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Dave Dashaway, the Young Aviator

<h2 id='chapXXIV' class='c001'>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c004'> <div>SOMETHING WRONG</div> </div></div> Dave was a good deal disheartened. It was several hours after his meeting with the two persons he wished most to avoid. And now Dave was a prisoner. He sat crowded up on the back seat of a rickety old wagon, covered with canvas top and sides, and boarded up at the back. Beside him was his foxy-eyed, ferret-faced guardian, old Silas Warner. On the front seat, acting as driver, was the Brookville sheriff. Around Dave’s wrist was what is called a “come-along,” or rope handcuff, its two crossed stay pieces of wood being held tightly by the watchful, sleepless Warner. The way this had all come about seemed like a dream to Dave. The instant that his guardian and the sheriff had recognized the runaway they were seeking, they had pounced down upon poor Dave like hungry wolves. Silas Warner held our hero while the sheriff hurried out into the main room of the station. He spoke a few words to the police clerk, and then Dave was led out of the place, both men holding tightly to him, and soon found himself in a room in a cheap boarding house. Dave had tried to expostulate, to explain. His jubilant captors had refused to listen to him. He had frantically begged of them to allow him to send word to some friends, to take a simple message to the police lieutenant. “Don’t trust him for a minute, Daniel Jackson,” his guardian shouted to the sheriff. “You know what a slippery one he is.” “But it’s important,” pleaded Dave. “A fellow robbed me. He must be caught.” “All a pack of lies,” declared old Warner. “Don’t trust him or listen to him, Sheriff. He’s trying to get his friends to rescue him, trying to put on time to delay us, and slip.” “Oh, indeed, no,” answered Dave desperately. “Shut up. Sheriff, we’ll make our plans, and bundle this boy back to Brookville quick as we can get him there.” Over Dave the sheriff kept close watch and ward while Warner went away to make arrangements of which Dave learned later. It was long after midnight when these plans were perfected. By that time, from the conversation of the two men, Dave found out a great deal that was new to him, and astonished him not a little. It seemed that by the sheerest accident the two men had come across Dave at a time when they were on their way to Dayton to arrest him. They were on their way to that city, because Jerry Dawson had written Warner that there he would find his runaway ward. This was the reason why Jerry had boasted to Dave that he would not make any more air flights. His crony, Brooks, had overheard Dave tell Hiram all about his guardian and the circumstances of his leaving home, and the mean-spirited Jerry had been quick to take advantage of the chance to get his rival into trouble. It seemed that Warner, with his usual miserly penuriousness had hired the sheriff to “work cheap.” They had got as far as Genoa through “lifts” in various farm wagons. They had taken the cheapest lodgings that evening they could find. The sheriff and Warner happened to be at the police station, because the former had a slight acquaintance with the lieutenant, and was waiting to see him when Dave arrived. Silas Warner had managed to hire a sorry nag and a miserable wreck of an old milk wagon to convey them back to Brookville. Dave’s feelings may be imagined when he found himself in the clutches of the enemy. He had been in torment to think that Hiram and the chauffeur would wait for him vainly. He wondered what Mr. King would think of this second unusual absence. Most of all, poor Dave nearly wept when a thought of the great air race of the morrow came into his mind. He would miss the grand event in which he had hoped to take so proud a part. “It’s awful, just awful,” reflected Dave, feeling well-nigh crushed, “and no hope of my getting any word of explanation to my friends.” It must have been two o’clock in the morning when the wagon come to a halt. Dave had caught sight of lights ahead on the road as they jogged along. Then strains of music grew plainer. The shouts of merry makers filled the air. It appeared that they had reached a roadhouse with a dancing pavilion and park attached to it, much in favor with excursion parties from the country around. Outside of the place stood a hayrack with four horses attached. “Horse needs a rest, Warner,” the sheriff declared, “and some refreshment wouldn’t hurt you and me, hey?” “Nothing for me, Sheriff, nothing for me,” the miserly old fellow was quick to retort. “Of course you can buy what you want—with your own money.” “Just so. Well, I’ll stretch my limbs a little and sort of see what that jolly crowd is up to.” The old man kept his tight hold on Dave. He would silence the youth every time the latter tried to talk or reason with him or question him. With low mutterings and chuckles he hinted that the law would see to it that Dave did not again “desert his comfortable home.” It was fully four o’clock when the sheriff came back to the wagon. He pulled himself up into the seat like an overfed porpoise. “Just going to break up, that crowd,” he observed, “and having a great time. I wish I was young again. Get up, there,” he added to the horse. Dave made up his mind that he would be given no chance to escape, at least during the trip to Brookville. There came a rumbling behind them as the horse was plodding along a narrow country road with a deep ditch on either side of it. Then singing voices broke the silence. The party from the roadhouse was homeward bound. The road twisted and turned. At its narrowest part, before the sleepy-headed driver could realize it, the great loaded hayrack wagon lumbered by. Its side grazed the inside wheels of the wagon the sheriff was driving. “Hey, look out!” yelled the officer. Derisive shouts answered him. There was a crash, a tip over, and down the embankment went horse, wagon and passengers. The hayrack crowd indulged in mocking cat calls as if it was a great joke, and went on without anybody trying to find out what damage had been done. The horse broke loose from the rotten old shafts of the wagon before it rolled over twice. The frame of the box cover was crushed in and the wooden end was reduced to kindling wood. Dave was jerked free from his guardian, rope handcuff and all. He landed in a great clump of bushes, was slightly jarred, and lay there for a minute or two. “The scoundrels!” roared the sheriff, extricating himself from a nest of brambles. “What you whining about, Warner?” “I’ve torn my best coat all down the back, and I’ve got a lump on my head big as a goose egg.” “How’s the prisoner?” “Hi, whoop! That’s so, Sheriff, he’s sloped.” “What! after all our trouble?” That was enough to rouse up Dave. Now was his chance. Day was just breaking, but it was dark and dim down in the ditch. On hands and knees, bending down low, the boy crept along its windings. Where the road turned and the ditch followed it, he felt safe in rising to his feet and starting on a keen run. Dave did not venture to climb up to the road as yet. His late captors would certainly make some kind of a search for him. He kept on running along in the dry ditch, out of view from the road. Its bottom was rock strewn, and several times his feet became tangled up in trailing vines. Finally, all unaware of what he was heading into, Dave plunged into a maze of bushes to take a direct tumble where the ditch dropped suddenly nearly a dozen feet. It was a gravel pit Dave had fallen into, and a heavy tree stump lay at its bottom. Dave’s head struck this as he landed, and he was stunned. He was conscious of partially rousing a little later. In a dreamy, dazed way the main idea in his mind was that he was very sleepy. Dave passed into another spell of insensibility. He awoke with a start finally, to find the sun shining brightly on his face. “Oh, the mischief!” exclaimed Dave, as he realized that the day was several hours old. The boy felt of his head. He found a lump there, but he was as bright as a dollar otherwise. He was immensely satisfied to find himself free. If his late captors had searched for him, they had looked in the wrong direction. Dave got up on the roadway and looked up and down it. No one was in sight. He crossed it, plunged through the timber, and reaching a north and south road faced the sun on a pretty good sprint. Dave wondered what had become of his guardian, and the sheriff, and the wrecked milk wagon. It seemed certain that sooner or later his enemies would look for him at Dayton. The lad did not mind that so much just now. He had great faith in Mr. King, and he believed that the airman would find some way to circumvent his enemies. “It’s missing the race that makes me feel bad,” ruminated Dave. “Of course they’ll find a substitute to take my place.” A mile down the road Dave came to a farmhouse. The men folks were out in the field and the mistress was just washing up her breakfast dishes. She prepared a hasty meal for Dave, which refreshed him considerably. She directed him to the nearest town, gave him a clear idea of his bearings, and told him it was nine o’clock. “They are just starting at the meet,” said Dave rather mournfully, as he proceeded on his way. “That lady said Clyde is two miles ahead. Why, I remember now, Clyde is one of the towns on the route of the one hundred mile dash. Some of the contestants ought to be passing over the place inside of the next fifteen minutes.” A farmer came along in a light wagon and gave Dave a lift. Just as they drove into Clyde, the man made the sudden remark: “There’s one of them airships.” Over towards the southeast a whizzing monoplane was speeding on its way. “The race is on,” decided Dave. “There’s another!” cried his companion, and stopped his wagon and got out. Dave followed his example, thanked him for the lift, and, looking upwards, walked on to a rise where he could get a better view of the air movements. In turn four machines came into view. One or two of them were near enough for Dave to recognize. A queer qualm came over him as a fifth machine drove a course directly over the town. “The racing monoplane I was to have run,” he said breathlessly. “I wonder who has taken my place? Hello—something wrong!” Like a soaring eagle suddenly wounded, the monoplane dropped one wing. It curvetted under a manipulation of the rudder. Then with no reason apparent for the strange movement, the monoplane tilted at a sharp angle. “He’s gone—it’s a smash up!” shouted Dave in a transport of the wildest anxiety and alarm. To a casual observance the daring airman aloft was simply giving spectators a stock thrill. Dave realized instantly that something was wrong. To him it was apparent that the operator of the racing monoplane had unaccountably lost entire control of his machine, and was headed for sure destruction. <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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