As the perspiring Mr. Elder came out of the hot ticket-office of the musty-smelling station and paused on the platform to wipe his red face, his eye fell on the freight-house across the tracks from the station. He glanced at his horse to see that it was all right, and then sprang across to the freight-depot. He had not yet seen the valuable crates consigned to him. The freight-agent had already gone to dinner. Entering the long shed, he glanced inquiringly about. It was half dark.
“Lookin’ for your aeroplane, Mr. Elder?” exclaimed a pleasant boyish voice from somewhere in the gloom.
The banker and fair president traced the sounds to their source. At the far end of the room and opposite a rear door stood a mound of carefully packed and braced skeleton-like frames. On the edge of a heavy square box bound with steel bands, sat a boy of perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Although it was hot, the lad was wearing a heavy blue flannel shirt, a red neck tie, and a cheap, sailor hat. His low shoes were worn and old, and his socks gave signs of needing a mother’s care. He was slowly fanning himself with a big blue handkerchief.
“If you are,” added the boy, springing to his feet, “here it is; and it looks like the real thing.”
Instead of examining the aeroplane crates, Mr. Elder’s eye swept the boy from hat to shoes.
“Aren’t you Bud Wilson?” he asked at last.
“Yes, sir. Attorney Cyrus Stockwell is my foster father.”
“I thought so,” rejoined the banker tartly. “I’ve heard of you. Lafe Pennington, of our bank, has told me about you.”
The boy laughed—he had already taken off his discolored hat.
“Then you didn’t hear much good about me, that’s certain.”