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Dave Dashaway, the Young Aviator

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<h2 id='chapXII' class='c001'>CHAPTER XII</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c004'> <div>A NEW FRIEND</div> </div></div> “Why, who are you?” exclaimed Mr. King. Dave stood somewhat awed at being in the presence of the famous aeronaut for the first time. He was embarrassed at his own boldness. Yet he managed to blurt out: “I have been trying to get to you for two days.” Mr. King stared at Dave in a wondering way. He looked him over from head to foot. Dave was not disappointed in the impression made upon him by the aviator. Mr. King was a man with a keen, clean-cut face and well-knit frame. There was a look of decision and business in his clear eye. As he smiled, there was also a genial, indulgent expression to his lips that won Dave. “Oh, I think I understand,” spoke Mr. King slowly. “I suppose you are another applicant for a job. Heard I’d fired my assistant and all that. I didn’t think that news had traveled so fast and far.” “Why, no, sir,” said Dave quickly. “I knew nothing about what you speak of until a few minutes ago.” “Then——” “I have been seeking you to find out if you lost some property out of an airship near Brookville, about sixty miles from here, three nights ago.” “Eh, what’s that?” cried the airman, starting up into an attitude of attention and surprise. “There was a sweater,” continued Dave, “and a pocket book with fifty dollars in it, and a watch and a medal.” “What about it—what about it?” demanded Mr. King quite excitedly. “The medal, I mean. The rest of the stuff doesn’t matter.” “Did you lose what I said, sir?” asked Dave. “Yes, yes!” “Near Brookville?” “I sailed over Brookville the night you tell about,” replied the airman. “I missed the sweater that I had rolled my valuables in just as I got back here. Of course I didn’t know exactly where I lost it.” “Well,” said Dave, “I found it——” “Good!” “I started to bring it to you, for I saw your name on the medal, and had heard all about you.” “Then you’ve got the medal, have you?” asked Mr. King eagerly and expectantly, starting up from his chair. “I am sorry to say I haven’t, Mr. King,” replied Dave regretfully. “I started for here to return the property to you and lost it.” “Lost it?” “That is, I was robbed.” “By whom?” “A boy in a lodging house where I stayed night before last.” “But you know the thief?” “Only by description,” replied Dave. “Why didn’t you inform the police?” Dave paled slightly, and then flushed up. The airman was eyeing him keenly. The old inventor looked suspicious, too. “Mr. King,” at length spoke Dave, “I am a runaway from home.” “Hum!” commented Mr. Dixon dryly. “I had to run away from home,” continued Dave desperately. “It’s a long story. There’s a heap to tell, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t interest you, sir. When I found myself robbed, I thought the best thing to do was to come and tell you all I could. I’m awfully sorry I was so careless.” “See here,” interrupted Mr. King, in a generous way, placing a reassuring hand on Dave’s shoulder, “don’t say that again. You’ve done all you could, and I thank you for it. Mr. Dixon,” he went on, glancing at his watch, “I am going to have a mighty busy morning, and I want you to excuse me for a while.” “All right,” nodded the inventor, though rather glumly, arising to his feet. “I’ll be around the field all day, and be glad to see you and talk to you about trying your invention any time after noon.” “Oh, that’s good,” bowed Mr. Dixon, brightening up. Then he fixed his eye on Dave, and said: “I believe this young man made some remark about helping us out, when he first appeared on the scene.” “Say, you’re a regular old ogre, Dixon!” railed the airman. “You look as hungry as one, wanting to make this lad your first victim. I shan’t recommend anybody, nor furnish anybody to try your parachute dress, until I am perfectly satisfied he won’t come to any harm.” “When you do, Mr. King,” broke in Dave, “I’d like a chance to show my confidence in you by trying the umbrella suit.” “All right. I’m to see you after dinner,” said the old inventor leaving the room. “Now then, my lad,” spoke the aviator briskly, “sit down. I want to talk to you.” “Yes, sir,” replied Dave gladly. “I want you to tell me your whole story. I have an idea it is going to interest me. First, your name?” “It’s Dave Dashaway.” “Dashaway?” repeated Mr. King, with a slight start and a look in his eyes as though he was searching his memory. “Yes, sir, my father was a professional balloonist. Maybe you have heard of him.” “Heard of him!” cried the aviator, with new interest. “I should say I have. And read of him. Why, he was a pioneer in advanced aeronautics. And you are his son?” “Yes, sir.” “Tell me all about it.” Dave looked into the kindly, sympathetic eyes of his new acquaintance feeling sure that he had found a true friend. He told the story of his life simply. As he tried to make it brief, his auditor more than once checked him as if every detail interested him. “You are a brave, deserving young fellow, Dashaway,” said the airman heartily. “I have you to thank for putting me on the track of that lost medal, which I value beyond price.” “Do you think there is any chance of your getting it back?” inquired Dave anxiously. “I am sure of it. I want you to come with me down to the field office. In the meantime think up the closest description possible of the fellow who stole it. Here,” added the airman pointing to a little writing table. “Just sit down there and jot it down as clear and brief as you can.” Dave did as directed, while Mr. King explained: “The thief won’t value the medal. He will probably sell that and the watch for what they are worth as gold. I intend to telegraph to the police at Brompton to keep an eye out for the thief and to offer a reward for the medal.” Mr. King bustled about the room, and put on another coat and took some papers from a satchel, and acted as if about to start out on business. “Why, I was just going to the hotel to see you,” he said suddenly, as a newcomer appeared on the scene. “Ready for business?” “Oh, yes,” was the prompt reply, and the latest visitor stepped into the room where Dave sat. “Why, hello—friend of yours, Mr. King?” “What, do you know young Dashaway?” “Very pleasantly, too,” answered Mr. Alden, the manager of the moving picture outfit, for Dave recognized him at once as that person. “He helped us out of a tight box yesterday.” “You didn’t tell me about that, Dashaway,” remarked the aviator. “There was so much else to tell,” explained Dave. “Well,” proceeded the motion picture man, “I’ve been thinking of you, my lad. How would you like to work for me right along?” “What’s that?” broke in Mr. King, in his quick, jerky way. “No, you can’t have him.” “Eh?” questioned Alden, with a stare, “why not?” “Because I’m thinking of hiring him myself,” replied the aviator. <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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