Bud was silent a little spell. Then he answered.
“Because every one says I’m a tough kid just because I ‘ditched’ school a few times. I’ve never had a chance. I couldn’t even get work except in a gravel pit. I’m anxious to ‘make good’ in this town.”
The road to the fair-ground was now pretty well deserted. Inside the exhibition enclosure, the white tents and the little fires glowing here and there under the trees gave the place the appearance of a hunter’s camp in the woods. Hastening forward in the dark, Mr. Elder drove at once into the center of the race track. To his and to Bud’s surprise, there was no glare of light from the airship shed. They had expected to find the place the center of activity.
“I reckon Mr. Pennington’s gone to supper,” suggested Bud.
“Maybe he’s given up,” said the president.
“You’re both wrong,” exclaimed a voice out of the blackness. “I’ve just been over trying to get you or Superintendent Perry on the ’phone,” went on the unseen speaker, who was easily recognized as Pennington. “I can finish the job all right, but to be dead sure, I guess I ought to have some help.”
A few minutes later, they were at the shed, and Lafe and the watchman lit the lanterns.
“That’s what we concluded,” said Mr. Elder in a decisive tone. “And I’ve brought Bud back. I guess you fellows had better work together.”
“That’s all right,” replied Lafe. “I was going to suggest Bud.”
The latter was already at work; his hat was off, his shirt was off and his undershirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was heating and lighting the gasoline torches.