“Queer about those diamonds, isn’t it, Dave?” spoke Hiram as they found themselves alone with their machines. “Maybe the man dropped them in running, or they went over into that gully.”
“It would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack to try and find them,” declared the young airman.
Excitement and trying work at the wheel had worn them out considerably, and they were glad when they crept into their beds at headquarters an hour later. Hiram overslept himself. He awoke late the next morning, in the room they occupied jointly at the grounds clubhouse, to find his chum missing. He hurried his breakfast and was soon at the hangar. As he neared it he noticed some one seated on a stool inside it. Dave had the Ariel outside and was tanking up with “juice,” as they called the gasoline.
“Some one to see you, Hiram,” he announced, nodding his head towards the garage.
“Who is it?” asked his mate curiously.
“He didn’t give his name, but he’s a boy. Says he knows you.”
“Is that so?” returned Hiram musingly, and advanced towards the garage. Then his face expanded in a welcoming good natured way. A lad about his own age was seated with his back to the door and seemed to be eagerly inspecting the little Scout and the mechanical accessories belonging to it. “Why, Bruce Beresford, hello!” Hiram shouted suddenly.
“Eh—oh, excuse me, yes, it’s me,” answered the visitor, springing up with a nervous start, and his anxious face brightened as Hiram gave his hand a friendly shake.
Hiram drew back a step or two, and with apparent admiration looked over in a quizzical way the lad he had so signally befriended in the past.
“Well,” he observed, “you’re looking more prosperous than when I last saw you.”