Mr. King hurried along with his brisk, bustling way, absorbed in the business on his mind. When they reached the office of the grounds, he beckoned Dave to follow him into the little compartment that answered for a telegraph office.
“Give me the description you wrote out,” he said. “Good for you, Dashaway,” he added with satisfaction, as he ran his eye over the words Dave had written. “You cover it well. With that tell-tale scar on his face, I think the young rascal who robbed you will be easy to find. All I care for, though, is the medal. He will probably sell that and the watch to some pawnbroker, and a liberal reward will lead the police to find them for me.”
“My losing those things is going to cost you a lot of money, Mr. King,” said Dave regretfully.
“And suppose that sweater of mine had been found by some dishonest person, or trampled down out of sight in the mud? No, no, Dashaway, I count it a big thing, you’re giving me my first hope of recovering the medal.”
Mr. King wrote out a lengthy telegram, ordering it sent, left some instructions with the operator, and went outside again.
Here he was immediately surrounded by half a dozen persons. Among them were newspaper reporters seeking information as to the aviator’s plans for the next coming aero meet at Dayton. Professional airmen wanted to discuss the programme ahead. Some agents with airship supplies took up some of his time. It was half an hour before Mr. King got rid of his company. Then he came up to Dave, his watch in his hand.
“See here, Dashaway,” he spoke, “I want to ask you a question.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dave attentively.
“Do you want to go to work for me?”
“Do I!—” faltered Dave. “It’s been my dream ever since I heard of you.”