Every one well acquainted with Major Warfield Carroll recognized in him a man of rather eccentric ways and ideas—one of those who is apt to take likes and dislikes without apparent cause. And yet his friends generally found in the end that the stubborn, combative, even hot-headed Major, in nearly all cases, had very good reasons for his actions. He possessed an intuitive knowledge of human nature, and, as a matter of course, was an excellent judge of character. Those fortunate enough to gain his favor found in him a real friend, one who, so long as they proved themselves worthy, was glad to advance their interests.
Early one evening, while he and the three Ogdens were studying over some blue-prints in a little office at one corner of the hangar, a small lad, hot, dusty and tired, walked boldly in, despite the commands of Walters to “make himself scarce.”
“Oh, goodness, Mr. Ogden,” he said, wearily, “but maybe I’m not tired.”
“Willie Sloan!” cried the inventor, in great surprise, while his sons looked at the boy as if not quite sure that they saw aright.
“Yes; it’s William Brinton Sloan, P. G. S.,” said Willie, with a faint grin.
“What in the world are you doing here? Where are the others? Major Carroll, this is one of the lads I spoke about.”
The financier’s sharp eyes were fixed full upon him. Willie stared earnestly back. His half-shy and half-impudent manner, somehow, seemed to catch the Major’s fancy; but the latter’s tone was stern, as he said:
“What have you to say, in answer to Mr. Ogden’s question?”
“A whole lot—near enough to fill a book,” gulped Willie. “I couldn’t stand that old farmhouse any longer, so I—I—just lit out, and——”
“Do you mean to say that you actually walked here?” demanded Rob Ogden.