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Dave Dashaway, the Young Aviator

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<h2 id='chapXXII' class='c001'>CHAPTER XXII</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c004'> <div>A NIGHT ADVENTURE</div> </div></div> “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. <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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