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Read Ebook: The Stolen Aeroplane; or How Bud Wilson Made Good by Sayler H L Harry Lincoln Gunn M G Illustrator
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Ebook has 1276 lines and 42769 words, and 26 pages
Bud bargains for coffee. 53
The start from the flume. 165
Mr. Camp drew out an envelope. 201
The Stolen Aeroplane OR, How Bud Wilson Made Good
AN IDLE BOY GETS A JOB.
"Here she comes."
Doug' Jackson, the driver of the Scottsville House 'bus, rose from the edge of the depot platform, hitched up his trousers, and motioned the usual depot loungers back to safety. All were waiting for passenger train No. 22, west bound, due at 11:15 A. M., and late, as usual.
"She's made up seven minutes," Doug' announced authoritatively after consulting a large silver watch. "She's fannin'--git back there, you kids."
No one else yet saw or heard the approaching train, whose proximity was only detected by Doug's long experience in such matters; but all necks were craned toward the grade east of town and the curve at its far end.
One of these anxious watchers was Mr. Josiah Elder, a man just beyond middle age, who shaved every morning down to a round patch of whiskers on a prolonged chin, and whose white starched shirt and heavy gold watch chain proclaimed him a person of affairs. Just at present, a heavy coat of dust on a new, black, soft hat and on his dark trousers suggested that the morning had been spent out of doors, where the September drought had coated the town and country with suffocating dust.
Mr. Elder was president of the Scottsville First National Bank. He was also president of the Scott County Joint Stock Agricultural and Trotting Association. And this was Wednesday morning of fair week. The president was hot, dusty, and had an anxious look.
"Hello, Mr. Elder," exclaimed Doug' hastily, lifting his cap with his badge as "runner" on it, and glancing hastily along the track to be sure that his announcement had not been premature. "Train'll be here right away."
"Morning," replied the anxious fair official, looking toward a dusty, side-bar buggy and a lively looking horse hitched just beyond the 'bus. "Keep your eye on my rig, Doug'."
Just then a hollow whistle sounded far up the track, and a moment later, beneath a puff of white steam that drifted around the curve, a billow of black smoke told that No. 22 was "fanning" down grade toward the town.
"I'm lookin' for a man named Dare--T. Glenn Dare. If you see him, he ain't goin' to the hotel. He's goin' with me."
"What's the prospec's fur fair week?" asked Doug', indicating that he understood. "I reckon that airship'll bring out a fine attendance 'bout Thursday."
"We hope so," replied Mr. Elder impressively. "It is a novel attraction of great educational value. And it is an expensive feature. The people o' Scott County should recognize our enterprise and turn out liberally."
"I reckon it's goin' to kind o' crowd you to git everything in shape on time, ain't it? All the boxes and the injine is over there in the freight house yit."
"We are waiting for Mr. Dare. He's the manufacturer's agent and operator."
The oncoming train was already pounding over the switch track frogs at the town limits. Doug' mustered up his courage, crowded a little closer to the disturbed fair official and exclaimed, nervously:
"All right, Mr. Elder, I'll keep my eye out fur him. And your rig'll be all safe. Say, Mr. Elder, you couldn't spare me a ticket fur the fair, could ye?"
But this appeal was lost. The mogul engine, hissing as if annoyed at its enforced stop in Scottsville, slid to a grinding stop, panted a few times, and then with a sharp clang of its bell and a deep snort, was off again. The crowd, always anxious to see the train come in, edged forward, fell back and grouped itself about a dozen arrivals. Two traveling men, or "drummers," Doug' captured. The others were either not strangers to the depot crowd or easily identified by their luggage and costume as visitors from near by towns. Mr. T. Glenn Dare was not among those who alighted.
Having made sure of this fact, President Elder's strained look at once turned into one of complete annoyance.
"I reckon yer man didn't git here," remarked the talkative 'bus driver. "Maybe he'll be on seventeen."
One look at the official's face convinced Doug' that it was not the time to renew his request for a free ticket. Mr. Elder hurried into the depot, and with no attempt to restrain his anger, called up the ticket office of the fair association on the telephone.
To some one, he rapidly explained that Mr. T. Glenn Dare, the expert who was to set up and operate the aeroplane for the fair directors had not arrived. The boxed and crated airship had been in the depot freight house for a week. It was now Tuesday of the week of the fair, and a flight had been advertised for Wednesday afternoon at three o'clock. Operator Dare, who was to make this at the rate of fifty dollars a day, had been expected Tuesday morning.
"Yes, I know," answered the president to the person with whom he had been talking, "we've saved one hundred dollars, but that ain't it. We've got to exhibit our aeroplane to-morrow, or let the people know we can't. We've paid one thousand eight hundred dollars in good money for the thing, and it ain't worth a nickel to us over there in the freight depot."
There was more talk, and then President Elder ended the conversation by announcing:
"There isn't any use to haul the boxes out to the ground, if the man don't come. We'll wait until the night train. If he ain't on that, we'll send out bills callin' the show off. Then we'll ship the machine back East and sue the company for failure to keep its contract. They agreed to have a competent man here, and they've thrown us down."
As the perspiring Mr. Elder came out of the hot ticket-office of the musty-smelling station and paused on the platform to wipe his red face, his eye fell on the freight-house across the tracks from the station. He glanced at his horse to see that it was all right, and then sprang across to the freight-depot. He had not yet seen the valuable crates consigned to him. The freight-agent had already gone to dinner. Entering the long shed, he glanced inquiringly about. It was half dark.
"Lookin' for your aeroplane, Mr. Elder?" exclaimed a pleasant boyish voice from somewhere in the gloom.
The banker and fair president traced the sounds to their source. At the far end of the room and opposite a rear door stood a mound of carefully packed and braced skeleton-like frames. On the edge of a heavy square box bound with steel bands, sat a boy of perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Although it was hot, the lad was wearing a heavy blue flannel shirt, a red neck tie, and a cheap, sailor hat. His low shoes were worn and old, and his socks gave signs of needing a mother's care. He was slowly fanning himself with a big blue handkerchief.
"If you are," added the boy, springing to his feet, "here it is; and it looks like the real thing."
Instead of examining the aeroplane crates, Mr. Elder's eye swept the boy from hat to shoes.
"Aren't you Bud Wilson?" he asked at last.
"Yes, sir. Attorney Cyrus Stockwell is my foster father."
"I thought so," rejoined the banker tartly. "I've heard of you. Lafe Pennington, of our bank, has told me about you."
The boy laughed--he had already taken off his discolored hat.
"Then you didn't hear much good about me, that's certain."
"No," soberly answered the elder man, "to tell you the truth, I've never heard much good about you."
The boy laughed again, but in an embarrassed way, showed his confusion, and then said:
"Lafe and I never got along. But, he may be right. I've got a bad name."
"What are you doing here? You are old enough to be at work."
"That's it," went on Bud, "I ought to be. I have a job promised me when I want it, out in the country. But I've been waitin' to see this."
He pointed toward the dismantled airship.
"What do you want to see? You haven't any business loafing in here. Have you been monkeyin' with the machinery?"
"Oh! I know 'em around here. And I ain't hurt nothing. No fear o' that."
"Well, what's your interest?"
"I want to see it. I've been waiting every day since it came. I want to be here when you move it. I want to help unpack it."
"You? What do you know about aeroplanes?"
"Nothing--that is, almost nothing. But I guess I know a little. You know I ran Mr. Greeley's automobile nearly all summer. I understand motors. And--well, I do know something about aeroplanes. I tried to make one this summer."
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