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

“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!”

CHAPTER XXI

“FIFTY POINTS”

“You’ve got something on your mind, Bruce! What is it?” challenged Hiram Dobbs.

“Oh, just thinking,” answered Bruce in a way meant to be off-handed, but palpably evasive and embarrassed.

“You can’t fool me!” insisted Hiram in his persistent fashion. “Ever since you took those diamonds back to the police you’ve been mooning. You don’t mean to tell me you’ve caught the detective-fever?”

“Me!” laughed Bruce. “No more chance of that than of running an airship. I’d better correct one false impression you’ve got, though, Hiram.”

“And what is that?”

“I didn’t take those diamonds to the police at all.”

“Didn’t? Well, that’s news!” declared Hiram wonderingly.

“You see, you were all so busy here I didn’t want to bother you about a little thing like that. I took the diamonds back to the people who lost them. I’ve had an idea about those diamonds for some time.”

“You have some good ideas, Bruce – what’s this one?”

“Why, I have felt satisfied all along that the thief had those diamonds when he was escaping in the Scout.”

“We all believe that. What of it?” inquired the young pilot of the craft in question.

“So, I’ve dreamed – only dreamed, mind you – of maybe some time going and looking for them.”

“Ho! ho!” laughed Hiram. “I guess you have no idea of what hunting around the place where the thief landed might mean. If he really had them and lost them, or hid them, or threw them away, there’s half a mile of thicket, gully and creek to go over, with about one chance in a thousand of hitting the right spot. You never ran across such a mixed up place.”

“It’s because I was once right in it all for a week or more that I got interested,” explained Bruce.

“Well, there may be something in your idea, Bruce,” admitted Hiram. “Just now, though, we’ve got more important business on hand. We must add twenty points to our thirty before sundown, you know.”

“Oh, I hope you make it!” said Bruce ardently. “I’ve been worried ever since the Syndicate crowd beat in the altitude work.”

“Beat! who’s – beat! what?” almost shouted Hiram, becoming vociferous, and looking wrathful. “Mr. Brackett and Dave are saying little and thinking a good deal. They may talk out when the governing committee passes on the prizes. I’m doing some guessing myself, and I’d give all I’m worth to see one man for just one minute, and that’s Mr. Borden.”

“Aha!” cried Bruce – “got a secret yourself, have you?”

“Never mind if I have. It isn’t the time to talk about it just yet,” retorted Hiram mysteriously. “I’ve got some common sense, though, and lots of confidence in the word of Dave Dashaway. You heard what he told us about that altitude climate. It nearly finished him, even with that new oxygen device aboard. He was soaked, frozen, exhausted when he landed, wasn’t he? And Valdec wasn’t even damp! Again, Dave says he never caught sight of the Whirlwind over the 7,000 foot level. There’s another county to hear from!” concluded Hiram, “and I’ve got something under my hat.”

“What, Hiram?” asked Bruce, but his comrade only laughed, and walked off to greet Mr. Brackett and Dave, who, at that moment, approached the hangar.

The mail bag delivery contest was one of several set for that day. There were only five entries, the Scout being among the number. Neither Dave nor Valdec were listed as principals, but one of the Syndicate machines had been entered.

It was in the Scout that its pilot had done his practicing and the Ariel was not called into service. A crew of two was apportioned to each machine competing and Dave of course was to take charge of the wheel.

“Looks like a game of basket ball,” remarked Hiram as they drove the Scout over to center field.

The grounds had a two mile circular track, being used on other occasions for motor contests. Around this, and at each corner of the grounds, poles twenty feet high had been set up. At the top of the poles were woven baskets about two feet deep and double that width at their flanging tops.

Poles and baskets were painted white and were conspicuous to the eye for a long distance. There were some twenty-five of these improvised postal stations. That number of bags was put in the cockpit of each machine. Each set was marked with a numeral, those on the Scout bearing the Brackett entrant number, which was five.

The bags had been furnished by the city post office people, were about two by four feet and filled each with twenty pounds of newspapers and old envelopes. The time limit on the stunt was one hour.

“It’s going to be interesting,” Mr. Brackett remarked to Bruce Beresford, who with him occupied an advantageous stall near the central stand.

“The crowd seems to think so,” replied Bruce. “It’s something new, and nearly everybody has a score card.”

Bruce himself was prepared to keep “tab” on the mail deliveries. One, three, five, nine and eleven were in commission, and the machines were sufficiently varied in construction and appearance to enable even a novice to identify them separately when in operation. There was valor and confidence in Hiram’s last hand wave.

“I hope the lad makes his points,” spoke Mr. Brackett.

“It will break his heart if he doesn’t,” declared Bruce. “Why shouldn’t he, though? He’s ahead of the rest of them on practicing, and he’s got an expert pilot in his machine.”

“There’s a hit!” cried a voice near them, and necks were craned and eyes strained to watch a leather bag go tumbling over the edge of aeroplane number three. It landed directly on the basket aimed at – and the crowds yelled at this first sample of a new feature in aviatics.

“What’s wrong?” inquired a curious voice.

The guard stationed under the basket where the mail bag had fallen had stepped slightly away from his post. He had unfurled and was waving a blue flag.

“It doesn’t count,” guessed Bruce readily. “The machine must have been under the low level.”

A great laugh next swept the mob of onlookers. The Syndicate biplane had sent down a bag aimed at another basket. It went so far wide of its mark that it landed on the shoulders of a “White Wings” man thirty feet away, knocking off his hat and sending him scampering as though a bomb had struck him.

“Hiram – good – one!” suddenly yelled Bruce.

“You mean two,” remarked Mr. Brackett quietly a minute later, but with a slight chuckle of satisfaction.

The Scout had made two deliveries into different baskets true as a die. Unlike any of the others, the little machine sailed high, and as it approached a delivery point described a swift swoop. So true were the calculations of Dave Dashaway, that, directly at the turn of the volplane Hiram let loose the mail bag, counting on a forward sway of several feet in the descent.

“Ah – missed! but it hit the edge of the basket,” reported Bruce. Then the fourth one landed directly within its intended receptacle.

There were generally cheers for the Scout, even when Hiram missed on three deliveries. These, however, never dropped more than five feet away from the base of the pole, while some of the other contestants saw their mail bags go half a hundred feet from the goal.

“Seventy mail bags delivered, only thirteen not gone foul, and the Scout scores seven of them,” cried Bruce, half an hour later. “There’s a dive for you – oh, grand!”

Three of the contestants with a decidedly poor showing retired from the field, among them the Syndicate entrant. Nine kept aloft, with three deliveries to its score.

It seemed as though Dave and Hiram were husbanding their strength for a final brilliant exploit. The Scout took a backward swing of nearly a mile. Then at full speed its pilot headed it down the last side of the long track.

“Eight, nine and ten – oh, they’ve made it!” shouted the delighted Bruce Beresford. “Thirty and twenty are fifty. Mr. Brackett, we’re even now with the Whirlwind people!”

CHAPTER XXII

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!”

CHAPTER XXIII

A NOBLE DEED

Whatever the “light” was that Hiram Dobbs saw, he did not share the illumination with Bruce. In fact the latter did not expect it, and asked no questions.

So much had happened during the past two weeks that had tested the sense, courage and good judgment of the boys, that they had come to taking things conservatively, no matter what transpired.

Bruce was aware that Hiram attached a great deal of importance to the discovery of the disguised Borden. The mention of the barograph had decidedly stirred Hiram. Why, or wherefore, the young pilot of the Scout did not just then say. Perhaps outside of a theory he had formed, Hiram could not clearly have told himself. At all events, Bruce was satisfied to wait for further developments at a time when his friend was ready to divulge them.

The long distance flight was on for the next day. It was the big event of the meet, with a large number of entrants, and nothing else much was talked of that evening or the following morning. “Biplane and one passenger,” ran the schedule and Hiram was glad of that.

“It’s a hundred and ten mile flight,” he remarked, “and the winner will come in under two hours.”

“Not with that choppy northwest wind,” reminded Dave. “There is one thing, though: the Ariel is made for all kinds of weather. It really gives the others a handicap.”

The contestants were fully advised as to the rules of the race. The course was laid along the shore of the lake and described a complete semi-circle seventy miles in length. The turning point was at Grand Bay. All along the course men were posted to watch out for any deviation exceeding two miles from the shore line of the lake. At Grand Bay it was a straight away course back to the International grounds.

The Whirlwind came out with Valdec in the seat sneering and arrogant as usual. A youth about the age of Hiram occupied the cockpit. The machines were thus evenly matched. There were eighteen other entrants for the event.

“There’re some pretty good machines in the race, Dave,” his assistant remarked as they awaited the starting signal.

“I see that,” replied the pilot of the Ariel. “We mustn’t miss a point, or lose a yard, on turns or drifting. Is everything all right?”

“As right as could be,” answered Hiram buoyantly. “What’s the programme, a rush?”

“Not at the start. We won’t risk any mix up. Let the others, particularly the Whirlwind, catch a gait. Then we’ll strike the higher level and get a clear course, if we’re lucky enough to outdistance the others.”

The start was very fine. It resembled the progress of a flock of birds trying their wings after a rest. Mr. Brackett looked greatly pleased as the Ariel did just what it had been built to do – rose lightly, made smooth upward progress and showed itself to be a very superior model of grace and efficiency.