“Count me in,” said the old man, cheerily, “although I haven’t been very useful so far outside of gaping at the wonderful work of our gifted friend, Leblance.”
“Day after to-morrow is the twenty-first,” spoke up Grimshaw. “Two days’ start for the Dictator crowd.”
The group left the boarding house. They crossed the street and walked along the fence of the aerodrome enclosure. Dave and Hiram were in the lead. They were chatting animatedly as they turned the corner of the building, when Dave was thrust violently to the side and Hiram was knocked head over heels to the street.
A frenzied yell accompanied the collision with them of a wild, scurrying form, which recoiled at the unexpected impact, a hat bobbing from its head.
“Hi! what’s all this?” challenged the astonished Mr. King.
“Why, it’s the night watchman!” declared Grimshaw.
“Oh, Mr. King!” panted the man, and then, pale, shaking, and gasping for breath, he fell against the wall of the building from sheer weakness.
“Here, brace up,” ordered the aviator, seizing the arms of the fellow and shaking him. “What’s the trouble?”
“Ghost!” choked out the watchman, in thrilling accents.
“Where—what do you mean?”