The grinding clamor of passing street cars jarring over the Spring
Street crossing woke Johnny to what he thought was moonlight, until it
occurred to him that the pale glow must come from street lamps. The
air was muggy, filled with the odor of damp soot. He sniffed, turned
over with the bed covering rolled close around him, snuggled his cheek
into a pillow, yawned, rooted deeper, opened his eyes again, and turned
on the reading light by his bed. It was five-thirty--red dawn in
Arizona where his dreaming had borne him swiftly to his old camp at
Sinkhole. Five-thirty would be getting-up time on the range, but in
Los Angeles the hour seemed an ungodly time to crawl out of bed. He
reached for his "makings" and rolled a cigarette which he smoked with
no more than one arm and his head exposed to the clamminess of the
atmosphere.
He ought to return to the Thunder Bird by daylight, he mused, but he
did not know how to get there. He needed Bland for pilot, but he did
not know where to find Bland. Now that he came to consider finding
people and places, it occurred to him that neither did he know where to
find Cliff Lowell. Thinking of him made Johnny wonder what kind of
news gathering it was that could make it worth a thousand dollars a
week to a man to have a swift, secret means of locomotion at his
command. It had sounded plausible enough last night, but now he was
not so sure of it. It might be some graft--it might even be a scheme
to rob him of his plane. It would be a good idea to look into matters
a little before he went any farther, he decided. When Bland showed up,
he'd go out and take a look at the Thunder Bird, and get her in shape
to fly. Then they'd get to work. But a thousand dollars a week sure
did sound good, and if the proposition was on the square--
He snuggled down and began to build an air castle. Suppose it was
straight, and he went into the deal with Lowell; and suppose he worked
for two months, say. That would be eight--well, say nine thousand, the
way weeks lap over on the calendar. Suppose by Christmas he had eight
thousand dollars clear money. (Five hundred a month ought to run the
plane, with any kind of luck.) Well, what if he took the Thunder Bird
and his eight thousand, and flew back to the Rolling R and lit in the
yard just about when they were sitting down to their Christmas dinner.
He'd walk in and lay three thousand dollars down on the table by old
Sudden, and tell him kind of careless, "I happened to have a little
extra cash on hand, so I thought I'd take up that note while I thought
of it. No use letting it go on drawing interest."
Say, maybe Sudden's eyes wouldn't stick out! And Mary V would kind of
catch her breath and open her eyes wide at him, and say, "Why,
Johnny--?" And say--no, jump up and put her arms around his neck
and--slide her lips along his cheek and whisper--
An hour and a half later he awoke, saw with dismay that it was seven
o'clock, and piled out of bed as guiltily as though an irate round-up
boss stood over him. The Thunder Bird to repair, a big business deal
to be accepted or rejected,--whichever his judgment advised and the
fates favored,--and he in bed at seven o'clock! He dressed hurriedly,
expecting to hear an impatient rapping on the door before he was ready
to face a critical business world. If he had time that day, he ought
to get himself some clothes. He would not want to eat again in that
place where Cliff Lowell took him, dressed as he was now.
He waited an impatient five minutes, went down to the lobby,--after
some trouble finding the elevator,--and found himself alone with the
onyx pillars and a few porters with brushes and things. A different
clerk glanced at him uninterestedly and assured him that no one had
called to see Mr. Jewel that morning. He left word that he would be
back in half an hour and went out to find breakfast. Luck took him
through the side entrance to Spring Street, where eating places were
fairly numerous. He discovered what he wanted, ate as fast as he could
swallow without choking on his ham and eggs or scalding his throat with
the coffee, and returned to the hotel.
No, there had been no call for Mr. Jewel. Johnny bought a morning
paper, but could find no mention of his arrival in Los Angeles. Cliff
Lowell, he decided, must be playing the secrecy to the limit. It did
not please him overmuch, in spite of his revilings of the press that
had made a joke of his troubles. Couldn't they do anything but go to
extremes, for gosh sake? Here he had made a record night,--he had
distinctly told that clerk the time he had made it in,--and Cliff
Lowell knew, too. Yet the paper was absolutely dumb. They ignored
everything he did that was worth notice, and yawped his private affairs
all over their front pages. That man Lowell was taking too much on
himself. Johnny hadn't agreed to take the job yet; he very much
doubted whether he would take it at all. He would rather be his own
boss and fly when he pleased and where he pleased. This flying over
into Mexico and back looked pretty fishy, come to think of it. If it
was against the law, how did Lowell expect to get away with it? If it
wasn't, why be so darned secret about it?
For three quarters of an hour, perhaps longer, Johnny dismissed the
thousand-dollar-a-week job from his mind and waited with rising
indignation for Bland. What had become of the darned little runt?
Here it was nine o'clock, and no sign of him. The lobby was beginning
to wear an atmosphere of sedate bustling to and fro. Johnny watched
travelers arrive with their luggage, watched other travelers depart.
Business men strayed in, seeking acquaintances. The droning chant of
pages in tight jackets and little caps perched jauntily askew
interested him. Would Bland, when he came, have sense enough to send
one around calling out "Mr. Jew-wel--Mr. John-ny Jew-wel"? Johnny knew
exactly how it would sound. Cliff Lowell might, but he did not want to
see Cliff. The more he thought about him the more he distrusted that
proposition. A thousand dollars a week did not sound convincing in the
broad light of day. It was altogether too good to be true. Why, good
golly! Nobody but a millionaire could afford to pay that much just for
riding around; and if they could, they'd buy themselves an airplane.
They wouldn't rent one, that was certain.
At ten o'clock Johnny mentally blew up. He had not come to Los Angeles
to sit around in any doggone hotel like an old woman waiting for a
train, and if Bland or anybody else thought he'd hang around there all
day-- He went to the desk, left word that he had gone out to
Inglewood, watched the clerk scribble the information on a slip of
paper and put it in his key box, and went out wondering how he was
going to find his way to the Thunder Bird. But his natural initiative
came to his aid. He saw an automobile with a FOR HIRE sign on it, held
brief conversation with the driver, and was presently leaning back on
the cushions watching luckless pedestrians dodge out of the way. The
sight, I may add, restored his good humor to the point of forgetting
his dignity and crawling over into the front seat where he proceeded to
scrape acquaintance with the driver. Los Angeles was a great place,
all right--when you can see it from the front seat of an automobile.
Johnny began to talk automobiles to the man and managed to extract a
good deal of information, that may or may not have been authentic,
concerning the various "makes" and their prices and speed. Not that he
intended to buy one; but still, with good luck, there was no reason why
he should not, when he had that note paid. A car certainly did give
class to a man--and according to this fellow it would be a real economy
to own one. This man said he looked upon a car as a necessity; and
Johnny very quickly adopted his point of view and began to think how
extravagant he was not to own one. Why, take this trip, for instance.
If he owned the car himself, all it would cost him to go to Inglewood
would be the gas he would burn. As it was, it would probably mean ten
or fifteen dollars before he was through. An automobile of your own
sure did mean a big saving all around--time and money. Take a job like
this man Lowell had offered, why, he could very soon own a car. A
thousand dollars a week, for a few weeks--it was his to take, if he
wanted to do it--
There he went again, playing with the thought until they slid through
Inglewood and out on the boulevard that curved flirtatiously close to a
railroad track, where he had tramped with Bland--good golly! Was that
only last night? Tired and hungry and blue, with a broken plane to
think of and Mary V and the Rolling R to forget--last night. And here
he was, debating with himself the wisdom of accepting an offer of a
thousand dollars a week, thinking seriously of buying himself an
automobile! Was it two miles to where they had turned out of the bean
field on to the highway? It certainly didn't seem that far today.
Except for the curves which he remembered he would have thought the
driver had made a mistake when he slowed and swung short into a rough
trail that crossed the railroad. But there was the Thunder Bird
sitting disconsolately with a broken nose and Lord knew what other
disabilities, in the bean field where he had left her. He felt as
though he had been away for a month.
With a pencil and paper he was carefully setting down what slight
repairs he would need to make, when a big, dark red roadster swung off
the boulevard and came chuckling toward them down the rough trail.
Cliff Lowell was driving, and he greeted Johnny with a careless
assurance of their unity of interest that would make it difficult for
Johnny to hold off, if holding off proved to be his ultimate intention.
Cliff climbed out and came up to the Thunder Bird, standing with his
feet slightly apart, pulling off his driving gloves that he might light
a cigarette.
"They told me at the hotel you were out here, so I came on. Better
send that car back to town," he suggested frugally. "I'll take you in.
No use wasting money on car hire when you don't have to. I want to
talk to you, anyway."
Johnny hesitated, then paid his driver and let him go.
"I've got to go around to a supply house and get me a new propeller,"
he said afterwards. "And a control wire snapped. We made a bum
landing last night--or my mechanic did. He claimed he knew this field,
so I let him go ahead."
"Where is he? Did you let him out?"
"I didn't, but I will if he don't show up; pronto." Johnny's tone was
the tone of accustomed authority. "He failed to report, this morning."
Cliff reached into an inner pocket and drew out a flat package, which
he proceeded to open, using a wing for a table. "I've been busy this
morning," he announced, laying his cigarette down on the wing. Johnny
promptly swept the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his
heel. Wing coverings are rather inflammable, and he was not taking any
chances.
"Pardon the carelessness. I don't know much about airplanes, old man.
Well, I went to the boss and had a talk with him, after I left you last
night. I put the proposition up to him, and he is rather keen on it.
He sees the value of getting news by airplane. The saving of time and
the avoidance of publicity will double its value--to say nothing of the
chance that we may be able to pick up something of immense importance
to the government. Mexican situation, you know--all that sort of thing.
"So he put me in touch with parties that could furnish this." _This_
was a large photographic bird's-eye map of a country which looked very
much like Arizona, or the wild places anywhere next the Mexican
borderline. "Where I got it I am not at liberty to say. It's a
practice map--done for the training in aerial photography that is
essential nowadays in warfare. The government is going in rather
strong on that sort of thing. This is authentic. Take a good look at
it through this glass and tell me what you think of it. Can you see
any place that would make a possible secret landing for an airplane,
for instance?"
"Golly!" Johnny whispered, as Cliff's meaning flashed clean-cut through
the last sentence. He studied the photograph with pursed lips, his
left eye squinted that his right eye might peer through a small reading
glass. "It would depend on the ground," he answered after a minute.
"I'd want to fly over it before I could tell exactly. If it was soft
sandy for instance--" (Bland would have snickered at that, knowing what
reason Johnny had for realizing the disadvantages of soft sand as a
landing place.) "But the topography looks very practicable for the
purpose." (Nothing like talking up to your audience. Johnny was proud
of that sentence.)
"All right. We'll lay that aside for further investigation. I'm glad
you have the plane out here away from every one. We'll take a run over
to that locality in my car--it's open season for ducks, and there's
that lake you see on the map. A couple of shotguns and our hunting
licenses will be all the alibi we'll need. You must know how to get
about in the open country, living in Arizona as you have, and I'm
counting a good deal on that. That's one reason why I made you the
offer, instead of these flyers around here--and by the way, that's one
point that made you look like a safe bet to the old man.
"I was talking to him about salary, and he's willing to go stronger
than I said, if you make good. He said it would be worth about two
hundred a day, which is considerably better than the thousand a week
that I named."
Cliff knew when to stop and let the bait dangle. He fussed with a
fresh cigarette, paying no apparent attention to Johnny, which gave
that young man an idea that he was wholly unobserved while he dizzily
made a mental calculation. Fourteen hundred a week--go-od golly! In a
month--or would it last for a month?
"How long a job is this?" he demanded so suddenly that the words were
out before he knew he was going to ask the question.
"How long? Well--that's hard to say. Until you fail to put me across
the line safely, I suppose. There's always something doing or going to
be done in Mexico, old man--and it's always worth reporting to the
Syndicate. How long will people go on reading their morning paper at
breakfast?" He smiled the tolerant, bored smile that Johnny associated
with his first sight of Cliff. "I should say the job will last as long
as you make good."
"Well, that puts it up to me, then. I'd want an agreement that I'd be
paid a week in advance all the time. That's to cover the risk of
costly breakage and things like that. At the end of every week I'd be
free to quit or go on, and you'd be free to let me out if I didn't
suit. With that understanding I'll try her out--for a week, starting
to-morrow morning." He added, by way of clinching the matter, "And
that goes."
Cliff Lowell blew a thin wreath of smoke and smiled again. "It goes,
far as I am concerned. I think the old man will agree to it, providing
you take oath you'll keep the whole thing secret. I haven't preached
that to you, but the whole scheme blows up the minute it is made
public. You understand that, of course, and I'm not afraid of you; but
the old man may want some assurance. If he does, you can give it, and
if he does not, it will be because he is taking my word that you are
all right.
"Now let's get down to business. How long will it take you to get the
machine in shape? And can't you make arrangements with the owner of
this field to leave it here for the present--and perhaps get him to
keep an eye on it? Wait. You leave him to me. I think he's a Jap,
and I know Japs pretty well. I'll go hunt him up and talk to him. If
we can run it under cover for a couple of days, all the better."
He climbed into his car and went off down the road to where the roofs
of several buildings showed just above a ridge. His talk must have
been well lubricated with something substantial in the way of legal
tender, for presently he returned, and behind him a team came down the
road hauling a flat hayrack on which four Japs sat and dangled their
legs to the jolting of the wagon.
"He's a good scout, and he will keep the plane under cover for us,"
Cliff announced in a satisfied tone. "They're going to load it on the
wagon and haul it home, where there's a shed I think will hold it. If
it won't, we'll buy it and knock out an end or something."
The four Japs, chinning unintelligibly and smiling a good deal, loaded
the Thunder Bird to Johnny's satisfaction, hauled it to the buildings
over the ridge, and after they had knocked all the boards off one side
to admit the wings, ran it under a shed. Afterwards they nailed all
the boards on again while Johnny stood around and watched them
uneasily, secretly depressed because his Thunder Bird was being penned
in by gibbering brown men who might be unwilling to return it to him on
demand.
For good or ill, he was committed now to Cliff Lowell's project. Even
though he was committed for only a week, qualms of doubt assailed him
at intervals during their roaring progress to the city. Cliff drove
with an effortless skill which filled Johnny with envy. Some
day--well, a car like this wouldn't be so bad. And if the job held out
long enough-- Why, good golly, think of it! And Mary V thought he
couldn't make any money with his airplane. Wanted him to go to work
for her dad--think of that!
Thinking of it; he tried to silence the qualms. Tried to reassure
himself with Cliff's very evident sincerity, his easy assurance that
all would be well. Johnny had been canny enough to make the agreement
by the week--surely nothing much could go wrong in that little while,
and if he didn't like the look of things after a week's try-out, he
could quit, and that would be all there would be of it. It was too
good a chance to let slip by without a trial, anyway. A man would be a
fool to do that; and Johnny, whatever he thought of himself, did not
consider himself a fool.