“What, Hiram?”
“For all his trampish looks, I noticed that his linen was fine and white, and the necktie he wore was one of those expensive ones you see in good furnishing shops.”
“Is that so?” observed Dave, musingly. Then a quick thought came to his mind. He put Hiram through a rapid course of cross-questioning.
“I am satisfied it is young Brackett,” said Dave, to himself. “But why in that trim, and acting like a fugitive? Hiram,” he added aloud, “keep your eye out for that boy. I am sure he is in some kind of trouble, and wishes to see me very much.”
“All right,” nodded Hiram, carelessly. “He won’t get away from me next time.”
“Don’t use any force and scare him,” directed Dave. “Tell him that I guess who he is, and want to see him very much.”
“Very well. There’s Professor Leblance just going into the aerodrome. Isn’t it famous what he says about the Albatross being nearly finished and just as perfect as money and skill could make it.”
Both boys hurried their steps to overtake the genial, accommodating Frenchman. For the time being Dave’s recent visitor drifted from his mind.
The past two weeks had been the busiest and most engrossing in all the career of the young airman. Dave’s report on the Davidson balloon and the drawing of it he had showed to Leblance had convinced the expert that the Dictator could not make even a start in the race across the Atlantic.
Dave had told him the gas bag of the Dictator was conspicuously made of tri-colored fabric. Its promoter, Davidson, had made a great claim. The propelling power of the Dictator, he declared, would be built on the monoplane principle. When traveling the gas bag would collapse, except when they wanted to float. A gas-generating machine was among the adjuncts of the hull, and was placed just above the framework attaching the airplanes to the balloon.