There was a blackboard outside the office building of the course. As they neared it Hiram uttered a triumphant chuckle. Its surface was unmarked until a man approached it, and chalked on its line the first arrival from starting point.
“No. Three—the Comet.”
CHAPTER X
A MIDNIGHT ALARM
“Why, hello, Hiram Dobbs!”
The young sub-pilot of the Comet turned quickly at the hail. It was half an hour after the arrival at the Chicago aero grounds. Hiram felt pretty important over the royal reception his comrades and himself had received from the aviation officials. Never too proud to greet a friend of humbler pretensions, however, he turned with his usual broad smile of good nature. Then he shot out his hand heartily.
A pale, thin lad, somewhat poorly dressed, had accosted him. Pleased and eager, he clasped the hand Hiram extended.
“Well,” exclaimed the latter, “if it isn’t Will Mason! How in the world do you come to be here?”
“You,” answered the lad promptly—“you’re to blame for my getting a splendid outdoor job, fine pay and jolly good people to work for,” and the speaker’s eyes twinkled.
“Let’s see,” said Hiram, ruminating. “It was at Columbus I met you; wasn’t it?”