The Flying Boys in the Sky

She was not Grace Hastings. The detective carried a cabinet picture of the stolen child with whose face he was as familiar as with that of his own child. It showed a chubby, comely little girl, with abundant curly hair, almost black. The one before him had straight, scant yellow hair and her face was thin, as if from recent illness. It would be hard to picture two children of tender years so different in appearance.

Something in the looks of the head of the family was familiar, and it took the officer but a few moments to identify him. You will recall Uncle Tommy, the famous local prophet, who told Harvey Hamilton what kind of weather to expect, when he descended at Chesterton. The man was Uncle Tommy and the others were his wife and child, or possibly a grandchild.

Detective Pendar gave utterance to a forceful exclamation, for he was filled with rage and chagrin. He would have made affidavit a few minutes before, and at any time after his talk with the young aviator, that he had located the headquarters of the gang of kidnappers, with the recovery of the stolen child only a question of a few hours.

He had failed utterly. He had reconnoitered the home of a plain, simple-minded inhabitant, who lived in poverty in this cabin, and was as innocent of stealing a child as Harvey Hamilton himself.

A faint hope held Pendar where he was for a brief while longer. It might be that the abductors had made their home in this cabin, whose owner and wife were under their domination and employ. But brief reflection showed the officer that no supposition could be more preposterous. He backed from the window, careless now whether discovered or not, threaded his course to the trail over which he had come with so much care, and started on his return to Chesterton.

“Josh Billings once said it is so easy for a man to be a fool that he can do so without knowing it. The difference in my case is that I know it; I’m mighty glad that none of the boys will ever hear of it.”

Bitter as were his reflections they brightened as he strode over the trail, to the highway leading to the hotel. Something like hope returned to him.

“I have reason to believe that the gang is somewhere in that big stretch of woods. Young Hamilton mistook the building, which can’t be far off. I have learned enough to be sure on that point.”

But there was no escaping the terrifying truth that the time which remained for him to work out any scheme he might formulate was reduced to hours instead of days. If by midnight of the next day he was still confronted by failure, he was pledged to board the westward bound train with his bag containing fifty thousand dollars, and to throw it off at a point that had been so clearly described that there could be no mistaking it.

“It looks as if that is all that’s left,” he muttered in the bitterness of spirit, “it’s an infernal shame, but I see little hope of any other issue.”

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SEARCH RENEWED

Harvey Hamilton was in the middle of an odd dream, in which a big Irishman was swinging a tremendous hammer and bringing it down on the top of his head with every stroke. The sentiment of wonder is always absent in the visions which come to us in sleep, no matter how incongruous they may be, but the youth came very near feeling surprised at the thickness of a skull that could withstand so terrific attacks.

By and by the slumber lifted and Harvey’s senses came back. He was wide awake and conscious that some one was tapping gently outside. He sprang out of bed and turned the key. As if automatically, the door swung inward and revealed Detective Pendar in the dim gaslight. He stepped within and secured the lock behind him.

“Sh!” he whispered; “I don’t think either of those men is in his room, but we cannot be too careful.”

The night was so sultry that Harvey did not dress, but sat down on the edge of the bed, his caller doing the same, near enough to be touched with the outstretched hand. The time had come for the officer to tell more than was his rule in circumstances of a critical nature.

“How did you succeed?” asked the younger.

“It’s a fizzle so far,” was the reply; “I have inspected that cabin in the woods, where you and I thought the little girl was held a prisoner, but she is not there now and never has been there.”

And then he told his story to the astonished and disappointed listener.

“Understand, no blame attaches to you,” the detective hastened to add; “your mistake was natural and I could have made it as readily as you.”

This was not strictly true. The picture which Bunk Johnson viewed from the biplane would have been analyzed to the point of disclosing the truth, had Pendar been the one who saw it.

“Then I suppose, you will give up the hunt?”

“By no means, but it must end one way or another before we are twenty-four hours older.”

This assertion opened the way for the startling revelation that if Grace Hastings was not recovered before the ensuing midnight, the ransom would be paid by the officer, who had it waiting in the safe of the hotel below stairs.

“Although you mistook the place where the gang are holding her,” added the man, “you came near it. Did either you or your colored friend notice any other house in the woods when you were sailing over them?”

“I gave my attention to the management of the aeroplane after observing the cabin, and could easily have passed several dwellings without seeing them. Bunk spoke of no other, though it is possible he saw one.”

“I have information which cannot be questioned that the spot we are looking for is not far from the home of Uncle Tommy Waters the weather prophet. Had my investigation been made by daylight, I should have pushed it farther, but I was helpless at night. You will have to make another search as soon as it is daylight.”

“I am eager to do what I can, but you must tell me how.”

“Is your negro capable of running your aeroplane?”

“He can when the conditions are favorable, as they promise to be to-morrow; I shouldn’t be willing to trust him otherwise.”

“Good! let him handle the levers then, while you occupy the aluminum chair and give your efforts to spying out the land.”

“Shall we follow the same course as before?”

“Substantially so; he will keep the speed just high enough to sustain you at an altitude of say five hundred feet. You understand that the closer you are to the ground, the narrower is your field of vision, so you will keep far enough aloft to gain an extended survey, and yet not so high that you will lose distinctness of view. I notice that you carry a field glass.”

“Yes; it is of German make and the best in the world; our government sells them only to its army and navy officers; mine belongs to one who is a relative, and who has loaned the instrument to me for life, I making a suitable money acknowledgment therefor.”

This pleasant little fictional arrangement explains how it is that some of these fine instruments are in the hands of civilians.

“You are not likely to need the glasses on this trip.”

“Hardly; the heights from which I am to make the search are so moderate that my eyes will require no help.”

“Then will you loan them to me?”

“With pleasure.”

The detective explained the use to which he expected to put the binoculars.

“I shall take a position that will give me an extended survey over the woods without drawing notice to myself, and after you are fairly started on your aerial voyage, I do not intend to lose sight of you.”

“If I discover the place you have in mind, how shall I let you know it?”

“By signal.”

“They will be likely to see it.”

“Not likely but certain; therefore the message must be of a nature that will not rouse suspicion on their part.”

Harvey could not forbear asking an explanation at this point.

“You said that if your visit to the cabin had been made by daylight, you would have gone farther. Why not do so in the morning?”

“I should if time permitted. You understand that without your aid I should have to make a hunt through the woods. This would not only consume time but would surely be discovered by some of the gang on the lookout. That is why I have refrained and waited for an opportunity to present itself. When you locate the exact spot – and I am sure you will do so – I can go straight to it.”

“Will you not be watched?”

“Quite likely, but I can push on in spite of that. Let us get back to the important point of how you are to let me know of your success. The simplest thing is – I’m blessed if I know,” said the detective, after slight hesitation, with a laugh; “help me out.”

That which at first seemed an insignificant matter threatened to become insurmountable. Pendar’s first suggestion was that when Harvey made his discovery he should swing his cap over his head, but such a signal would be instantly noticed by the kidnappers, who would accept it as a menace.

“Suppose I tell Bunk to swoop downward as if about to make a landing.”

“That would be fully as bad, for the scoundrels would think it was meant to gain a clearer view of them.”

“If we sail upward?”

“That’s it! They can give no meaning to such a manœuver. When you are sure of what you see, direct your servant to go upward at the sharpest angle possible. I shall be the only one who will know what the movement means.”

“It seems to me,” added the youth thoughtfully, “that those two Italians who are stopping at the hotel must begin to suspect you.”

“Not as yet; I count myself fortunate that I have thrown them off the scent completely. There is no doubt of that, though it looks as if there will be a waking up before to-morrow night.”

“You have played your part with skill, Mr. Pendar.”

“I’ll not deny that I feel some pride over my work thus far; but, all the same, I have as yet accomplished nothing, and it is by no means certain that I shall do anything more than pay a set of criminals fifty thousand dollars to give back the child they have stolen.”

At this point Harvey recalled the other matters that had slipped his mind during his previous talk with the detective.

“You know, Mr. Pendar, that since Bunk and I started on our little sail through the upper regions, we have several times run across a curious character called Professor Milo Morgan.”

“I know him well; he is a crank of the first order.”

“He was friendly at first and did me a great favor when I was in danger of being mobbed, but it is hard to forgive one of his acts.”

“What was that?”

“Wrecking my aeroplane, by chopping and battering it to pieces when it was housed under the sheds of this hotel.”

The detective rose from the side of the bed and stood upright in the gloom in front of his young friend.

“What in the name of the seven wonders put that fancy into your head?”

“Why,” replied Harvey hesitatingly, not expecting such an implied contradiction; “it couldn’t have been any one else.”

“Well, it was some one else; Professor Morgan had no more to do with destroying your biplane than King George V.”

The amazed Harvey stared in astonishment.

“Bunk saw him sneaking out of the back of the shed early in the morning, when he went to look at the machine.”

“Did the Professor have an axe or hatchet in his hand?”

“I believe not.”

“Having told you what he did not do, can you now form an idea of what he did do?”

“I suppose he went off in that marvelous monoplane of his.”

“But previous to that?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea.”

“He went to the telegraph office as soon as it was open, and sent your father a long message, giving the particulars of your misfortune. Your father, like the good fellow he is, immediately ordered a new machine, which reached you this morning.”

“I am amazed and gratified,” replied Harvey; “the first chance I have I shall apologize to Professor Morgan.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“He will know that you have been idiot enough to suspect him.”

“But, Mr. Pendar, do you know who did destroy my machine?”

“Don’t you?”

“I have no suspicion.”

“Well, I shall leave you to solve one of the simplest problems that was ever submitted to a ten-year old child. I was so certain you knew the truth at once, that I didn’t think it worth while to make any reference to it when we next spoke together.”

CHAPTER XXVII

BOHUNKUS AT THE LEVERS

Fortunately for Detective Pendar, the room which he occupied at the hotel in Chesterton gave him a view of the immense forest to the westward, over which Harvey Hamilton’s aeroplane was to sail in its search for the headquarters of the men who had kidnapped little Grace Hastings.

The keen-witted officer was right in his belief that he had diverted suspicion from himself, but how long this favorable situation would continue was problematical to the last degree. It seemed impossible to make any effective move without betraying his real character, as well as the business that had brought him to this little country town in eastern Pennsylvania.

Pendar easily learned one fact: neither Catozzi nor Caprioni had occupied their room the previous night, nor did they show up in the morning at the hotel. His theory was that the couple had gone to the retreat in the woods, where they were likely to stay until the ransom was paid for the child. The nearness of the crisis made this reasoning plausible. It followed, therefore, that at the time the detective was threading his way through the gloomy labyrinths, they were doing the same, though over a different course. They and he must have been near each other some time during the night, but it was well he saw nothing of them. While it may be difficult for one person to shadow another in certain circumstances, an Apache warrior could not have trailed two vigilant kidnappers, when they were alert against such a betrayal. The chances would have been in favor of the detective himself being discovered and all his schemes brought to naught.

In his exceeding caution, he continued to meet the two youths as if they were strangers. When the time came for the starting of the aeroplane, Pendar did not join the gaping crowd, but stayed in his room on the upper floor, awaiting the call to use his field glass. He heard the deafening roar of the motor, and a minute later saw the odd looking structure climb from the open space into the upper regions, and sail away to the westward. He saw Bohunkus Johnson, the proudest youth in the whole country, seated in front, with his hands upon the levers, behind him was Harvey Hamilton with a sharp eye upon his movements.

Detective Pendar saw the aeroplane slant upward and travel at a rapid pace. It was not necessary to employ his glasses, and he watched the flight of the machine until it was nearly a half mile away. Then he brought the instrument to his eyes, carefully adjusted the focal distance and did not allow anything to escape his searching vision. His first sensation was pleased surprise over the excellence of the instrument. Every outline of the aeroplane came out clear and sharp, and it seemed as if the two youths were near enough for them to hear him if he spoke in a conversational tone. He noticed that the negro continued to sit straight, as if under the eyes of the crowd that had seen him leave Chesterton, but Harvey Hamilton was leaning slightly forward, like one studying every feature of the landscape sweeping under him.

The several days which the detective had spent in the neighborhood had given him a good knowledge of its topography. He was quick, therefore, to observe that the aeroplane was following a course well to the north of its former one. This was prudent on the part of the young aviator, for it gave him new view instead of the old one which could serve him no further. He was approaching the ridge over which he had sailed the previous day.

As the distance between the watcher and the aeroplane rapidly increased, the detective almost held his breath. He was leaning against the window sill in order to make his posture firm and prevent the slightest wavering of the instrument. With one hand he occasionally turned the little cogged wheel in front so as to keep the focus right, and not allow the slightest detail to escape him.

“He is as far to the west as Uncle Tommy’s house, but a half mile north of that. This will show him all he needs to see in that direction.”

The watcher’s heart began to misgive him, for the machine was fast receding, and though Harvey must be intently watching he failed to make any sign. Even with the power of the field glass, the great bird with its spreading wings began to flicker, and Pendar was no longer able to clearly make out the forms of the youths seated therein.

Suddenly the aeroplane flickered, became indistinct and the nearer margin of the woods shut it from sight.

“Another failure!” muttered the watcher bitterly. “I may as well get ready to hand over that fortune to as vile a gang as was ever disgorged from the mountains of Sicily.”

The upper sash was lowered that he might obtain an unobstructed view of the soft tinted sky beyond. He took care to stand far enough back in the room to be out of sight of any persons in the street below. If either of the Italians had returned, he did not mean they should learn how he was spending the minutes.

“I did not provide last night what young Hamilton should do if he failed to make the discovery on his first, or rather second voyage over the woods. It will be risky for him to come back, but it may look as if he were on a little trial trip with his negro and wished to return so as to take charge himself. If he does that he will take a course to the south of his first trip, and, by Jove! there he comes!”

It gave the detective an expectant thrill to see the ship of the sky swim into his field of vision and head directly toward him. Harvey Hamilton was following the plan which had presented itself to the man. The first flight disclosed the home of Uncle Tommy Waters the weather prophet; the second revealed nothing, and the third, well to the south, must tell the tale. The crisis was at hand.

The officer did not call his field glass into play. The aeroplane was not only plainly visible, but was becoming more vivid every minute. Its elevation was five or six hundred feet, and the watcher breathlessly waited for the sudden shift that was to proclaim the discovery. The machine skimmed through the air without deviation, like a stone when it first leaves the sling, and then the abrupt shift came.

But to Pendar’s consternation the aeroplane instead of shooting upward dived toward the ground!

He snatched the glasses to his eyes. By their aid he saw Harvey Hamilton leaning forward and gesticulating excitedly to Bohunkus Johnson. The deafening racket of the engine rendered his voice useless, but he managed to make his wishes known. In desperate need he might reach the levers, and if anything had gone wrong with the machine this would have been done. But it was quickly evident that there had been a misunderstanding between the two. Bohunkus must have thought Harvey meant him to approach the earth, though it was impossible to land unless some open space presented itself. The dipping of the forward rudder brought the biplane half way down before the controller comprehended what was expected of him. Then he pointed the horizontal plane upward at so great an angle that the ascent became startlingly rapid.

Even in the extremity of anxiety, Detective Pendar could not repress a smile at the sight which the glass revealed. The head of Bunk kept flitting back and forth, in his efforts to handle the machine and to learn what Harvey was trying to tell him. Pendar saw the young aviator shake his fist angrily, and once he seemed on the point of cuffing the heavy-witted youth for his stupidity. For a minute or two the aeroplane wavered and swayed to that degree that it seemed on the point of capsizing, but Bohunkus gradually regained control, and began his manœuvers to land in the open space from which he had ascended. He made a mess of it, the wheels striking the ground so hard that both the boys came within a hair of pitching out. Then the biplane banged over the road, coming to a halt barely in time to escape a disastrous collision with a telegraph pole.

“The next time you want to try your hand,” said the angry Harvey, “I’ll put you in charge of a clam wagon.”

Bohunkus Johnson and Harvey Hamilton having been playmates from young childhood, had indulged in the usual number of “spats” natural to such a relation. They were fond of each other and the colored youth as a rule accepted the criticisms of his friend with good nature; but in the present instance the reproof given him was made in the presence of fully a score of men and boys and was heard by all of them. Several grinned, and had not nature made it impossible, Bunk would have flushed with resentment. As it was, he could not accept the slur with meekness.

“I done as well as yo’ could yo’self. Yo’ told me of I seed a cabin I was to shoot down and knock de chimbly off, and den when I started to do so, yo’ let out a howl dat nearly knocked my cap off. De next time yo’ can ’tend to things yo’self.”

“You may be mighty sure I shall; the wonder is that you didn’t smash this machine worse than the other one.”

“I wouldn’t keer if I did,” replied Bunk, stepping from his seat and striding off. He paused long enough to call back:

“I’m done trabeling wid yo’; I like to hab folks ’preciate what’s done for ’em, which is what yo’ never did.”

“The best thing you can do, Bunk, is to sail for Africa and make a visit to Chief Foozleum.”

Harvey laughed when he made this remark, for he never could feel angry for more than a few minutes with the faithful fellow, and he knew his resentment would soon cool. It did not occur to him that the colored youth’s grievance was due to the tantalizing enjoyment of the auditors. Had they been elsewhere, he would have brushed the criticism aside like so much thistle down, but he could not stand the ridicule of strangers.

“Dat’s what I’ll do,” replied Bunk in response to the absurd counsel of the other.

“All right; bring me back an elephant.”

Bunk had learned that in a verbal duel with Harvey he was always sure to get the worst of it, and he did not venture any reply to the last remark. With an angry sniff he stalked to the porch, dropped into one of the chairs there, crossed his legs and scowlingly watched the actions of his old friend.

Little did Harvey Hamilton dream what the result would be of this brief and somewhat hot exchange of words.

Convinced that the angry fellow would speedily regain his natural good humor, Harvey gave him no further thought. He made a careful examination of his aeroplane, and was relieved to find, so far as he could discover, that it had suffered no harm and was as good as ever.

He was anxious now to meet Detective Pendar, for he had important news for him, but the man was nowhere in sight nor could the youth tell where to look for him.

CHAPTER XXVIII

FIRED ON BY THE KIDNAPPERS

When glancing around in quest of Detective Pendar, Harvey Hamilton failed to look behind him. Some one touched his shoulder, as he stood beside his aeroplane. Glancing back, there was his man.

The time for them to be strangers to each other had passed. Pendar asked crisply:

“How did you make out?”

“I found the spot.”

“Certain there is no mistake about it?”

“I saw the little girl herself; we have located her.”

“Can you take me thither?”

“Yes, but I can’t land; there isn’t enough space.”

“Let me down in front of Uncle Tommy’s home; it isn’t far off.”

“All right; take your seat; I’ll have you there in a jiffy. I didn’t see either of those men.”

“There’s one of them now on the edge of the crowd, toward the porch of the hotel.”

While the detective was seating himself, the young aviator looked in the direction indicated. The Italian, Amasi Catozzi, was standing a little apart from the others, watching the couple as a cat watches a mouse which she expects to come within reach of her claws the next moment. Dressed in a gray, natty suit and slouch hat, he kept his hands in the pockets of his coat, which was buttoned to his gaudy necktie.

The hurried words between the man and boy must have told the truth to the Black Hander. The individual whom he had accepted as a commercial traveler was a professional detective, whose search for the kidnapped child had brought him to this country town and very near the spot where she was held a prisoner. He must have believed, too, that the aeroplane had come thither, not accidentally, but to play an assigned part in the drama. The prospect of the whole daring scheme being brought to naught filled the miscreant with unrestrainable rage. He stood for a moment like a statue, his swarthy face aflame with passion. Then he took several hasty steps forward as if to interfere. The propeller of the biplane was revolving faster and faster, and it began gliding down the moderate slope, preparatory to leaping upward from the earth. Harvey, with hands and feet busy, gave his whole attention to the task, but the shrewd Pendar rightly suspected they were not yet through with the wretch who strode toward them.