A HEAVY DATE
Grace Palmer, Curlie Carson learned at once, was the daughter of
Professor Palmer, and sister to the child whose life he had done much to
save.
“You brought her medicine. You saved her life. She is my only sister.”
The young eyes were filled with honest tears of gratitude.
Curlie hated tears. They made him feel awkward and out of place.
But Grace Palmer was not one to spill them needlessly. She was a girl of
purpose and strength. Grace Palmer, Curlie would discover soon enough,
was not the average type of girl. Reared beneath the shadows of stately
university buildings, she had unconsciously acquired something of their
quiet dignity. At this moment she wore a hand-tailored suit of dark blue
broadcloth. The suit made her appear a good deal older than she really
was.
Yes, Grace Palmer was a dignified person. She was possessed of a good
mind, and her father had seen to it that her mind was trained in the art
of thinking. For all that, beneath the almost severe broadcloth coat
there was a heart that was capable of beating very fast at the thought
of mystery and adventure. She was not sorry to be on her present
mission.
“Father has classes,” she explained. “He teaches. I am studying, but my
periods are all in the afternoon. He asked me to drive out here and
thank you. He—he also wanted me to ask you if the—the way you delivered
our package got you into any trouble.”
“It has,” Curlie said, rather bluntly. “Plenty.” He was tired; wanted to
clean up and rest. Anyway, what could a girl do?
“My troubles,” he said, taking a step toward the door, “don’t matter.”
“Oh, but they do!” Impulsively her hand gripped his arm. “We—we owe you
so much. We can help, I am sure. Won’t you let us? Won’t you tell me
about it?”
Curlie could not resist this appeal.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.
“But,” he added, as a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, “if I
fall asleep, you must waken me.”
He led the way to the fresh outdoor air. There he dropped upon a bench.
He told his story briefly. But to his own surprise, led on by the girl’s
expressions of sympathy, excitement and consternation, he told it well.
“And,” she exclaimed as he finished, “you say the man went east from the
museum? Perhaps he went over to the island.”
“Island?” Curlie stared. “There is no island off that shore.”
“Oh, but there is one, a mile and a half long. There are to be others.
Men make them with dredges and dump trucks.
“It’s really quite an old island,” she continued. “Trees on it twenty
feet tall and some shacks where men live; three or four shacks.”
“Shacks? Men?” Curlie’s voice was full of suppressed excitement.
“Perhaps the man who stole that package lives there. Perhaps the package
is there still.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that may be true. Shall we go and see?”
Curlie paused for thought. A film seemed to close over his eyes.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Not now. I’ve reached my limit.
I’m no good.”
“You need rest,” she said quickly. “But can’t I come back for you later?
It’s really considerable of an island. I go there often. And truly I
think it’s worth looking into.”
“Yes,” Curlie acquiesced, “you come. Any time after six.”
Ten minutes later in the airport bunkroom he lay quite still, lost in
deep sleep.
He was awakened in mid-afternoon by a newsboy calling his papers. As he
listened, still half asleep, he thought he caught words that sounded
like “Air Mail.”
He was out of his bunk at once. Had it appeared in the papers—his story?
He threw up his window and sent a coin rattling to the pavement below.
“Bring one up,” he shouted. The boy pocketed the coin, waved and
disappeared.
He reappeared almost at once by the bunkroom door, with a cheerful:
“Here y’are, mister. All about the Air Mail robbery.”
Curlie dropped down on his bunk and stared in amazement. There it was,
on the front page of the afternoon scream-sheet. Two planes in mid-air;
this drawn by a staff artist. His own plane on the ground; a real
photograph. And his picture in the oval inset.
He read the story breathlessly. There was much there that he did not
know. His plane, so the story ran, had been rescued and brought into
port. No damage had been done. The number of mailsacks taken was not yet
known.
The story made him out quite a hero. He flushed when he thought how he
had bungled matters in the end.
“_No clue as to the assailants_,” he read on. “_An unlicensed radio
station, surprised and overhauled in the vicinity of the attack, offered
no real clue._
“_One thousand dollars reward offered by the air transport company for
return of the missing package._”
“Kind of them to make the offer,” he thought. “But that’s one reward
that will go unearned.” Little he knew!
The picture that interested him most was one running entirely across the
top of the second page. In this were shown the smiling, happy faces of
scores of crippled children.
“_Their concert saved_,” was the caption.
“That,” he said with conviction, “is even worth going to jail for.”
Of a sudden he recalled his engagement with Grace Palmer to visit that
island. He looked at his watch.
“Time to dress and have a bite to eat,” he told himself, as he began
hurrying into his clothes.
As he stepped out of the airport on his way to the lunch room across the
street, he all but collided with an old time pal.
“Johnny Thompson, as I live!” he exclaimed.
“Curlie Carson!” Johnny gripped his hand.
The invisible threads of silken dreams that had been drawing them closer
and closer had brought them together at last.
They talked for a moment or two of old times and far-away places.
Then all of a sudden, Johnny started. “But I can’t talk any more now.”
He turned about. “Came here to find an Air Mail pilot.”
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Describe him.”
“I can’t.”
“Then what—?” Curlie stared at him.
“He brought the mail from New York. Was forced down; plane robbed. He—”
“Spare your breath,” Curlie grinned. “I’m the guy.”
“You?” Johnny stared in astonishment.
“Surest thing in the world!”
“Then,” said Johnny, “I’m in luck.”
“Come on over and have a cup of coffee. Got a heavy date with a lady.”
“A lady?”
“Professor’s daughter. Thinking of taking a course in something or other
myself,” Curlie bantered. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Seated on lunch counter stools, devouring ham and egg sandwiches and
drinking coffee, the one time pals told of their experiences.
Johnny listened in silence to Curlie’s account of his narrow escape, his
forced landing, his night wanderings as a messenger boy, his thrilling
adventures in the tunnel beneath the city. When he came to the point
where he had lost the trail of the one who had snatched the package of
rare jewels (if, indeed, the Secret Service man’s statement were
correct) he straightened up and put a hand on Curlie’s arm.
“I’ll tell you what I think.” He was in deadly earnest. “That fellow
never left the tunnel. Why should he? Finest hiding place in the world.
What?”
“No doubt about it. For all that, I think he did leave it.”
“You’re wrong. Come with me to the tunnel, and we’ll find him.”
“Can’t. Got a date to search an island; date with that college girl,
Grace Palmer.”
“An island?” Johnny pondered. “Oh, yes, I remember.”
Johnny did remember many things about that island. Thrilling adventures
had come to him there when the island was younger, as you will recall if
you have read the book called _The Fire Bug_.
“Might be something to it,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, you look that
place over and I’ll take a look at the tunnel. Somehow, we must find
that man.
“Old Greasy Thumb and his pals were at the bottom of this Air Mail
robbery, or I’m a green one. Thing to do is to get evidence, then get
them. Next time they’ll stay in jail.
“One thing troubles me most of all.” His brow wrinkled. “That’s the way
the Chief acts about the whole affair. Then, too, there’s that reporter.
He’s certainly a queer one. You don’t expect to find anything wrong with
a reporter from a paper like the _World_. They’re always on the side of
decency, and honest reform. Oh, well, we may be all wrong about
everything. Time’ll tell.
“You’d better hurry over and keep your date. I hope we’re going to be
seeing a lot of each other.”
“Hope so.” Curlie hastened away.
They were indeed, and the result was to be adventure such as seldom
comes to any one.