A FRIEND IN DISGUISE
“Dave, I’m famous!”
Hiram Dobbs burst into the little space just beyond the threshold of the hangar, which he had called “the office.” The partitioned-off corner held some chairs and a table. Dave was busy glancing over a catalogue of aeroplane accessories, and he looked up with an inquisitive smile at his excitable assistant.
“Well, what now, Hiram?” he questioned.
“Look—your picture, my picture, the burning building, the Ariel. ‘Daring aeronaut’—that’s you. ‘Heroic assistant’—that’s me. See, isn’t it great!”
The impetuous speaker had just come in from breakfast. He spread out a morning newspaper. Its first four columns held a vivid description of the warehouse fire. There had certainly been reporters at the scene, and photographers also, for four excellent pictures illuminated the printed page.
There was one scene of the swoop of the Ariel to the roof of the building where the stenographer had stood, with clasped hands gazing helplessly down at the awed crowd, fourteen stories below.
Then there was a view of the ruins after the fire, showing a low smouldering heap, all that remained of the skyscraper.
When the Ariel had last landed, the photographer had made a close snap shot of pilot and assistant. The aeroplane, Dave, and Hiram were all clearly shown. The final picture was a view of thousands of persons waving hats and handkerchiefs in enthusiastic adieu to the machine disappearing over their heads.
“It’s a smart fellow who did that story,” declared Hiram. “Regular poet, too. ‘Nervy young aviator,’ ‘heroic lone figure of the handsome young fellow who ran the risk of his life to save a poor frenzied girl.’ Hum! I’ll have to look out if I’m in that list. How they learned who we were, and got your whole history, Dave, shows positive genius.”