Hal found the men of the officers’ mess a fine, capable lot of fellows, even if they were haggard from overwork and their uniforms all yellow stained and mud caked. Grim days, grimmer nights of toiling in flood and muck left no time for dress parade formalities.
At his first chance, in a voice out of which he couldn’t force the tremble, Hal asked after Colonel Wiljohn. Was he here? The little Jacky Wiljohn, had he been found yet?
Yes, the Colonel was here, a fine old fellow, doing great work with his crew of aviators. Too bad about the boy, though! Not a sign of him and the mother had ever been found. The big hotel at Malden, just below the forks of Pea River and the Choctawhatchee was flooded now, but it had been deserted for days, everybody had been gotten out in boats early in the flood. That young Mrs. Wiljohn and the boy had gone off in a canoe, picnicking, it seemed, up some little creek the day the floods had begun to rise. They’d never been heard of since. Which was something of a mystery, considering the number of boats and planes that had combed all sections in a special hunt for these two.
CHAPTER XVIII
TO THE RESCUE
“Since you are one of the Wiljohn men,” said Huntley, “I’ll turn you over to the Colonel for further directions. He’s handling our aviation fleet with a master hand.”
When Hal came face to face with his friend farther down the street of the City of Tents, he was shocked to see how broken and feeble Colonel Wiljohn had become. In six days he had aged a score of years.
“Hal, Hal—we’ve needed you.”
“I came as soon as I heard, sir.”
“Might have known you would.” Hal could feel the tremble of the Colonel’s arm as it lay across his shoulder. Then the tremble steadied, and the Colonel went on in a firm voice, “Well, we’ve work a-plenty for you to do. I’ll be showing you the ropes.”
It was a marvelous organization that Hal Dane slipped into. He became a cog in a huge, efficient machine.