“Oh, flying in an airplane is safe enough,” remarked Tom. “I’ve traveled a good many thousands of miles that way and never got anything worse than a scratch to show for it. What is your son’s first name, Mr. Goby? I may have heard of him somewhere. Or if I don’t know him myself, I have a wide acquaintance among flying men and can make some inquiries among them.”
“It’s an unusual name,” replied the blind man. “But it’s one that his grandfather carried before him, and so we gave it to him. His full name is Hitt Goby.”
“Hitt Goby,” Tom repeated, with a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t think I ever heard the name before, and yet there is something familiar about it.”
“Same here,” remarked Ned. “Hitt Goby. Hitt Goby. Say, Tom,” he added, with sudden excitement, “do you suppose it could be the aviator we rescued in the woods? You know we thought he said his name was Hillobie, but he was half unconscious and it might have been Hitt Goby.”
“By George, I believe you’re right!” replied Tom, jumping to his feet in great excitement and beginning to pace the room. “We’ll have to wire to Shopton right away and find out.”
“Bless my shoe laces!” gasped Mr. Damon, and then sat staring about him.
“What do you mean? What happened to my son?” demanded the blind man, in great agitation.
He had risen to his feet and stood trembling, his face the color of ashes. Tom sprang to his side and supported him as he swayed dizzily.
“You said that he was half unconscious when you rescued him,” cried Carol, sudden tears in her eyes. “How did he get hurt? How badly was he hurt? Oh, tell us quickly.”
“Don’t be frightened,” said Ned quietly, taking her hand. “He wasn’t fatally hurt. He was getting along all right the last time we saw him. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t your brother. Have you a picture of him?”