Dave Dashaway the Young Aviator: or, In the Clouds for Fame and Fortune

CHAPTER XXI
THE AMATEUR TROPHY

“There’s your machine,” spoke Grimshaw, with a grin.

“My machine?” repeated Dave Dashaway.

“Yes, that’s the biplane I expect to see you handle better than any operator on the field, or I shall be mightily disappointed.”

It was early morning. Just as breakfast was over at the Aegis hangar, Grimshaw had appeared. He had nodded knowingly to Mr. King. Then he had taken Dave in tow; to lead him to his quarters, and back to a shed the doors of which he had just thrown open. The most exquisite little biplane upon which Dave had ever feasted his eyes was revealed to view.

“Why,” exclaimed Dave, “where did it come from?”

“Fresh from the factory.”

“When?”

“Last night. We housed it when everybody was asleep. I suppose you understand, Dashaway?”

“Hardly,” answered Dave in a vague tone.

“Why, what have I been training you for, do you suppose?”

“For this, eh?”

“What else? About a week ago the makers of that little beauty, which they call the Baby Racer, wrote to me asking if they could get a try out on the course here. They are stunting mostly for amateur patronage, and want to make a catchy showing. I fixed things with the show committee four days ago. The people who own the machine pay me one hundred dollars for my trouble. Half of it is yours.”

“Fifty dollars!” said Dave in a rapturous kind of a tone.

“It was hard work getting an extra number on the programme, but Mr. King has fixed that.”

“It’s to be a regular entry, then?” asked Dave.

“Yes, it is, and a silver cup trophy for the best exhibition. Three other new machines are in the contest.”

“But,” demurred Dave modestly, “you can’t expect me, a mere beginner – ”

“To win the trophy?” retorted Grimshaw, in one of his roaring moods. “I certainly do. Why, are you thinking of disgracing all my careful training, by making a fizzle of the chance of a lifetime!”

Dave was nearly overcome. He distrusted neither his own nerve nor the excellent training of his tutor, but the proposition was so sudden it almost took his breath away.

“See here, Dashaway,” broke in the old man, “you’ve done just what I told you in all our training stunts, haven’t you?”

“I’ve tried to, Mr. Grimshaw.”

“Well, you just keep up those tactics right along, and I’ll not steer you into any mishaps. There’s a big bulletin down at the pylon announcing this flight. Now get yourself in trim, to show the airmen what you’re made of. Have the little beauty out and look at her.”

Dave’s fascinated glance rested on a rare combination of grace and utility, as the Baby Racer was run out from under cover.

The machine was not a large one. It was a model of compactness, and had every latest improvement. Grimshaw operated the wings.

“It’s an articulated biplane,” he explained. “See here, where the wings are jointed and spread and close till they look like a big beetle. The fuselage is clear spruce. The landing chassis is made of rattan strips. See those reinforced skids, and that four cylindered aerial motor? The owners said she ought to have a muffler, for she spouts like a blast furnace when she starts.”

Mr. King came up, smiling and looking pleased, while tutor and pupil were looking over the Baby Racer. Then Hiram put in an appearance. He was so excited that he hopped around from place to place, telling Dave that he was the luckiest boy in the world.

By and by the news spread of the arrival of a new model, and a crowd began to gather. Airmen looked over the natty little machine and made their comments, pro and con. One fellow found all kinds of fault. Dave noticed that this was the most unpopular man with all the field, and the employer of the Dawsons at the present time.

“Who’s going to run her?” he asked of Grimshaw.

The old man placed a hand on Dave’s shoulder. The latter flushed modestly. The grumbler gave him a hard look.

“That kid?” he observed disgustedly.

“He’s one of my crack graduates, I’d have you know,” retorted Grimshaw, bridling up.

“That don’t make him eligible.”

“Eligible for what?”

“Running a machine on a licensed course.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. King, stepping up, “but we have arranged all that. Here, Dashaway, keep that about you so you can answer any impudent questions.”

“A pilot’s license, eh?” muttered the fault-finder – “Oh, then of course it’s all right.”

“It’s not a pilot’s license,” Grimshaw told Dave after the fellow had sneaked away, “but it’s just as good as one. It’s a special permit, and Mr. King’s word and influence stand good for you.”

Dave passed three anxious but busy hours up to the time when the extra feature advertised was announced, and Grimshaw and two assistants wheeled the Baby Racer out upon the running course.

“Hop in,” ordered Grimshaw, as the spotless new model was ranged in the row ready for the start.

“There’s the signal,” spoke his assistant.

“Go!”

Dave bounded up into the air, as he got into position in the roaring machine.

Like a gull he soared from the ground and circled about the meadows to the left of the course. The pure white wings of the Baby Racer were dazzling in the sunlight, almost blinding the staring group of spectators.

Dave took in the position of the three other contestants. Then he paid strict attention solely to the directions his proficient teacher had given him.

From a height of several hundred feet Dave cut off the motor and glided within fifteen feet of the earth; then with a new roar the engine started again and up went the mammoth bird.

Not satisfied with his test, Dave speeded up and slowed down several times, and then darted to earth. Before the machine came to a full stop he started again and swooped upwards.

For a quarter of an hour the biplane soared above the course, made a final stop, and came back to the earth within a few feet of the starting place from its sensational flight in the clouds.

Dave caught the echo of vast cheering, and as he was hustled along to the Grimshaw quarters, he was conscious of being slapped on the back, of hearing approving comments. He was a little exhausted and light headed from the unusual spin, however, and glad to sit down in a reclining camp chair and get his breath.

Grimshaw left him with Hiram, who had abandoned work for the hour to give full attention to his friend.

“How did I do, Hiram?” asked Dave.

“You did it all,” declared his enthusiastic champion. “Why, those other fellows just lopped around like lazy flies. Not one of them went up over two hundred feet.”

A little later they heard Grimshaw approaching. He was chuckling and talking to himself.

“A big advertisement for my aviation school, hey?” he cried, bursting in upon the two friends. “Dashaway, when you get rested just drop down to the office and get that trophy.”

“I’ve won?” cried Dave.

“Skill, rapidity and altitude – all three points,” was the glad announcement of the old aerial engineer.

Mr. King came into evidence a few minutes later.

“I’m pretty proud of you, Dashaway,” he said, in his hearty, forcible way. “This means a professional dash pretty soon, I can tell you.”

About an hour later Dave and Hiram were making their way to the Aegis hangar. As they passed one of the temporary refreshment stands they came upon a crowd of five boys.

“It’s Jerry and his crowd,” whispered Hiram.

“Don’t pay any attention to them, Hiram,” answered Dave.

“I shan’t, unless they pester me,” replied Hiram.

With Jerry was the young rough, Brooks, the boy Dave and Hiram had detected behind the pile of benches. Three others Dave recognized as young loafers who followed the meets, working only occasionally.

They did not break ranks as they came up abreast of Dave and Hiram, halting them, which movement seemed preconcerted on their part.

“Say, think you’ve done it, don’t you?” sneered Jerry, looking straight at Dave. “Well, make the most of it. You’ll never take another fly.”

“Why won’t he?” challenged Hiram, making an aggressive forward movement. But Dave held him back.

“Because I’ve got you – got you right, this time, Dave Dashaway. Back to nature, back to the farm for you – ha! ha! ha!”

And Jerry’s companion joined him in his mocking jeer as they passed on their way.

CHAPTER XXII
A NIGHT ADVENTURE

“Hold on, Dave.”

“Don’t stop me.”

“Well, I declare!” cried Hiram Dobbs.

The country lad, developed into a first class “field” man, was almost thrust aside by the young aviator.

Dave Dashaway had certainly won this latter distinction during the past week. The morning of the cup trophy with the Baby Racer had been a start in the right direction. Two days later Dave had accompanied Mr. King in a non-stop race across the country, adding to the victory laurels of the popular airman, and to the vast store of practical experience that the lad had already acquired.

Mr. King had now filled all the numbers on the programme for which he had entered. He had promised Dave some “real work,” as he termed it, at the next meet. Then there had come an opportunity to enter Dave and the Aegis in a one hundred mile dash in which over half-a-dozen contestants were to take part.

For this, the most pretentious “stunt” he had yet attempted, Dave had been practicing all that day. Now, late in the afternoon, he and Hiram had strolled into the town. They were just passing the leading hotel of the place, when Dave grabbed the arm of his companion so suddenly and excitedly that Hiram regarded him in wonder.

He noticed that Dave was staring fixedly at a handsome blue painted automobile. That machine had just sped from the curb, a chauffeur in charge, a faultlessly dressed young fellow lolling back in the tonneau. Dave gasped, watched the auto whirl down the street at rapid speed, and then made a wild rush as if bent on following it.

“Hold on, Dave.”

“Don’t stop me.”

“Well, I declare!”

Dave had run out into the street. Hiram kept pace with him, wondering what in the world it all meant. Suddenly Dave turned in his course. He made a sudden dash for the curb where several taxicabs stood. Reaching one, of these, he touched the arm of its chauffeur waiting for a fare.

“Quick,” spoke Dave, “follow that blue car.”

“Hey, hello, who are you?” challenged the men, staring at Dave vaguely.

“Oh, afraid of your fare?” retorted Dave. “Here, I’ve got over fifty dollars in my pocket book.”

“He’s Dave Dashaway,” put in Hiram, as if that meant everything. “He works for Mr. King – you know him?”

“That crowd is good enough for me,” at once announced the chauffeur. “Jump in. What’s your orders?”

Dave sprang into the tonneau. The marvelling Hiram followed his leader. He could not imagine what Dave was up to, but he had confidence enough in his associate to feel that Dave knew his business on every occasion.

“That blue car, the one that just left the curb,” began Dave, leaning over towards the chauffeur, who had touched the wheel promptly.

“Collins’ car, yes,” nodded the man.

“Follow it till it stops,” directed Dave.

“That will be at Genoa.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard the fare give the order.”

“Well, keep it in sight. Can you do it?”

“Trust me,” responded the chauffeur, starting up his machine.

“Don’t catch quite up with them. I want to get off when that boy stops.”

“All right.”

The chauffeur speeded up. As he turned the next street corner the rear red lights of the blue auto could be seen a square distant.

Dave settled back in the comfortable cushioned seat like a person letting down after a severe strain.

“Dave Dashaway,” broke in Hiram at length, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, “what does this mean?”

“Why, you heard me tell the chauffeur what I wanted,” said Dave.

“You are following that boy.”

“Yes.”

“Why, Dave?”

“Because I want to find out where he lives,” replied Dave.

“Who is he?”

“You remember my telling you about being robbed in a lodging house at Brompton, just before I came to Fairfield?”

“Oh, yes. You mean by the fellow who got Mr. King’s medal and watch and money?”

“That’s it.”

“A boy with a scar on his cheek?”

“Exactly.”

“Has this one, in that automobile?”

“I didn’t see. I didn’t have to,” replied Dave. “It’s there, though, don’t doubt it, for that is the fellow who robbed me.”

“Sure?”

“Oh, yes, I’d know his face among a thousand.”

“Why don’t you have him arrested?”

“If there had been a policeman in sight I would have done that, on my first impulse,” declared Dave. “There wasn’t and I’ve had time to think.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Follow him to Genoa, find out where he stays, and make sure of getting him before he knows that I am on his track and becomes alarmed.”

“That’s so. What you’re thinking of, too, I suppose, is Mr. King’s property?”

“That’s it. Of course this boy thief has disposed of it, but if I get him cornered right he may be glad to tell where it is.”

Dave relapsed into thought, laying out his plans as to the boy in the auto ahead. Hiram had never been in an automobile before. He gave himself up to the enjoyment of the invigorating breeze and the rapid spin.

“Say,” he broke out finally, as a new thought struck him, “that boy you’re after looked pretty finely dressed up, didn’t he?”

“It seems so,” responded Dave.

“And hiring an automobile, too. He must have lots of money.”

“Stolen, probably,” said Dave.

The chauffeur seemed to thoroughly understand his business. He kept the blue car always in view, but progressed so as not to awaken any suspicion that he was following it.

Genoa was about twenty miles distant. The blue car did not proceed very fast. It stopped at a little town on the way. Its passenger smoked a great many cigarettes, and seemed enjoying an easy, luxurious ride.

Dave’s car kept near to the blue auto as they reached the outskirts of Genoa. Finally the blue car halted in front of a hotel. Its passenger leaped to the curb, took out a roll of banknotes, and ostentatiously paid the chauffeur.

“Stop right here,” Dave ordered. “I’ll be back soon.”

He got to the sidewalk, and was directly in front of the hotel as the boy he was following strutted through its entrance with an important air. As he came under the full glare of the electric light, Dave caught sight of the tell-tale scar on his cheek.

The fellow did not much resemble the lodging house boy. His hair was neatly cared for, his clothes were of the most expensive kind. For all the world, he suggested a person with plenty of money to spend and wealthy relations.

The boy went up to the desk of the hotel clerk, who bowed and smiled to him as though he was some favored and welcome guest. The clerk handed him a key, and the boy went over to the elevator and stepped in. Dave quickly hastened to the desk.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I wish to see the young man who just got his key.”

“Yes, room 47. Take the elevator,” vouchsafed the clerk.

“Thank you.”

Dave waited till the elevator had come down. Then he went up to the fourth floor. He went down a corridor, scanning the little porcelain numbers on the doors.

“Here it is,” he said eagerly to himself – “No. 47.”

A light showed through its transom. Tap – tap – tap! Dave knocked smartly on the door panel. Some one, whistling and bustling about within the room, moved to the door, unlocked it, and Dave stood face to face with the boy who had robbed him in the lodging house at Brompton.

CHAPTER XXIII
A GREAT SURPRISE

Dave looked the boy he had followed and run to cover squarely in the eye. There could be no mistake as to his identity. The scar on his face showed plainly. For all of his gay clothes and jaunty appearance, the fellow had the same repellant features that Dave had noticed at the lodging house the night he was robbed.

For a minute the fellow looked surprised. Then his memory quickened to recognition. He turned pale, his lips trembled, and he blurted out unsteadily:

“W – what do you want?”

“I want you,” said Dave simply and sternly.

Quick as a flash the boy thief realized his situation, it seemed. He made a move for which Dave was unprepared. Making a light spring, one hand extended, he swept Dave clear of the threshold of the room, and sent him crashing back against the other wall of the corridor.

Before Dave could recover himself the door was violently slammed shut. Dave heard the key turn in the lock. Then there were hurried movements about the room.

Dave was mad at being outwitted. He was determined, too. He threw himself against the door, but could not budge it.

“Open this door!” he shouted, pounding upon the panels. “It will be the better for you.”

No attention was paid to this. Dave continued to hammer on the door.

“You’re a thief!” he cried. “I’ll rouse the whole hotel and leave you publicly disgraced if you don’t come out. I want back the property you stole from me, and I’m bound to have it.”

Dave made a spring. His foot landed on the outside door knob. He caught at the tilted transom to steady himself. Just then a figure came hurrying down the corridor. Dave’s foot was seized and he was dragged to the floor.

“Here, what you up to, with all this noise?” demanded his captor, a hall man of the hotel, by his uniform.

“There’s a thief in that room,” cried Dave breathlessly.

“A thief?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He robbed me. He just slammed the door in my face. Have you a key to that room?”

“Why, yes, but – ”

“Unlock the door, then. I’ll face him down for you. You can take both of us to the hotel clerk, and I’ll speak the truth.”

The hall man hesitated a trifle, but Dave’s earnest urging induced him to produce a bunch of keys. Dave rushed into the room. He looked all around it.

“Why,” he cried, “it’s empty! The fellow is gone!”

Dave peered into a closet, under a bed, and then ran to the window. There the hall man was looking at a coat and hat lying on the platform of the fire escape, just outside of the casement.

“This is a queer go,” he said, slowly and dubiously, “but there seems to be something to your story.”

“I should think there was, a whole lot,” declared Dave. “Don’t you see?”

“What?”

“The fellow has escaped. He knew I was bound to get into this room. Those things fell out of his satchel as he got through the window.”

“Yes, his satchel is gone, that’s so,” observed the hall man. “Say, you had better report this to the clerk.”

Dave was very much disturbed and disappointed. There could be no doubt that the boy thief had escaped by the window route. It would probably be in vain to try to follow him now. Dave dashed out into the corridor and ran down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator.

The clerk was talking to a guest, polite and imperturbable. He simply inclined his head as Dave burst forth:

“The boy in 47.”

“Ah, yes!” answered the hotel clerk.

“Who is he?”

The clerk turned the big register around, flipped back a page or two, and set his finger on a name.

Dave read it, and nearly fell down where he stood. He had never been so startled and dumbfounded in his life. The name on the register, written in a big, sprawling hand was —

“Dave Dashaway!”

Dave grasped the marble counter slab for support with both hands. He gasped and started.

“My name!” he exclaimed. “Why, what does this mean?”

“What’s the trouble?” inquired the guest, who had been conversing with the clerk. He could not help but notice Dave’s perturbation.

“Why,” cried Dave, “I followed a fellow here, to room 47. He is a thief. He robbed me of valuable property two weeks ago. He just slammed the door of his room in my face.”

“A thief?” spoke the clerk, arching his eyebrows. “Are you pretty sure?”

“I should think so,” retorted Dave, “seeing that, rather than meet me, he has made off by the fire escape, baggage and all.”

The hotel clerk blinked in his usual calm way, but touched a bell to summon the hall man from the fourth floor.

“And he stole my name,” cried Dave. “Why?”

“Is that your name?” inquired the clerk, pointing to the register.

“It is,” assented Dave.

“Strange. Let me see, forty-seven – Dashaway,” and the clerk went to a case covered with little cards and selected one. “Oh, yes, has been here twice in a week. Prompt pay. Old gentlemen with him here once, grandfather, I believe. Very respectable old man.”

“See here,” said Dave realizing that he was wasting time, “I don’t want to make you any trouble, but I must report this to the police.”

“The only thing to do, I should say,” replied the clerk.

“Where is the nearest police station?”

“Two squares down, one square south.”

“Thank you,” said Dave, and darted away.

He hurried out of the hotel and up to the automobile he had recently left.

“Wait here,” he directed Hiram.

“Is it the boy you supposed?” asked Hiram.

“Yes. I can’t explain now. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Dave was not afraid to face the police on this occasion. He could now use the name of Mr. King. He planned to have the police get promptly on the trail of the boy thief.

Dave located the police station and ran up its steps. At a desk in a large room sat the office clerk, writing.

“I want to report a case of robbery,” said Dave.

“All right, see the lieutenant,” responded the clerk.

“Where is he?”

“That’s his room yonder,” was the reply, and the man pointed to a small room leading off from the main apartment. “He’s off with a squad, but he’ll be back soon.”

Dave moved over to the open doorway indicated. He was greatly excited over all the incidents of the past two hours, and hardly had the patience to wait for the lieutenant.

He decided to go into the room, however, and wait for the official’s return. The minute he stepped across the threshold, however, he was aware that the room held two occupants.

Then Dave Dashaway discovered something else, that was the surprise of his life. First one, and then the other of the two occupants of the room arose in a hurry.

“Why, what luck – the very boy!” sounded one voice.

“Dave Dashaway!” cried the other.

And the boy aviator came to a standstill with a shock, as he recognized his old guardian, Silas Warner, and the sheriff from Brookville.