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

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

Roy Rockwood

Dave Dashaway, Air Champion; Or, Wizard Work in the Clouds

CHAPTER I

AT THE HANGARS

“Dave, here is something that will surely interest you.”

As he spoke, Hiram Dobbs held up a newspaper to the view of his companion, and Dave Dashaway caught sight of the prominent head line: “Grand International Aviation Contest.”

The two friends were amid an environment strongly suggestive of airships and their doings. They were sitting under a tree near the hangar where Dave’s various aircraft and equipments were stored. This was Dave’s home, for the time being. Here, for over a month he had slept, ate and trained for just such an event as the one which his chum had brought to his attention.

There was nothing about Dave’s present appearance to indicate that he was an expert in aviation except a medal modestly showing beyond the lapel of his coat. It might, however, have been a source of surprise to the average person to read the inscription on the medal, certifying to Dave’s championship in a feat that had startled the aviation world.

Hiram proudly wore a pin bearing the initials: “N. A. A.” (National Aero Association) showing a distinction beyond the ordinary for a boy of his age, and showing, too, that when he spoke of aviation it was not as a novice.

“Dave, you ought to go in for that,” he added.

“Yes, it looks attractive,” agreed the young aviator after a swift glance over the item under discussion.

“Ten thousand dollars – think of it!” exclaimed the interested Hiram.

“It’s a big lot of money,” responded Dave, slowly.

“And a big heap of work to win it, I suppose you would say,” supplemented Hiram. “Well, you never were afraid of work, and as to the chances – say, a fellow who has done what you’ve just done – why, it’ll be mere child’s play!”

Dave Dashaway smiled at the ardor of his companion. He was thinking, though, and impressed by the present situation. All things pertaining to aviation had a great attraction for Dave. His dreams, his practical efforts, all his ambitions lay in the direction of supremacy as an air pilot.

“I have been resting for a spell, as you might call it, Hiram,” he said finally, “and hadn’t of late, thought much of business. After that last dash of ours, you know, Mr. Brackett thought we had better let the season run out and prepare for something out of the ordinary next year.”

“This has come along all right; hasn’t it?” challenged Hiram, pointing at the item. “And the biggest kind of a thing, too. ‘Ten thousand dollars to the aviator scoring most in all events.’ Besides that, prizes for points in plain sailing, altitude and fancy stunts. It’s your class, Dave, it’s near here and you were never in better working trim in your life.”

“Why, Hiram,” spoke Dave, “you seem to have quite set your heart upon it.”

“Indeed I have!” vociferated the impetuous Hiram. “Think I’m going to sit around and keep mum, and hear a lot of would-be-airmen brag? Not much! They boast about a heap of records I know they never made. They were talking about this very prize offer last night. I took a good deal of pride in telling them about some of the things you’ve done. They knew about most of them, though. They looked glum when I hinted that you were going in for a try.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Dave, quickly.

“Shouldn’t – why not?”

“Because in this line the wise man keeps his business to himself. Airmen, generally, are a jealous lot. Some of them, as we have reason to know, are untrustworthy.”

“I never thought of that,” replied Hiram, his face growing serious. “You’re right! It wouldn’t be the first time some schemers got after you, and tried to block you. That’s so! All the same, with that new Ariel, biplane, made specially for you, who can beat you? Why, Dave, your little trailer, the Scout, alone has half a dozen speed points ahead of the average machine on the field here. Those new release gears are just dandy, and there isn’t a craft on the list that has such an engine as the Ariel, let alone the fuselage angle rods and the tubular framework.”

“I declare, Hiram,” laughed Dave, “you’ve been posting up on scientific details lately; haven’t you?”

“I’ve tried to get it pat, yes, I’ll admit,” assented Hiram proudly. “Then again, I’ve had a motive in view. You see, I’ve been thinking up a grand scheme – ”

Hiram came to a sudden stop, looked embarrassed, and there was a faint flush on his face. It was with a somewhat sheepish expression in his eyes that he glanced at his companion.

“I know what you’re hinting at,” observed Dave shrewdly. “I suspected you were up to something when I saw you working over those little canvas bags. What’s the mystery, Hiram? Going to tell, this time?”

“I’m not,” dissented the young airman’s assistant staunchly. “You’d just laugh and say it was another of my grand schemes. All right! Those bags mean something – provided you go into this new contest. Honest, Dave,” went on Hiram with impressive earnestness, “I can put you onto a wrinkle in aeronautics that is new enough, and strong enough, to carry the day any time – oh, bother!”

Whatever scheme the young lad had in his mind, its disclosure was prevented at that moment by the arrival of an intruder. A man of about thirty, wearing a monocle, mincing in his steps and looking the typical English “dandy” to perfection, approached the bench where the two friends sat.

“It’s Lieutenant Montrose Mortimer,” remarked Dave with a faint smile.

“Lieutenant nothing!” declared Hiram forcibly. “He’s no more a British army officer than I am.”

“Ah, Mr. Dashaway,” spoke the newcomer, bowing, “I hope you’ve thought over my proposition.”

“Why, yes, Lieutenant,” replied Dave, “I have done so.”

“And have arrived at a decision?” questioned the other with marked eagerness.

“Well, no, not exactly,” answered Dave promptly. “You see, Lieutenant Mortimer, I am not a free agent in aviation matters. In fact, you might say I am under contract indefinitely to Mr. Brackett, who has financed me in the past. I should have to refer your offer to him, you see.”

“When will he be here?” asked the man, evidently very much disappointed.

“He may be here within a week.”

“I sincerely trust you will prevail on him to accept my offer,” spoke the pretended army man. “I shall feel that my duty to the admiralty and war office has been remiss if I fail to secure your valuable services. I am aware of your opposition to leaving your native country. I also appreciate your wish to remain neutral in regard to any actual warfare. That can be arranged. What we ask of you is to act as an instructor. Please think it over,” and he turned aside.

“Now, then,” broke out Hiram promptly as the lieutenant sauntered away, “what is that fellow really after, Dave?”

“Why, Hiram, according to his own story he is a representative from the aviation department of the British war office. He has made a very creditable showing – and he offers me all expenses paid abroad, where he says a yearly contract of several thousand dollars will be offered.”

“I don’t like him. Why, say, he reminds me of one of the funny cartoons that new tramp friend of yours drew for us last evening.”

“Hello!” exclaimed Dave, glancing hastily at his watch and then at the hangar. “He’s some sleeper; isn’t he, that tramp?”

The young airman referred to a new character who had incidentally come across their path the day previous. He was a tramp, a little above the average, but still frowsy, hungry and penniless. His humor had made an impression on the boys. They had fed him and he had asked for work to repay them. He was sober, and he looked honest, Dave had consented to his sleeping in the hangar.

“I guess it’s the first comfortable bed the poor fellow has had for a long time,” explained Hiram. “Say, Dave, he must have been a good artist once, to draw those faces as cleverly as he did last evening.”

“Yes, he certainly has a sort of genius about him,” began Dave, when there was a sudden and startling interruption.

From Dave’s hangar there came a dull explosion. Both of the young aviators made a rush in its direction, wondering what accident had happened.

CHAPTER II

THE TRAMP ARTIST

“Somebody is trying to blow us up again!” shouted Hiram, in a great state of excitement.