A FRIEND IN DISGUISE
“Dave, I’m famous!”
Hiram Dobbs burst into the little space just beyond the threshold of
the hangar, which he had called “the office.” The partitioned-off
corner held some chairs and a table. Dave was busy glancing over a
catalogue of aeroplane accessories, and he looked up with an
inquisitive smile at his excitable assistant.
“Well, what now, Hiram?” he questioned.
“Look—your picture, my picture, the burning building, the _Ariel_.
‘Daring aeronaut’—that’s you. ‘Heroic assistant’—that’s me. See, isn’t
it great!”
The impetuous speaker had just come in from breakfast. He spread out a
morning newspaper. Its first four columns held a vivid description of
the warehouse fire. There had certainly been reporters at the scene,
and photographers also, for four excellent pictures illuminated the
printed page.
There was one scene of the swoop of the _Ariel_ to the roof of the
building where the stenographer had stood, with clasped hands gazing
helplessly down at the awed crowd, fourteen stories below.
Then there was a view of the ruins after the fire, showing a low
smouldering heap, all that remained of the skyscraper.
When the _Ariel_ had last landed, the photographer had made a close
snap shot of pilot and assistant. The aeroplane, Dave, and Hiram were
all clearly shown. The final picture was a view of thousands of persons
waving hats and handkerchiefs in enthusiastic adieu to the machine
disappearing over their heads.
“It’s a smart fellow who did that story,” declared Hiram. “Regular
poet, too. ‘Nervy young aviator,’ ‘heroic lone figure of the handsome
young fellow who ran the risk of his life to save a poor frenzied
girl.’ Hum! I’ll have to look out if I’m in that list. How they learned
who we were, and got your whole history, Dave, shows positive genius.”
“We were not interviewed,” responded the young airman, “so I suppose
they naturally traced us here, and got their information from the
manager. It makes quite a pleasant thrill, to see ourselves pictured as
doing some good in the world; doesn’t it?”
“I know some folks who didn’t have any pleasing thrills over the
affair,” remarked Hiram.
“Who is that?” questioned his chum.
“The Syndicate crowd. I came past there from the restaurant. One of
them had a morning paper. Valdec saw me and scowled. Worthington looked
up, and I saw his lips move as if he were wishing us up at Halifax.
They don’t wish us any good luck I’m sure. But at headquarters the
manager was delighted. He came up to me when I was eating breakfast,
clapped me on the shoulder and smiled all over. ‘Tell Dashaway he’s
given the meet a capital advertisement,’ he said. You see, it mentions
that you will be one of the contestants in the International, Dave.”
Hiram was in good humor over the event. He whistled and sang in his
routine work about the hangar. Dave was his friend and he was proud of
him, and not for a moment doubted that he would “scoop up every prize
in sight,” as he expressed it. When his chum sent him after some frame
tape, down to the supply depot on the grounds, Hiram purposely took a
detour by way of the Syndicate camp.
“Guess I’ve got a bad streak in me somewhere,” he chuckled, “for it
sort of satisfies me to think we’re making that crowd wriggle.
Hello—well, never! Oh, say, hello!”
Hiram walked on with sudden activity. He was passing the central hangar
of the Syndicate people, when he noticed a man twenty feet ahead of
him. This individual chanced to turn his face sideways. In an instant
Hiram recognized him, and the youth came to a sudden stop for he ran
squarely into the man.
“Mr. Borden!” Hiram cried. “Say, I’m awful glad——”
“Hush!” came the caution.
It was the tramp artist. He was now neatly dressed. The frowsiness he
had shown at the Midlothian grounds was gone, and he seemed prosperous.
As he evidently in turn recognized his friend of the past, a glad gleam
came over his face, and then he became flustered. He seized Hiram by
the arm, turned his back to the people near the hangar, and whispered
quickly:
“Not a word! No names! Act out what I start in on.” And then in a tone
of affected ferocity he gave Hiram a vigorous shake. “Who are you
running into, clumsy!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Get away
from here, and stay away!”
He gave Hiram a swing and a push. For only a moment was the latter
bewildered. Then he was almost stunned. Amid the jeers of the Syndicate
crowd near the hangars he went spinning almost twenty feet, stumbled
and slid flat on the ground for a yard or two.
“I’ll get even with you!” he yelled at Borden, shaking his fist at him,
affecting a boylike rage at his mistreatment, and then setting off on a
run as his pretended assailant made a feint of pursuing. “Oh, say,”
continued Hiram to himself, “Dave must know about this right away.
‘Acting,’ Borden called it. Good! Great! I see through it now!”
Hiram forgot about his errand for the time being. He was a quiet
thinker, and he fancied he had made a big discovery. He rushed in on
his chum, flustered, perspiring and gasping for breath.
“Dave,” he almost shouted, “that man—the tramp down at the
Midlothian—you know—”
“Yes,” answered his chum, “Mr. Borden—what about him?”
“He’s here! He’s with the Syndicate crowd. I saw him. Listen,” and the
words piled over each other recklessly as he recited his recent
adventure. “Now what do you think of that? Plain as the nose on your
face. ‘Acting,’ see? I took him unawares. He’s playing a part—for our
benefit!”
“I believe you’re right,” agreed Dave thoughtfully. “It looks that way,
anyhow. I don’t know why he should be so interested in our affairs and
go to a lot of trouble to help us——”
“I do,” pronounced Hiram energetically. “I saw more of him than you
did. He’s no ordinary tramp. You treated him like a gentleman and he
appreciated it. You have a way of making everybody like you, Dave.”
“Thank you,” answered the young aviator, “but how about Valdec and the
Syndicate outfit, Hiram?”
“I meant everybody good,” corrected Hiram. “That proves my argument.
Borden is good. He shows it, good all over and all the way through. I
think he has some track of the fellow whose picture he drew and that
the trail led him straight to the meet here. Don’t you see? Vincent is
in with Worthington and his crowd and Borden has found it out.”
Dave did not reply to the suggestion, but in his own mind he secretly
sided with the views of his imaginative assistant. From the manner in
which Borden had just acted, it would seem that his being with the
Syndicate crowd was no accidental connection. If its motive lay in a
friendly move on behalf of the airship chums, it was certain that the
tramp artist had discovered something of value.
“If things are as you say,” spoke Dave, “we will be sure to hear from
Borden in some way before long. It is evident that he does not want us
to recognize him as a friend. That being so, he will act with caution
in getting word to us.”
“You’ll find out I’m guessing right,” asserted Hiram, “you’ll find out
that this Vernon, out of revenge, and because he’s paid, is working for
Valdec to get us out of the contest.”
Hiram was much excited the rest of that day, expecting word from
Borden, which did not come. The episode of the morning had somewhat
disturbed Dave. If there was a systematic plot on foot to keep the
Ariel out of the lists, extreme vigilance was necessary.
The management had a night patrol, but more to look after things in
general than each individual hangar. Dave had known one Dennis Rohan at
a former meet he had attended, a man who traveled about selling favors
and souvenirs. He was an old man with one limb, crippled, not very
active in getting about, but sober and reliable. Until the meet opened
he had nothing particular to do. Dave sought him out. He arranged that
Rohan was to act as watchman of the hangar, coming on duty at dusk, and
remaining until daylight.
The usual practice of the day was gone through that afternoon. Hiram
showed a good deal of restlessness, however. Just before supper Dave
came up to him where he sat on a bench near the hangar looking in the
direction of the Syndicate camp.
“See here, Hiram,” spoke the young aviator, “you’re letting this Borden
affair get on your nerves, and it won’t do. I’m looking out for tricks,
and things will develop of themselves. Get your mind in a new rut. What
do you say to a flight out over the lake? It will be moonlight shortly
after dark and the air spin will make us sleep soundly.”
“That suits me,” proclaimed Hiram, his usual animation restored—“you
mean in the _Ariel_?”
“Why, just as you choose. If you want to take the _Scout_, it will give
you fine practice.”
“That will be fine,” said Hiram, and just at dusk, after their evening
meal, he ran the _Scout_ out of the hangar near the high fence
surrounding the grounds, and busied himself seeing that the machine was
in perfect trim for the flight.
Dave was similarly employed with the _Ariel_, inside the hangar. He was
ready to start out, but glancing at his watch and discovering that
Rohan would be due on his night duty within a few minutes, he decided
to await his arrival to give him some instructions.
“She’s in prime trim,” voiced his young assistant outside, as he
climbed into the pilot seat and ran his hand over the various wheels,
levers and buttons, to see that everything was in order. “Why doesn’t
Dave come?” and he was about to give a customary signal whistle when he
exclaimed with a start “Hello! what’s that, now?”
It was a shot, just outside the fence, and it was followed by shouts.
Then there was a scraping sound on the surface of the outside of the
boards.
“I declare!” cried Hiram, as a human head bobbed into view over the top
of the fence. There was another shot. “Hi, you! what’s up?” challenged
Hiram.
In a great hurry, the owner of the head pulled himself into view. He
dropped to the inside, stumbled, recovered himself and then glared all
about him. His glance lit on the machine and then on its pilot.
Whoever he was, whatever his purposes, the sight of the outfit seemed
suddenly to infuse him with an idea. He gave the machine a push, sent
it spinning ahead, ran around to its side and leaping up began climbing
over the planes.
“Here! here!” shouted the astonished Hiram, “get off there. You’ll
smash things.”
“Start her up,” ordered the intruder, “do it quick, without a word, or—”
The speaker must have known something about flying machines, for with a
dexterous move he landed in the cockpit. As he did so, he completed his
menacing words by holding a pistol close to the head of the startled
Hiram Dobbs.
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