Bud Morgan was more than eager to wander about the big, bustling camp. There were a thousand interesting things he wanted to see for himself. This was a golden opportunity which he meant to utilize to the utmost. He had been yearning for just such a legacy of good luck; and it had really come to him. That magical paper, signed by the general himself, would allow him to move at will. If any sentinel challenged his right to be amidst the tents of the assembled guardsmen representing the sovereign power of the State, all he had to do was to flash that document before his eyes, and the sight of the name signed at the end of the pass would end the detention instantly.
So Bud started forth with high hopes. He really meant to do all that lay in his power to assist poor Blake find his missing relative; but, then, while thus engaged there was no reason that Bud could see why he should not have a look-in at those things in which his heart were was bound up.
For a short while, then, he talked with some of the Battery K boys whom he knew, and who were naturally delighted to see any face from the home town.
Bud managed to show nice discretion. He was averse to telling the story of Felix, and his silly quarrel with his rich uncle and guardian to every one; and so, when by a few judicious questions, he found that those with whom he chatted had no information to give him, he soon broke away and resumed his wanderings.
In this fashion he soon exhausted the limited fund of information that could be picked up among the artillerymen of Battery K. The result was so meagre that Bud felt disgusted. He must branch out and seek other fields. Far and wide he would continue his investigations, ask his leading questions, and seek by every possible means in his power to get a clue worth having.
By degrees, however, his ambition began to wane. He met with so little success that he began to allow himself to grow slack in his efforts. Hugh would be almost certain to unearth some clue, for he most always did accomplish whatever he set out to perform. Then Bud was wild to spend a little time with the Aviation Corps, for deep down in his boyish heart he cherished an ambition to some day be an air pilot.
This would account for his fetching up in the distant section of the camp where he had been told the aviation squad had their hangars. More than half an hour had passed since parting from his chums, and Bud could truly say that he had worked faithfully to unearth a few crumbs of comfort for Blake.
“I deserve a little recreation,” he told himself. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I may never get another such a fine chance to talk with fellows of the aviation class.”
Having thus relieved his mind of any remorse he might have felt, Bud hurried his steps, and before long found himself in the region of the odd-looking hangars, or sheds, hastily constructed, in which several aeroplanes rested when not in use.
He had met with little obstruction thus far. Several times a sentinel had stopped him, acting under orders, but the sight of the magic paper had always sufficed to cause the man with the bayonet and gun to wave him along; so that by this time Bud was under the impression he could go anywhere he pleased.