As the aeroplane approached the grand-stand, Bud made a sweeping turn into the track enclosure, shut off his power, and, with a graceful dip over the heads of the spectators, sank swiftly toward the ground where the crowd had thinned into groups.
In the crowd was one young man who noted every movement of Bud’s with a trained eye. Neither Bud nor those standing next to the square shouldered young stranger knew that Sergeant Morey Marshall of the U. S. Signal Corps, stationed at Omaha, had been rushed to Scottsville on the first express to observe and report on the daring flight of the amateur aviator. If Bud Wilson had known it part of his composure might have left him for, to the Hoosier lad, Morey Marshall, the hero of “In the Clouds for Uncle Sam,” stood along side such operators as Wright and Curtiss in skilful daring as an aviator. There came a time when the two boys met and were glad to know each other.
“Ketch her,” cried Bud sharply. Almost before any one knew what had taken place, twenty willing hands had the sinking car in their grip. While it was still in the air, supported by the proud volunteers, Bud drew his feet from his stirrups, caught the framework and dropped nimbly to the ground. Hundreds of persons were already massed around the mysterious craft. One after another turned to speak to or shake the hand of Bud, but, somehow, when President Elder at last reached the spot, out of breath, Bud was gone.
And, strangely enough, although it was early in the afternoon, the aeroplane had no sooner landed than Mrs. “Stump” Camp and her son, Josh, made their way to the hitch racks and hooked up the old sorrel. Another strange thing—they did not go home by way of Scottsville, but took the longer way east to the “slashings.” About a half mile east of the road leading into the fair-ground, the old sorrel drew up, and Bud Wilson, considerably puffed by his long run through the intermediate cornfields, stepped out of a fence corner and climbed into the rear seat.
About eight o’clock the same evening, two boney horses drawing a gaudily-painted gypsy van passed over the Scottsville bridge toward Little Town. It was Jack Stanley on his way to take Sunday dinner with old “Stump” Camp.
[CHAPTER XVII]
THE PRIVATE OFFICE OF THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK.
The following Monday morning, an odd little caravan marched around the Scottsville public square toward the First National Bank. Old “Stump” Camp, in his black Sunday hat, and freshly shaven down to his lower cheeks where his wide-spreading whiskers began, led the group. By his side was Madame Zecatacas, the Gypsy Queen, her long earrings bobbing. Behind them, walked “Jack Stanley,” her son-in-law, and his wife. Their child was, at that moment, assisting Mother Camp to sugar doughnuts, eight miles away at Camp’s Mill.
“Stump” Camp was not ignored at the First National Bank, and when he escorted his followers into that austere financial institution and asked to see President Elder, he was led into the latter’s private office at once. What followed behind the closed door in the next twenty minutes or so was a question that more than worried the bookkeeper, cashier and clerk, Lafe Pennington, in the outside room.