Dave Dashaway, Air Champion: or, Wizard Work in the Clouds

CHAPTER XVIII
A STRANGE MESSAGE

“Too worried to eat,” spoke Hiram Dobbs to himself at supper time. “Too busy to do any sleeping to-night.”

Dusk had settled down over the International grounds as he sallied forth after an impatient hour spent in waiting for darkness. He locked the hangar, and turned in the direction of the Syndicate camp.

“Slow, and cautious, and sure,” murmured Hiram. “I’ve got plenty of time, and I must be careful not to muddle matters through any haste. It’s Borden, first and foremost. When I locate him I’ll find some way to attract his attention.”

Hiram followed the fence, keeping away from casual pedestrians and crowds. He passed the hangar next in the line to the Syndicate camp. About to approach nearer, Hiram stretched himself carelessly along a slanting fence support as though taking a rest, for a man was coming towards him. It was one of the “White Wings” battalion, Hiram at once made out. The man wore the white khaki uniform of the men supposed to keep the grounds in order. He had a pronged stick, and slung at his side a light but deep basket.

Whenever he came to a piece of paper, rags, or the like, he would spear the same, and transfer it to his basket. Daytimes the sanitary squad kept the streets in order. Early in the evening they went about gathering up the refuse that littered the grounds.

Hiram decided to wait till the man got out of the way before he approached nearer to the Syndicate camp. He noticed that the man had an uncertain gait. He missed spearing several pieces of paper. One the wind kept scurrying along every time he neared it. Hiram would have been amused at any other time. Finally, in trying to corner a whirling fragment of paper, the man stumbled and fell flat, the basket on top of him.

“Here, let me help you,” proffered Hiram.

“That you, Palen?” spoke a sharp voice, as the unfortunate man was mumbling out his thanks to Hiram. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Hiram turned to observe one of the lieutenants in charge of the grounds-workers.

“Late again, and in a fine condition, aren’t you?” demanded the newcomer in a stern, censuring tone. “You’re discharged, do you hear? You’ve been careless for the last two days.”

“Yes, sir – bad cold. Not feelin’ well. Don’t like this job anyhow,” the man mumbled.

“Well, get through with your work, if you’ve sense enough to do it, and draw your pay. We can’t have your kind around here.”

The official walked away with these words. His subordinate steadied himself against a fence-support, and watched the other disappear. Then he threw the spear-stick to the ground, tossed the basket after it and muttered glumly:

“All right. Sick of the place anyhow. I’ll do no more work!”

Hiram had been casually interested in the episode. Suddenly it suggested an idea to his quick mind. He took a dollar bill from his pocket.

“Say, my friend,” he spoke, “I like exercise. You lend me your jacket and hat, and I’ll give you that, and do the rest of your work.”

“Well!” murmured the man stolidly. “Must have lots of money to waste it that way. That’s a bargain. Leave the old coat and hat where they’ll find it, will you? There you are,” and the speaker divested himself of the bulk of his uniform, and went off with the dollar, chuckling gleefully.

Hiram waited till the man was out of sight. Then he went to the side of a path and proceeded to daub his hands and face with dust. The clumsy jacket came nearly to his knees. The hat was helmet-shaped. It dipped both front and rear and well shadowed his face.

“I think I’ll do. I can surely pass for what I pretend to be, if I don’t get where it’s too light,” decided Hiram.

A more industrious “white wings” never worked on the International grounds. Hiram seemed to have eyes for every stray fragment of rubbish. He boldly invaded the precincts of the Syndicate camp. Just inside several hangar’s men were playing cards, smoking and conversing.

“I don’t see anything of Mr. Borden,” soliloquized Hiram disappointedly. “There’s Worthington, though, and his special man, Valdec.”

The humble, dust-covered grounds-man picking up rubbish, suggested nothing suspicious to the two men, as Hiram poked around a bench on which they were seated engrossed in earnest conversation. Hiram speared an empty cigarette box not three feet away from the foot of Valdec. He approached close to the side of the bench making a great ado of kneeling, and picking up the fragments of a torn programme of the meet.

“Yes, I’ve got the altitude stunt fixed for good,” he overheard Valdec observe.

“How is that,” inquired the big Syndicate manager.

“A dummy barograph,” chuckled the trick aeronaut. “Oh, I’ll beat ten thousand feet easy as pie! The Ariel might have made it, but – pouf! We’ve got that off our minds, more’s the luck! You’re sure there’s no chance of Dashaway coming on the scene to spoil things?”

“Dashaway won’t get away,” coarsely laughed Worthington. “I sent Borden down with Terry to double the guard on him this afternoon.”

Some one hailed the manager just then and the talk ended. Hiram’s spirits drooped. Borden had been sent away from the meet before he could get any further word to the Ariel hangar. For some time Hiram hung around, hoping to overhear some indication as to the place where his chum was undoubtedly held a captive. His energy was unrewarded, and he returned to his own hangar.

“I know two things,” he reflected, but disconsolately, as he tossed restlessly in bed some hours later. “Dave is alive – the Ariel is gone. Another thing; we won’t be in this meet. Poor Dave! How will it all come out?”

Hiram was fairly frantic when the next day passed, and there was no word from Bruce. The next morning he had decided to proceed to see Mr. Brackett himself, fearing that something had happened to his messenger, when Bruce himself appeared.

“What news? Quick!” spoke Hiram, in great excitement. “What kept you?”

“I was delayed. Mr. Brackett was away until yesterday afternoon. He listened to my story and asked me a hundred questions. Then he sent a note to you. Here it is.”

Hiram was so eager and anxious that he fairly tore a folded sheet from the hand of Bruce. Quickly his eyes scanned its contents.

And thus it read:

“Go right on, the same as if Dashaway and the Ariel were ready for the contest.”

CHAPTER XIX
ARIEL II

“Hold me, Bruce! I’m seeing things!” gasped Hiram Dobbs, half whimsically.

“You’re seeing Dave Dashaway. Both of us are. Oh, hooray!”

“And the Ariel– ”

“A new Ariel—Ariel II; don’t you see? Brace up – hurry! Don’t you understand that everything has come out all right at last?”

It was nine o’clock in the morning of the great day. All the entrants were expected to report within the ensuing sixty minutes. On the Saturday previous those who had not qualified fully had been ruled out of the competition. Some had not supplied the required data. Some had not been able to promise the delivery of their machines on the grounds before the contest began. Others were mere amateurs in aviatics, with no demonstrated records.

Those had been anxious, unsatisfactory days for Hiram and Bruce that succeeded the strange, yet definite message from Mr. Brackett. There was a ray of hope in his explicit direction to go right on, just as if there had been no break in the programme laid out by Dave the day they arrived at the International grounds. Both Hiram and Bruce were very secretive. They took a flight each day in the Scout. They mingled with the crowds at headquarters. They picked up all the information possible and kept in touch with everything going on.

The Syndicate crowd had gone past their hangar frequently, as if trying to probe what lay behind their composure and system. Twice they had detected a lurker outside the hangar, eavesdropping. He got little satisfaction, however, for the boys suspected his pretense and talked of matters a thousand miles away from Mr. Brackett, Dave Dashaway and the Ariel.

And now, eager, anxious, prepared for disappointment yet hoping, dreaming, they had come down to the grand stand where the inspection of the entrants of the day was to take place.

Valdec and his crowd were very much in evidence. It was characteristic of the juggler airman to assume airs of mystery, distinction and oddness. He wore a score of trumpetry medals, and gave a reckless swing to his machine as he circled the grounds and alighted the nearest to the stand occupied by the judges. It was plainly to be seen that he believed himself the hero of the day. Worthington strutted around followed by his contingent, some of whom were to take part in various minor contests after the first day. It had been depressing to Hiram to note the buoyancy and assurance of this crowd. It nettled him to think that for him the meet, and all appertaining it to, was a hollow farce without his chum. Then came the climax. Nearly all the contesting air craft had reported, and were in full view inside the roped off space near the starter’s box. It lacked thirty minutes of the stroke of the bell that would exclude all delinquent contestants, when Bruce, seated on a bench, suddenly nudged his companion.

“There’s a beauty,” he remarked and Hiram lifted his rather gloomy glance to inspect a speck of activity cutting the air like a swift yacht on a clear water course.

Far to the south the stranger was evidently making a bee-line direct for the center field. Other eyes than those of the boys began to inspect the approaching biplane. As it came nearer its graceful outlines, its perfectly true maneuvers, caused attention and speculation among expert airmen about the stand. The Valdec crowd had become interested. Then the strained gaze of Hiram Dobbs wavered and he burst forth with the characteristic outbreak:

“Hold me Bruce – I’m seeing things!”

Then in a sort of delirious transport he allowed his equally excited comrade to drag him towards the center field with the ringing announcement that:

“Everything has come out all right at last!”

As they hurried along Hiram stripped off his coat. It revealed him in flight trim, neat and natty, for he had prepared for his very best appearance, not knowing what might turn up. He threw the garment to Bruce with the words: “Take care of it.” Then: “Dave! – Dave! – Dave!” he shouted, tumbled over a rope, and, regaining his feet, stood still, for others had gathered about the Ariel II.

“Everything’s fixed!” gloated Hiram, eager with delight. “Oh, but this is grand!”

Mr. Brackett had suddenly appeared from among the crowd. With him was the manager of the meet, and two other officials. Hiram fancied that the manufacturer was dilating on the points of the new machine, for he moved his hand about, making a sweeping movement over this and that portion of the beautiful mechanism.

Hiram fixed a look upon the chum of whom he had such good reason to feel proud. Never had the young aviator looked so completely at his best. Dave’s eye was bright, his face bronzed with sunburn. He wore an entirely new outfit. He was paying respectful but intelligent attention to the questions of those about him.

“I wonder,” breathed Hiram suddenly. He turned squarely around. It was in the direction of the Syndicate airship. They had named it the Whirlwind. Its pilot had just alighted.

Valdec stood holding to one of the wings, as if spellbound. His lower jaw had fallen, his face was a picture of amazement and discomfiture. To Hiram his usually sneering lips seemed drawn and white as he put some question to Worthington, who stood at his side.

The latter muttered something. Then his head went forward until his big, full neck showed. It was something like a mastiff baffled of its prey. Hiram Dobbs laughed, he could not help it – a joyous, boyish, delighted laugh, and those about the Whirlwind heard him. He received a menacing glance from Valdec. Worthington scowled darkly and showed his teeth.

“Dave!” cried Hiram again, watching his chance, and bolting past several persons engaged in admiring inspection of the new Ariel.

His chum leaped from his seat and their hands met. Their eyes also. In those of his tutor, and close friend, Hiram read nerve and courage. Somehow, he had a sure conviction that Dave Dashaway had come upon the scene at the last moment determined to win.

Not a word passed between them. Too many were listening, and Hiram had sense enough to copy the pleasing composure of his leader. The signal for clearing the field was given from the judges’ stand. Hiram waved a hand joyously at his chum, and got under the ropes. He made out Mr. Brackett and hurried after him, to find Bruce at his heels. The latter did not have the professional badge which had admitted the others to the field.

“Ah, Dobbs!” greeted the big manufacturer, as Hiram crowded up to his side. “And you too, Beresford? Taken care of everything, of course?”

“Just followed orders – sure!” replied Hiram, nodding energetically.

“It paid; didn’t it?” intimated Mr. Brackett, with a wave of his hand towards the new machine and its pilot.

“I should say it did!” cried the impetuous young airman. “Oh, how did you ever bring it all about?”

“Through one of the friends you and Dashaway seem to have the faculty of gaining everywhere you go,” answered the manufacturer.

“Was Dave shut up bad – or long?”

“No. Within twenty-four hours of his capture he was at our plant and has been practicing every day since. As to the old Ariel– what do you think of Ariel II?”

Hiram was satisfied for the present with the brief explanation made. In his own mind he could readily reason out that Borden had, in some way, been instrumental in the escape of Dave.

“They’re getting ready,” broke in Bruce. He was bubbling over with excitement and exultation. Mr. Brackett had led them to a section in the rows just back of the big stand. He had seated himself comfortably, but his two young guests were unable to keep still, and stood up and moved about, buoyant and expectant.

“Plain sailing,” announced some one from the next section, reading the programme, and a smile of satisfaction showed on the face of the big aeroplane manufacturer.

There were twelve entries for this number, for it was a free-for-all, purposely allowed to give air craft builders a chance to show their machines. Hiram and Bruce had eyes only for Dave and the new Ariel. It left the ground at the signal, smoothly and promptly.

“Self-starter,” spoke the complacent manufacturer to his young allies. “For grace, lightness and accuracy we back this, our latest machine, against the world.”

Even to Hiram, daily in the past the companion of Dave Dashaway in his marvelous cloud-work, the aspect of the new machine was a revelation. Its progress was noiseless, its sweep sure and scientific. Within five minutes after the general ascent was made the boys had but to listen to the comments going on about them, to realize that on a popular vote Ariel II would be awarded the prize.

Some of the contesting pilots could not sustain a protracted flight, some of the machines did not work smoothly. The contest narrowed down to six, then to three. The Whirlwind showed great rapidity, but was erratic and shifty at volplane work and drift. Finally Valdec descended. Dave’s last competitor followed his example. The Ariel floated to anchor, buoyant as a swan gliding to rest.

Fifteen minutes later the official marker ascended the little platform on which rested a great ruled-off blackboard. He set at work on event number one.

Hiram’s eyes were snapping. Mr. Brackett drew a long breath of mingled assurance and suspense.

“Hurrah!” yelled Bruce Beresford irrepressibly. Hiram flung his cap up in the air. Mr. Brackett beamed on everybody, and the crowd went wild.

“Event No. 1 – Winner, Machine number five,” the man wrote. That was the awarded numeral of the Brackett entry. “Pilot – Dashaway. Points – thirty.”

Thus read the chronicle of the initial event on the big programme, awarding to Dave Dashaway the first victory of the meet.

CHAPTER XX
BEATEN

Hiram Dobbs was whistling like a nightingale, Bruce Beresford was polishing up the brass work of the new Ariel for the fifth or sixth time, when suddenly Hiram made a derisive sweep with his handful of cotton waste towards two passers-by – Valdec and one of his crowd.

“Hah!” uttered Dave Dashaway’s assistant – “you’ve had your claws cut short this time!”

Safe and sound, more than hopeful, and very happy felt the young pilot of the Scout. Hiram could defy all his foes now. Day and night, half a dozen men from the aero plant formed a perfect cordon around the hangar which housed the almost sure winner of the International, as Hiram insisted on putting it.

There had been a sort of jollification conference the evening before in a room at the grounds clubhouse, where the manufacturer and his three friends felt free to discuss affairs in general without the fear of intruders or listeners. It was there that Dave explained his recent adventure at the sand dunes. His capture and the destruction of the old Ariel had been the result of a well laid plot on the part of the Syndicate crowd and their allies.

It was Borden who had saved the day. Hiram’s heart warmed anew towards the tramp artist as he realized how loyally the latter had repaid the slight kindness they had shown a homeless wanderer at the Midlothian grounds.

“Mr. Borden warned you too late, Hiram,” explained Dave, “but he found a way, a little later, to be doubly useful in our interests. The men who made me a prisoner at the sand dunes and burned up the old Ariel I had never seen before. I was taken perhaps thirty miles in a closed wagon, tied hand and foot, and guarded by a balking fellow, so I kept pretty still.”

“Where did they take you, Mr. Dashaway?” the interested Bruce had asked.

“To an old building in a big town over the state line. It must have been a factory, at some time or other. It had all gone to ruin, and they kept me in a room in the boiler house, with a heavy iron door to it. The Syndicate crowd sent Mr. Borden down to help their man guard me. I don’t know how he managed it, but he got entire charge of me, and let his supposed fellow watchman lay around the town. The first night he got a wire to Mr. Brackett who came down for me. Since then I have been practicing near the Aero Company’s plant, and watching our new beauty of a biplane grow into the finest craft of its class in the world.”

“And Mr. Borden?” pressed Hiram curiously.

“I don’t think the Syndicate crowd had the least idea that I was free until I showed up on the grounds here,” declared Dave.

“What’ll they do when they find out he’s hocussed them?” asked Bruce.

“I have supplied our good friend, Mr. Borden, with the means of going about where he pleases,” observed Mr. Brackett with a smile. “They won’t find him unless he wants to be found, you may rest assured of that fact.”

“And are those fellows to be allowed to go scot free after all they’ve done!” cried the indignant Hiram.

“I hardly think we will disturb them if they leave us alone – at least for the present,” replied the manufacturer. “You see, Hiram, we might not be able to fasten the plot directly upon them. It is still my opinion that Vernon, our old time enemy, is the main actor in all these outrages, although he has pretty cleverly covered up his tracks.”

“Well, so far – everything is fine!” declared the volatile Hiram. “Oh, Dave, if you only win the altitude contest to-morrow!”

“The new Ariel can do its share,” insisted Mr. Brackett.

“I shall try to do mine,” added the young aviator modestly.

“Fifty points!” murmured Hiram. “Score that and you are sure of the big prize,” and Hiram had a vision of that official blackboard marker giving to his chum the second award in the International contest.

Four machines besides their own were listed for the altitude contest and the Whirlwind was among them. The first thing the observant Hiram noticed as they reached the center field was that Valdec wore his ordinary sailing jacket. Dave was fully prepared for any cold he might run into. Besides that, at his side, was a light, round tank with a coil of rubber hose running from it.

“We’re testing an emergency oxygen supply, if the air gets too rarefied,” Dave explained to Hiram. “It may work in quite well when we get up above ten thousand feet.”

“Oh, Dave, you can’t hope to do that!” exclaimed his young assistant.

The manager and a helper visited the five machines while the rules of the contest were being read by his secretary. The barograph of each biplane was examined, sealed up and put in place. Three hours was the time limit allowed, the pilots to select their own course.

There was some cloudiness, but no wind, and the five machines made a splendid initial rise. The Whirlwind was all for speed. Dave took it more slowly. Within fifteen minutes the five crafts were scattered to all points of the compass. They became mere specks as a lower strata of cloud haze obscured them. Then they vanished from view as a denser upper cumulus enveloped them.

At eleven o’clock one of the contestants came back to the grounds because of a break in the control. A comrade competitor gave up the contest a quarter of an hour later. Number three reported itself out of the race at noon.

“It’s the Ariel and the Whirlwind,” went the rounds of the stand. Everybody was wrought up to a great pitch of doubt and suspense. The clouds still obscured all sight of the clear sky.

“There’s one of them!” burst out a voice and there was great excitement as an air craft came sailing swiftly into view.

“The Whirlwind,” spoke a man with a pair of field glasses.

The Syndicate machine came to anchor as Worthington and his allies rushed toward it. Valdec stepped out of the biplane smiling and profuse in his bows. He joked and laughed as the expert removed the barograph, hastened to the judges’ stand and then placed it in a strong tin box and locked it in.

“Here’s the other!” The shout announced the Ariel. In about twenty minutes the boys and Mr. Brackett were crowding about it. The machine was dripping with moisture, and as it touched the ground its pilot removed his head gear, and fell over to one side, gasping for breath.

“He’s collapsed!” exclaimed an attendant and ran for water. They lifted Dave out of the machine. Mr. Brackett and Hiram supported him. The expert had removed the barograph. They made Dave swallow some water, rubbed his hands, and finally he opened his eyes. He smiled vaguely.

“I made it,” he spoke with difficulty. “Nearly went under, but I had set my mark – over eleven thousand feet.”

“You couldn’t! It’s ahead of any record! He’s dreaming!” blurted out Hiram.

“The barograph says so – I’ve won. I knew I should,” murmured Dave. “Get me somewhere to lie down. I’m weak and dizzy.”

“What’s that!” suddenly spoke Hiram, turning sharply as they were leading Dave over to the club house.

They were at a point where they could not see the blackboard. Hiram noticed a great crowd about it. Cheers rent the air. A man bolted from the mass, bareheaded, excited, rushing down the road wildly. Hiram recognized him as one of the Syndicate hangers-on.

“What is it?” was demanded of him by an inquisitive pedestrian.

“Record smashed!” came the breathless but triumphant reply. “Valdec has won – 12,350 feet!”