QUEER PROCEEDINGS
Hiram and Bruce talked of many matters the rest of that day. The former
was proud and elated over his success, and Bruce would not discount the
greatness of his friend’s feat.
“You beat them all put together,” he told Hiram. “I heard two men
talking with one of the committee near the grand stand. I think they
had something to do with the government postal service.”
“They can’t hire me away from Dave,” observed Hiram with a wink and a
laugh.
“Well, they asked the committee man for the names of the crew of the
_Scout_ and took them down.”
“Oh, it wasn’t much,” insisted Hiram. “All I’m glad for is that it
gives us twenty more points. I feel safe now.”
“What with the big event, the long distance stunt, ahead?”
“There hasn’t been a second that Mr. Brackett and Dave have not counted
on the _Ariel_ winning that particular event,” declared Hiram.
“It’s to-morrow; isn’t it?” asked Bruce. “I hope we have a fine day.”
The conversation took place just before dusk. Then Mr. Brackett and
Dave called Hiram into the little office of the hangar to go over some
details of the morrow’s race. Bruce got through with some cleaning work
about the _Scout_, put on his coat and passed by the hangar entrance.
“Say, you go down to the restaurant and wait for me,” spoke Hiram,
appearing in the doorway. “I’ll be along in about fifteen minutes.”
“All right,” assented Bruce, and he started across the grounds,
whistling cheerily.
It was wonderful the change that had taken place in the appearance and
fortunes of the orphan lad, since his first chance acquaintance with
Hiram Dobbs, and later with Dave Dashaway. As he proceeded to the
restaurant, free, well dressed, with money in his pocket and all worry
about his little sister Lois gone, Bruce felt like a new being.
“If ever a fellow was grateful I am!” he soliloquized. “Those two
friends have not only asked me to stay with them, but really want me to
do it. Even Mr. Brackett has taken a liking to me. He told Mr. Dashaway
to put me on the pay roll at ten dollars a week, and I’m a part of all
this great bustle and excitement going on here. And that scheme of
mine—the diamonds!”
The speaker’s eyes sparkled. He had not told Hiram everything about
them—an interruption had diverted into business channels a conversation
they were holding. Then the winning of the mail bag contest had put
everything else out of the head of the proud young pilot of the _Scout_
for the time being.
Bruce had not taken the diamond stick pins found in the little biplane
to the police. He had ferreted around and had located the people from
whom they were stolen. The robbery had taken place at a large jewelry
store. Bruce had called upon its proprietor.
The latter regarded him at first with some suspicion, for Bruce was
guarded, and felt his way cautiously. He produced the diamonds he had
found, and told his story.
“Why—I’ve come to you, is because I’m willing to give some time to
hunting for the rest of those diamonds if you say the word,” he had
told the jeweler. “I’ve got some ideas. Maybe they’re no good, but I’m
pretty well acquainted around Wayville, the town where the robber was
hurt, and I might stumble across something.”
The jeweler became eager. He was dissatisfied with the police, he said.
He encouraged Bruce in every way he could. He even offered to pay a
reward for the recovery of the stick pins. This Bruce declined.
However, when he left the store it was with a springy step and great
hopes—and the promise of a reward if he found the robber’s booty
thrilled him.
“Why, I’d be rich!” he told himself breathlessly. “I’d have money
enough to fight old Martin Dawson through the courts to the last
finish. Oh, yes—as soon as the meet here is over, I’m going to go to
Wayville. There’s something I know that the police didn’t know, and it
may lead to big results.”
Bruce reached the restaurant dwelling on excited anticipations over the
diamonds, and filled with pleasant thoughts as to his new environment
generally. His mind was fully occupied for about a quarter of an hour.
Then he began to get hungry and impatient for Hiram to arrive. A man
came in rather hurriedly, and went over to a table in a shadowed corner
of the room. Bruce, studying everything going on to pass the time away,
noticed something peculiar about the newcomer.
The latter wore a light overcoat with a well turned up collar. He had a
very dark beard, and wore colored goggles.
“I’ll wager that man doesn’t want to be noticed much,” thought Bruce,
as the man took a seat with his back turned to those at the other
tables.
The newcomer ordered a light lunch. He did not seem to enjoy it much.
He ate it rapidly. Then he kept looking at his watch as if impatient
for some certain minute to arrive. He drew the bill of fare towards
him, fumbled it over, took a pencil from his pocket and began aimlessly
to scribble on its reverse blank surface.
Finally he arose, and, pulling his cap well down over his eyes,
proceeded to the cashier’s desk to pay his check. Just then Hiram came
in at a side door. He slipped into the seat opposite Bruce and fixed
his eyes upon his face.
“Don’t make any suspicious move,” he spoke under his breath and
rapidly. “You noticed the man who sat at the table over in the corner
yonder?”
“The one just paying his check? Why, yes, I’ve been watching him for
the last half hour. He’s leaving the restaurant now.”
“Go after him, don’t delay,” urged Hiram excitedly. “I’ve been watching
him, too—through the window. Follow him, and see where he goes and get
word to me as quick as you can.”
“Why, Hiram——”
“Don’t waste time!” interrupted Hiram almost sharply. “I may be
mistaken—I think not, and this is important.”
Bruce questioned no further. He was used to obeying his friend
implicitly and he had a firm belief that, impetuous as he sometimes
was, Hiram generally knew what he was about.
The minute Bruce was gone Hiram glided over to the table recently
occupied by the stranger. His point of immediate interest was the bill
of fare upon which the man had just been scribbling—Hiram scanned its
surface eagerly. His eyes brightened from surmise to conviction.
“Aha!” he almost cried out. “I was right. It’s Mr. Borden.”
What that might mean to them all Hiram did not know. Why Borden had
appeared on the scene in disguise he did not know, either. All Hiram
considered at that moment was that the tramp artist had proven a good
friend in the past. He had not come to them of late, and probably had a
reason for it. He would scarcely venture in the vicinity of the
Syndicate crowd unless he had another reason.
Borden might have been a tramp once, but he presented that appearance
no longer. Artist he still was, for he had idly sketched many faces
upon the bill of fare because it was natural for him to do it.
Hiram had been nearing the restaurant when he saw the man enter it.
Something in the free, careless swing of the stranger had reminded him
of their old friend of the Midlothian grounds. He had watched him
through the window. Now he had verified his suspicions.
“What is it going to lead to?” he meditated impatiently and sat
drumming his finger tips nervously on the table, waiting for his friend
and messenger to show up.
Worthington, Valdec and three others of the Syndicate crowd strolled
noisily into the restaurant. The coincidence of their arrival made the
thoughtful Hiram wonder if Borden had been timing their movements.
In about twenty minutes he saw Bruce enter the doorway, so Hiram arose
quickly and jostled him back into the street.
“Never mind supper for a bit,” he said, leading his companion to a
distance from the restaurant. “The Worthington crowd are in there and
they might be snooping around if we got to talking. The man you
followed—what about him?”
“He slipped away from me,” reported Bruce with some perturbation, “in
the most remarkable way.”
“Where did he go?” pressed Hiram.
“To the Syndicate hangar. Most of that crowd were getting ready for
supper. The man you sent me to follow went in around the camp in a sly,
slinking way as if he knew his bearings pretty well.”
“He did, indeed!” murmured Hiram.
“I thought,” narrated Bruce, “that he had got away from me, when he
came bolting out from the big hangar. I hadn’t seen him go in. He had
something in one hand wrapped up in a piece of cloth, a bag I took it
to be. He ran straight for the fence. I got behind a tool shed and
watched him.”
“Go on,” urged Hiram eagerly.
“Well, one of the electric lights shone pretty bright just there. The
man put his parcel on the ground. Then he took something from his
pocket and slipped it across one ankle. I took it to be a band with a
hook to it. He must have had another hook in his hand for he ran up
that fence and vanished over the top of it like a monkey.”
“But the package he brought from the _Whirlwind_ hangar?” asked Hiram.
“Oh, yes—I came near forgetting that. When he set it on the ground the
wrapping fell away from it and I saw what it was.”
“And what was it?” asked Hiram.
“A barograph, just like the one you have in the _Ariel_.”
“Are you sure?” eagerly asked Hiram. “A barograph, you say?”
“Yes,” repeated Bruce, wondering at the earnest, excited manner of his
comrade. “Even at the distance I was I could see the record reel and
the metal recorder, and—why, what are you grabbing my arm that way
for?” inquired Bruce in surprise. “And you’re trembling all over.”
“Should think I would!” declared Hiram Dobbs, his tones quivering with
the satisfaction of some great discovery—“I see the light at last!”
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