A MYSTERIOUS FLASH
“Well, what did he want?” challenged Grimshaw, gruffly, as the young
aviator entered the living tent.
“It was young Brackett,” said Dave. “He came to settle the damage up at
the greenhouses.”
“With real money?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You surprise me,” observed the old man, drily.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Mr. Grimshaw,” said Dave. “There is some good
in him.”
“Humph! It’s all under the surface, then. You are too soft-hearted,
Dashaway. It’s of a piece with that Jerry Dawson affair. After he and
his crowd had done you all kinds of harm, stolen the _Drifter_ and tried
to put you out of business, you let him go scot free.”
“Hoping Jerry had learned his lesson and would behave himself.”
“Which he won’t,” affirmed the old man, strenuously. “I’ll wager he’ll
pop up in some mean way before you get through with this giant airship
scheme.”
“There’s Hiram,” announced Dave, brightly, as the gate slammed and a
cheery whistle echoed through the enclosure.
Dave’s loyal young assistant came into the tent flushed and animated
from a run in the rain.
“Any mail?” inquired Dave.
“Yes, a letter and a telegram,” replied Hiram, handing two envelopes to
Dave.
The young aviator opened the telegram first. He looked at its enclosure
so long and steadily that his two friends began to regard him with deep
curiosity.
“Well, that’s queer,” said Dave at length.
“What is?” challenged Hiram.
“This message.”
“Who is it from?”
“The Interstate people.”
“What does it say?” asked Hiram.
“I’ll read it: ‘Good advertising—keep it up.’”
“H’m,” observed Grimshaw. “That’s sort of puzzling. Now, what does it
mean?”
Dave shook his head vaguely.
“I really don’t know,” he admitted.
Hiram began to grin. Then he laughed outright.
“Do you?” demanded Dave, glancing suspiciously at his friend.
Hiram slapped his knee emphatically, chuckling the while. He began
feeling in the outside pockets of his coat.
“I didn’t know at first,” he spoke; “but I think I can guess it out
now.”
Hiram drew out a folded newspaper, opened it up, glanced over it, and
refolded it so as to show a half-column article with a display head.
“City evening paper, that just came down with the mail,” he explained.
“Look at that, Dave Dashaway, and say you aren’t famous!”
Our hero was a good deal surprised to find in the newspaper a glowing
article about the unselfish heroism of a rising young aviator, who had
encountered vivid danger in doing a noble service for a poor girl.
Dave saw at once that the enterprising newspaper man at Easton had made
a fine story of the sensational episode. The _Gossamer_ was lauded for
its handsome conduct in a storm, and the Interstate Aero Company was
commended for building such a staunch aircraft. Dave was given full
justice, and the interesting little story was told in a very pathetic
way.
“You understand now, I reckon, Dave?” chuckled Hiram.
“Why, in a way, yes.”
“I suppose the story has been telegraphed all over the country,” said
Hiram. “It’s a good one. The Interstate people saw it, and wired you at
once.”
Old Grimshaw read the newspaper article eagerly in his turn. He gloated
over the handsome things said about Dave.
“I’m proud of you, as usual, Dashaway,” he observed.
Dave opened the letter Hiram had brought him. He read it through with a
face indicating considerable satisfaction.
“Here’s a pleasant bit of news,” he announced to his two friends.
“From Mr. King, isn’t it?” inquired Hiram. “I noticed the handwriting
and the postmark.”
“Yes,” replied Dave.
“Anything interesting about the giant airship?”
“A whole lot,” answered Dave, briskly. “It seems that Mr. Dale has been
fortunate enough to find a French aero man who spent several years in
foreign dirigible service. Mr. King writes that he is something of an
inventor and a practical man in airship construction.”
“That’s famous, Dashaway,” voted Grimshaw, with enthusiasm.
“They are going to push the big craft towards completion just as fast as
they can,” reported Dave. “Mr. King writes that they need me and that he
is financing the project on my account. He wants me to get the
Interstate people to release us, and all of us get to Croydon soon as we
can.”
“Then the trip across the Atlantic is a sure thing!” cried the excited
Hiram.
“Mr. King thinks so.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the delighted lad.
“I hope they count me in,” spoke Grimshaw, a flicker of the old
professional fire and ardor in his eyes. “Since I got knocked out of
service by my bad fall from a biplane, I’ve been pretty well shelved.
I’d like to figure in the biggest aero exploit ever attempted, though.”
“You are going to, if the rest of us do,” said Dave. “Mr. King settled
that in my last talk with him.”
“He did?”
“Yes. He says you understand a dirigible better than he does a
monoplane.”
“I’m pretty well posted on balloons, yes,” asserted the veteran
aeronaut, with a look of considerable pride.
There was little else talked of by the friends but the giant airship the
rest of that evening. Dave, later, devoted an hour to writing a long
letter to the Interstate people. He told them that Mr. King needed him,
and hoped they could find it convenient to release him without delay
from his contract.
Like the real business boy and faithful employe that he was, however,
Dave went through regular routine duty the next day. The agent of the
company brought down his clients that afternoon, and Dave showed off the
_Gossamer_ at her best paces.
The ensuing day and the one next following he made the regular ascents
for the resort people.
The expected reply to Dave’s letter finally arrived. The Interstate
people wrote that they were sorry to lose so valued an employe, and
added a pleasant word concerning Grimshaw and Hiram. They hoped that the
giant airship exploit would be a great success, and announced that at
any time a good position for Dave was open with them.
A liberal check was enclosed in the letter, and the statement made that
a man to take charge of the _Gossamer_ would leave the works for Lake
Linden the next day.
Dave looked around for young Brackett whenever he strolled about the
lake resort and the village. He did not, however, come across either the
youth or the man Vernon. He made some inquiries, and was troubled to
learn that the pair had gotten into a fight at the town hotel, had
smashed up some furniture, and had left the place with a pretty bad
record.
Dave gave a day to his successor, teaching him the ropes. Monday
afternoon he had everything packed up ready to take the train for
Croydon, where the giant airship was under construction. Hiram, who had
been earning very good wages of late, had ordered a new suit of clothes
in the village. It would not be done until the next morning.
“You go ahead, Dashaway,” advised Grimshaw. “There’s nothing to keep you
here, and Mr. King seems to need you. Hiram and I will come on
to-morrow.”
This arrangement was agreed on. Dave took the train, and reached Croydon
about dusk. He found it to be a busy little manufacturing city near the
coast. From what Mr. King had written him, and through some inquiries,
Dave was soon on his way to the so-called aerodrome, where the giant
airship was being built.
An old roofless molding shop had been utilized for the construction. It
looked lonely and deserted as Dave came up to it. The windows were
boarded up, apparently to keep out prying eyes. The big front doors were
closely padlocked, and a temporary canvas roof was in place.
The street lamps of the city ran out to the factory, and nearby were
some houses. Dave felt sure that Mr. King and the others had taken
living quarters in the vicinity. He had no doubt that a little inquiry
would result in locating them.
Dave walked around the old plant, thinking a good deal of the proud
hopes that attached to the big airship inside. The upper pair of windows
of the place were not boarded up. Dave’s eyes chanced to be scanning
these as he was about to cross the street to where the houses were.
“Hello!” he cried out sharply, in a startled way.
A sudden flash, bright and dazzling, shot across the whole row of
windows from the interior of the building. It resembled the illumination
made by a sudden powder blast, but there was no report.
“Why, what can that be?” exclaimed the bewildered young aviator.
Dave bent his ear and listened. No sound broke the stillness. He could
not figure out the circumstances for the moment. He was puzzled, and yet
reluctant to leave the spot without learning what the mysterious flash
portended.
“Someone!” spoke Dave, suddenly.
Then he broke into a run. Mystery had become suspicion. Against the
light of a corner lamp, he saw, away down the length of the building,
the outlines of a ladder. Its top rested on the sill of one of the upper
windows.
The window was open. Through the aperture a form had quickly scrambled.
Dave felt sure that some underhand work was in progress.
“Hey, there; who are you? What are you up to?” he shouted.
As he challenged, Dave ran towards the ladder. The person descending it
hurried his progress, leaped from it, cast a hurried look at the
approaching youth, and darted across the street.
Our hero noticed that he held in one hand a small black case about ten
inches square.
As the fugitive turned the street corner he looked again to see how
closely he was being pursued. The lamp light fell full upon his face.
“The mischief!” fairly shouted the amazed young aviator. “It’s Jerry
Dawson!”