t it?” he smiled, extending his soiled hand. “I’m awfully glad to see you. Did you get the rod and my note? And what are you doing here? Excursion?”
“I drove here,” responded Morey, a little abashed, “and I came—I reckon—I came to find you.”
“To see me? Well, that’s good of you. Are you alone?”
“Amos is with me,” laughed Morey. “Your friend, the colored boy.”
“Oh, I remember,” laughed the officer. “I hope he is well.”