"Dave, I won't let you go alone," persisted Hiram.
Dave said nothing in reply. He went outside, and Hiram followed him. They unlocked the door of the shed adjoining where the Baby Racer was housed, and lit two lanterns.
"Get a couple of the nearest field men, Hiram," directed Dave, "and
I will have everything in order by the time you get back."
There was not much for Dave to do. Only the noon of that day they had got the little biplane ready for a cross country spurt. Then the rain came on, and they decided to defer the dash till the weather was more propitious. Dave was looking over the machinery, when a gruff hail startled him.
"Hello!" challenged old Grimshaw, appearing at the open doorway of the hangar. "What you up to, Dashaway?"
Dave flushed guiltily. He was dreadfully embarrassed to be "caught in the act" as it were, by his great friend, the old airman.
"Why—you see, Mr. Grimshaw—" stammered Dave.
"Yes, of course I see," retorted the old man firmly. "You're going to start out a night like this."
"I've got to, Mr. Grimshaw," declared Dave desperately.
"Business, eh?"