Produced by Sean Pobuda
Or Daring Adventures Over The Great Lakes
By Roy Rockwood
"Telegram, sir."
"Who for?"
"Dave Dashaway."
"I'll take it."
The messenger boy who had just entered the hangar of the great prizemonoplane of the aero meet at Columbus, stared wonderingly about himwhile the man in charge of the place receipted for the telegram.
The lad had never been in so queer a place before. He was a lively,active city boy, but the closest he had ever seen an airship was adistance away and five hundred feet up in the air. Now, with bigwonder eyes he stared at the strange appearing machine. His fingersmoved restlessly, like a street-urchin surveying an automobile andlonging to blow its horn.
The man in charge of the place attracted his attention, too. He hadonly one arm and limped when he walked. His face was scarred and helooked like a war veteran. The only battles this old warrior hadbeen in, however, were fights with the elements. He was a famous"wind wagon" man who had sustained a terrible fall in an endurancerace. It had crippled him for life. Now he followed the variousprofessional meets for a living, and also ran an aviation school foramateurs. His name was John Grimshaw.
The messenger boy took a last look about the place and left. Theold man put on a cap, went to the door and rather gruesomely facedthe elements.
"A cold drizzling rain and gusty weather generally," he said tohimself in a grumbling tone. "I'll face it any time for Dashaway,though. The telegram may be important."
The big aero field looked lonely and gloomy as the man crossed it.Lights showed here and there in the various buildings scatteredabout the enclosure. The ground was wet and soft. The rain came inchilling dashes. Old Grimshaw breasted the storm, and after half amile's walk came to a hangar a good deal like the one he had left.There was a light inside.
"Hello, there!" he sang out in his big foghorn voice, thrusting thedoor open with his foot and getting under the shelter, and shakingthe rain from his head and shoulders.
Two boys were the occupants of the place. They had a lamp on thetable, upon which was outspread pictures and plans of airships. Theolder of the two got up from his chair with a pleasant smiling face.
"Why, it's Mr. Grimshaw!" he exclaimed.
"That's who it is," joined in the other boy cheerily. "Say, you'rewelcome, too. We were looking over some sketches of new machines,and you can tell us lots about them, you know."
"Got to get back to my own quarters," declared Grimshaw. "Someother time about those pictures. Boy brought a telegram to Mr.King's hangar. It's for you, Dashaway."
"For me?" inquired the lad who had first addressed the visitor.
"Yes. Here it is. Mr. King's away, but if you need me for anythinglet me know."
"I'm always needing you," replied Dave Dashaway. "I don't know whatwe'd do without you."
The young aviator—for such he was in fact and reality—took theproffered envelope. He tore open its end and read the enclosurerapidly.
"Why," he said, "this is strange."
"Any answer? Need me?" asked Grimshaw, moving towards the door.
"No, thank you," replied Dave in a vague, b