THE NEW HELPER
Bruce replaced the cap back over his injured ears and smiled at his two
friends.
“No, not exactly football,” he replied. “It was worse than that.”
“Whew!” whistled Dave. “You must have been ‘up against it,’ as Borden
would say.”
“Up against a grindstone; yes,” assented Hiram. “Go ahead, Bruce, and
let’s hear about it.”
“It’s a long story about how my father died, and how Martin Dawson got
hold of his estate,” began the homeless orphan. “I’ll tell you all the
particulars of that some time, and maybe you can advise me, and help us
to get our rights. Old Martin Dawson has treated me meanly. He hired me
out to all kinds of hard work, and half-starved me, and kept me in
rags. As I told Hiram when I first met him, Mr. Dawson had a regular
set of bad men around him. They were all rough characters. There was
one fellow who traveled with circus shows. His name was Wertz. It was
about two years ago when Mr. Dawson farmed me out to him. Wertz tried
to train me for the trapeze, but I wasn’t limber enough for that. Then
he said he would use me in his knife-throwing act. He made me stand
against a wooden shield while he threw knives at me. I’ve got two bad
scars on my body now, where he missed, and the knives cut into me. Then
one day when practicing he clipped off a little piece of my right ear.
I ran away from him then, but he got me back. I made him agree that
after that he wouldn’t aim at my head, only my arms and the rest of my
body. One night at a circus, though, he got reckless. He aimed at my
ear—the left one—intending to set a circle of knives all around my
head. One clipped my other ear, as you have seen. It hurt dreadfully,
and I fainted away. The audience was roused up about it, and the humane
society got after Wertz and he ran away. Then I went back to Mr.
Dawson. A doctor fixed up my ears, but they are not quite healed yet.”
This story aroused the sympathy and interest of Dave, and he decided to
employ Bruce. The watchman, Dennis, was called away by a partner to a
country fair and Bruce was installed as watchman in his place. The
young airman knew he could trust him and he found Bruce willing and
grateful.
“You see,” proceeded Hiram, “it’s only six days to the meet. Monday the
contests begin, and we want to get everything in ship-shape order.”
“That is true,” agreed Dave. “What is it you have to suggest, Hiram?”
The latter drew from his pocket a double printed sheet and handed it to
Dave.
“I got one of the first programmes,” explained Hiram.
Dave scanned it casually. He had been informed in advance, as had most
of the entrants, of the nature of the various contests. Towards the
last, however, something new and unexpected met his glance.
“‘Mail delivered—twenty stations, minimum altitude two hundred
feet’—what does that mean?” and he looked keenly at his assistant as
the latter began to laugh and chuckle.
“That, Dave,” answered Hiram with a great deal of satisfaction, and
some pride—“that means me.”
“Oh!” observed quick-witted Dave, thinking back, and guessing hard,
“those leather bags——”
“You’ve hit it,” acquiesced Hiram. “The idea came to me while we were
practicing at the Midlothian field. I reckoned it wouldn’t be hard to
work up the management to including a mail delivery feature in the
programme, so I set to practicing. And I’ve been at it on the sly ever
since,” added the speaker with a laugh.
“Go ahead, Hiram,” encouraged Dave. “You don’t usually stop half way,
and you have got more than that to tell.”
“Why, yes, I have,” admitted Hiram. “When I was a boy—I mean a real
little fellow—I was always good at pitching quoits, and such things. I
was the local champion at ‘Duck on the Rock.’ I saw an article in the
newspapers discussing the idea of establishing an airship route to
deliver mail bags. I practiced. First, Dave, I was going to tell you,
and have you work up the idea. Then I thought how busy you were
and—well, I’ll wager you I can win the twenty point score on the mail
feature over anybody in the contest.”
“Well; twenty points isn’t to be sneezed at,” commented Dave briskly.
“It may be a saving clause for us.”
“I suggested that programme number to the management,” went on Hiram.
“I showed them the newspaper article about it. Now of course a lot of
fellows will be getting in trim for it, but don’t forget that I have
had three weeks’ practice ahead of them. Oh, Dave, I forgot till
now—another thing: I met the policeman you took in the _Ariel_ after
that diamond robber.”
“What did he say, Hiram?”
“The man died without coming back to consciousness. Those diamonds will
never be found now, unless they locate the partner he passed them to.”
“Have you seen anything of Borden lately?” asked Dave.
“I’ve seen him, in fact I’ve passed right by him at the Syndicate camp
half a dozen times, but he turns away, or scowls at me. It’s part of
his ‘acting’ you know. He isn’t ready to report to us yet, but I know
he will when he is ready to do us some good.”
Dave went away alone an hour later for a flight with the _Ariel_ over
the sand dunes.
“It’s a good time to clean house,” suggested Dave to Hiram, before
leaving, and the latter and Bruce, following his orders, cleared out a
lot of rubbish that obstructed the garage space. This they proceeded to
burn up.
“Here’s a box with a lot of catalogues, and some papers in it,” said
Bruce, lifting the article from the top of a barrel.
“Dump them into the fire,” ordered Hiram.
“Maybe they are some good,” suggested Bruce, looking over the litter,
and then he uttered so strange a cry that Hiram regarded him curiously.
Bruce had taken from the box and unrolled a sheet of manilla paper. It
was the one which bore the crayon portrait of the man who had tried to
blow up the two airships at the Midlothian grounds.
“Hiram,” spoke Bruce in a quick troubled tone, “where did you get this?
I know that man!”
“You do!” exclaimed Hiram, pressing closely to his side. “Who is he?”
“It’s the man I told you about—the knife-thrower, Wertz,” was Bruce
Beresford’s reply.
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