TWO IRONS IN THE FIRE.
When Major Squiers arrived he greeted Morey cordially.
“Lieutenant Purcell and Mr. Wright, between them, have given me a most
flattering account of you, my son. I wish we had a few such boys in the
corps.”
“I’m anxious to enlist,” Morey exclaimed at once.
This was Lieutenant Purcell’s chance. He was not slow to express
his own views in opposition to Morey’s desires. But, perhaps to his
surprise, Major Squiers did not agree with him.
“The science of air navigation,” the elder officer insisted, “is yet in
its infancy. In the nature of things the army is intensely interested
in the development of both dirigible balloons and aeroplanes. In some
respects I think the study of this problem is as important as the
solution of new naval problems. As a means of offense and defense
the army is compelled to keep abreast if it does not lead in these
experiments. And we mean to do it. But, for the greatest success, we
must have brains. We must have just the intelligence that this young
man possesses. Naturally, those who are to assist us, should be under
military direction and control; they should be soldiers. And they
must begin in the ranks. But I know of no department in the service
where promotion is so sure and certain. Nor do I know of any other
opportunity for a young man to get a technical education at so little
cost to himself. Instead of dissuading the boy, I think he should be
encouraged.”
“There, you see,” exclaimed Morey turning jubilantly to Lieutenant
Purcell, “isn’t that what I said? Will you enlist me?” he asked eagerly
facing Major Squiers again.
“You’ll have to obtain your parent’s consent. If you can, I’ll be glad
to do so. And I’ll guarantee to make an aviator out of you in a mighty
short time.”
Until dinner was over nothing was said about Colonel Marshall’s
secret. Lieutenant Purcell had not yet seen the packet. But, with a
few words of explanation from the younger officer, Morey produced the
precious package from his inside coat pocket. The two military experts
immediately adjourned to the library and began an investigation. Morey
was a little surprised and disappointed that there was no outburst of
astonishment. As they proceeded slowly through the faded pages, talking
to each other in low tones from time to time, he became nervous. After
all, what if his father’s idea meant nothing at all? What if their
land was worth no more than Judge Lomax said? Enlisting in the Signal
Corps would not help him out of his predicament. In fact, it would be a
selfish abandonment of his mother.
When Major Squiers had at last finished the long manuscript, which
Morey himself had not attempted to read or understand, he lit a cigar
and waited for the younger officer to finish his examination. Again
they spoke together. It was in a low tone and Morey refrained from
listening. Lieutenant Purcell made a calculation and shook his head.
Morey’s heart sank.
At that, the elder officer motioned to the boy to approach.
“My son,” he began, “I assume that you are willing to let me take this
matter--I mean these papers.”
“Certainly,” answered Morey. “I have no idea whether they are of
value, but if you will be good enough to look into them, I shall be
very grateful.”
“You are quite sure no one has seen them?”
“Other than my father, no one. I have not even tried to read them
myself.”
Lieutenant Purcell glanced at his superior officer.
“He has an idea that may mean a great deal,” said Major Squiers. “In
carrying out his theory of turning liquid hydrogen into free gas again
he has also suggested an apparatus that may solve a difficult problem.
We won’t try to go into it technically, my son, but I want to show
these drawings to the department. Will you trust them to me?”
Overjoyed, Morey gave ready acquiescence. Then he exclaimed:
“Do you think I could have his machine patented?”
Major Squiers laughed and shook his head.
“My son,” he explained, “that apparatus is one of the missing links in
the theory of carrying liquid hydrogen in balloons. The government of
every progressive nation is now searching for it. If we decide that
your father’s plans are practicable I will undertake to say that the
War Department will buy them outright. But they will never be patented.
It will be an aeronautical secret to be guarded jealously from the rest
of the world. Are you prepared to sell them outright?”
Morey sprang up radiant. He took the loose sheets from the table, put
them tremblingly in order and placed them in Major Squiers’s hands.
“You are to do with them whatever you think best. I have no suggestions
to make, and no conditions.”
When Major Squiers had gone, Morey, enthusiastic as a child, laid his
arm on Lieutenant Purcell’s shoulders.
“Lieutenant,” said the boy, “why are you so good to me?”
The young officer grew suddenly sober, was silent a moment, and then
said:
“Because I can see how hard you are working to make a good man out of a
very foolish boy.”
That was a new thought for Morey. Hurt by it at first, he cogitated
over it a long time before going to sleep that night. At last, lying in
his bed, he smiled. “Wasn’t I the limit?” he said to himself. “Buying a
four hundred dollar engine on a capital of seventy-five cents!”
Lieutenant Purcell’s official duties demanded his attention until noon
the next day. But, after luncheon, it was arranged that he and Morey
were to go into the city in an electric car and open up negotiations
as to selling his mother’s land or borrowing money on it. Morey
saw at once that the negotiations under way would be extended over
several days. He had no desire to force himself upon his new friend’s
hospitality and he had found it impossible to tell his host that he had
but $1.88 in funds. After puzzling over the matter some time he decided
to take advantage of his unoccupied morning to dispose of Betty. He
would thus be beyond the necessity of borrowing funds to cover his and
Amos’ expenses for a short time.
Amos had not wandered far from the lieutenant’s quarters. Fear of the
guard house kept him close to the kitchen. Calling the black boy, Morey
visited the military barn, secured Betty, gave the enlisted hostler a
quarter for his good nature, and drove out of the reservation.
When Morey turned old Betty’s head to the west, Amos for the first time
showed signs of life.
“Da’s right, Marse Morey. Le’s go back home. Dis no place fo’ we all.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Amos? It’s a lucky thing they didn’t
keep you in jail.”
The black boy shook his head and then as the reservation was gradually
left behind he began to show boldness.
“Ef dem soldiers did’n have no guns I reckon I’d show ’em.”
“Look here, you rascal, you were scared to pieces. Don’t get so brave.
We’re going back again.”
“We gwine back to dat soldier place?”
“We certainly are, and if I hear any more bragging out of you I’ll tell
the soldiers.”
Amos shrank perceptibly.
“Dat soldier man ’sulted me.”
“You’d better forget it,” remarked Morey curtly. “I’ve had to forget
several things in the past few days.”
As soon as he had passed beyond the more pretentious country places
Morey turned into a cross road, and at the first thrifty-looking
farmhouse he pulled up. In fifteen minutes the faithful old Betty
had been sold for $30, surrey thrown in, and Morey and Amos were on
their way back to the fort, toiling and sweating beneath their bag and
bundles.
“How come yo’ did’n leab dese in the barn?” panted Amos.
“Because,” explained Morey, “since Lieutenant Purcell has insulted you
I thought you wouldn’t want to sleep and eat in his house. We are going
in to Washington.”
“He did’n ’sult me ’bout eatin’. I had roas’ beef las’ night,” Amos
retorted, smacking his lips. “I ain’t fussin’ ’bout stayin’ dar.”
Morey was in no mood for further discussion. When he reached the
trolley line he boarded a car and a few minutes later had crossed the
river and was in Georgetown. Keeping a vigilant lookout he finally
discovered, as the car crossed Jefferson street, in the vicinity of a
river basin and a maze of railroad tracks, a cheap hotel. As soon as he
could stop the car he made his way back. He could get two rooms at the
rate of fifty cents each a day, without meals. A bargain was struck and
the boys took possession of adjoining apartments. It was a hotel for
railroad and dock laborers. Neither rooms nor surroundings were very
savory, but they were reasonably clean.
Amos was in somewhat of a panic when he learned that he was to be left
here until night.
“Whar’ I gwine to eat?” was his first question.
“Amos,” said Morey with a laugh, “you don’t appreciate your good luck.
See that bed? It has sheets on it. You haven’t had sheets in years.”
“No, sah. I don’ want ’em. Dey ain’ gwine keep me wahm.”
“And this apartment is yours. I don’t know how long we’ll be here. But
make yourself at home.” He took out of his pocket four silver quarters.
“I’ve paid for your room. Down near the dock you’ll find places to
eat--fried fish and pork and bread and coffee.”
“How much dat gwine cos’ me?” exclaimed Amos, a grin on his usually
somber face.
Morey took up a quarter.
“Never,” he said with a frown, “never, so long as I am paying your
bills, spend more than two bits for a meal.”
“No, sah,” responded the black boy. “Ah knows dat--two bits.”
“And now,” said Morey, “you can eat and sleep until I come back. And
don’t get lost. Be here by six o’clock or I’ll send the police after
you.”
Morey still had time for his toilet. Unpacking his bag he got out fresh
linen and while Amos brushed his clothes and shoes he took as much of
a bath as he could get. This done, he locked their rooms, took Amos to
a drug store, treated the happy black boy to an ice cream soda, started
him back toward the “Basin House,” their hotel, and then boarded a car
for Fort Meyer.
There was a vigorous protest when he explained that he had removed Amos
and their baggage to a hotel.
“But how about the horse?” asked Lieutenant Purcell.
The facts had to come out. Once started, Morey concealed nothing.
The officer laughed.
“Morey,” he exclaimed, “you’ll certainly win out. I don’t blame you.
You were more than welcome here, but I suppose I would feel the same
way that you do. However, if you run out of funds before something
turns up, remember this--I accepted your hospitality as to the trout
stream.”
Morey laughed in turn.
“That was in my foolish days. We didn’t own any more of that trout
creek than you did.”
Within an hour after luncheon the officer and Morey were in the city
and in a well-known real estate and loan office. A clerk passed them
on to Lieutenant Purcell’s friend, who gave Morey’s long story his
personal attention. The manager began shaking his head at once. But,
when Morey mentioned Major Carey and the Barber Bank, he took a new
attitude. Turning to his desk he looked in an index and then, excusing
himself, went into the outer office and after some minutes returned
with several documents.
“Do you know the Hargrave farm of one hundred and twenty acres,” he
asked, calling Morey over to his desk.
“I don’t know how many acres he had,” answered Morey, “but Mr. Hargrave
used to live next to our corn land. Don’t any one live there now?”
The manager turned to Lieutenant Purcell.
“The old Richmond Trust Company made a good many peculiar loans out
there in Rappahannock County. It loaned this man Appleton, who had a
tobacco piece, five thousand dollars on one hundred and twenty acres.
It sold the mortgage to a client of ours and he had to foreclose. I
thought I recalled the transaction when your friend mentioned the
Barber Bank and this man Carey. Carey bought the land less than a year
ago and paid forty dollars an acre for it.”
These business details confused Morey.
“Looks as if Major Carey was out for something soft,” commented
Lieutenant Purcell.
“Our land’s worth as much as the Appleton place,” exclaimed Morey, who
had grasped that much of the situation.
“Leave me your address,” suggested the manager. “I’ll send a man
out there on a quiet investigation. These country banks are great
boosters--for themselves. You’ll hear from me in a few days. It isn’t
improbable that I can be of help to you.”