“Mr. Dashaway has shown his mettle all the same,” proclaimed Bruce proudly.
“There’s nothing open for the Ariel class to-morrow, the last day,” observed Hiram. “I suppose the committee will give out the official award of the big prize this evening.”
“Oh, Hiram! Hiram!” shouted Bruce three hours later, bursting into the hangar where his comrade was writing a letter to some home friends. “You’re to come down to headquarters right away.”
“That so? Who says it?” challenged Hiram in his usual offhand way.
“Mr. Brackett. And Dave. Something’s up. A row, I think.”
“A row? Why? what about?” questioned Hiram, fully interested now.
“About the awards. I don’t know—I just guess. I know this much, for Dave Dashaway told me that. The committee of awards wants all our people, and the Syndicate folks.”
“I’m such a small potato I can’t see why they include me,” observed Hiram. “Unless—thunder! if it’s about——”
“That barograph” he was about to add, but he suppressed the utterance. All the way to the club building, however, there was an excited flush on his cheeks, and he was thinking hard and hopefully.
“Ariel? You’re to go in,” spoke the guard at the door of the committee room—and the boys entered. Hiram was last. He paused for a moment as he passed a man seated somewhat back in the shadow. In an instant he recognized the disguised man of the restaurant.