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Dave Dashaway, the Young Aviator

<h2 id='chapXXV' class='c001'>CHAPTER XXV</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c004'> <div>CONCLUSION</div> </div></div> Dave came to a dead halt with a shock. In deep distress and suspense he watched the diving monoplane. On every expert calculation, machine and operator were doomed. Dave expected every moment to see the operator thrown out of the seat. He could not conceive what was passing in the mind of the operator. The machine did not seem to be crippled. Dave doubted if the most daring airman would risk that dangerous glide unless compelled to do so. “Oh, that’s good—grand!” fairly shouted Dave, as, one hundred feet from the ground, the monoplane slowed, described two mammoth circles, and then resuming the descent, reached the earth, rolled almost fifty feet, and came to a safe halt. Dave started on a dead run for the spot. Others from all directions preceded him. By the time he reached the place where the monoplane had landed, it was surrounded ten deep by crowding excited people. “Is he dead?” Dave heard one ask. “No, only hurt.” “Why,” said Dave to himself in a startled way, “it’s Mr. Worthington.” Dave had been able to peer through the crowd. He made out the monoplane, safe and trim, at rest. Some men were lifting the operator out of it. Dave recognized him as one of the professional aviators of the meet. “Here, young fellow, don’t crowd so,” remonstrated a gaping spectator, as Dave tried to press through the throng. “I know that man,” explained Dave. “Please let me get to him.” Dave cleared the crowd and hurried over to where they had placed Mr. Worthington on the grass. The latter looked white and exhausted. He held a handkerchief to his lips, and Dave noticed that it was red stained. “Oh, Mr. Worthington,” spoke Dave, kneeling at the side of the prostrate man. “Don’t you know me?” “Why, Dashaway!” replied the aviator, trying to smile. “You here?” “Are you injured?” “Hemorrhage, Doctor told me my lungs couldn’t stand the upper currents. Too strong for me. Fainted away. Caught myself just in time.” “Get a doctor,” spoke Dave to the men. “No, no,” demurred Worthington. “I’m all right now. No more air sailing for me for a time, though, I fancy. Say, Dashaway!” In a spurt of excitement Worthington sat up, and his eyes glowed as he fixed his glance on Dave. “I was in the lead,” he resumed. “I saw you was.” “Why can’t you——” “Continue the race?” supplemented Dave. “Yes.” “Shall I?” “Don’t lose a moment. She’s the best and fastest machine in the race. She’s done 460 miles in 8: 17: 30. There’s 18 gallons of gasoline aboard and five of lubricating oil.” “I know all about it—the route marked out, too,” said Dave. “Then win the day!” “I’ll try.” “Give him a start,” cried the enthused aviator to the men about him; and in thirty seconds the racing monoplane was once again driving for the sky. All that Worthington had said about the monoplane the machine certainly deserved. Dave had never handled so capable a flyer. It was equipped with a marine compass for cross country work, and the acetylene lights for night flying. “Grass cutting to the heart’s content in this beauty!” cried Dave. He was all on his mettle, the way things had turned out, and made a superb start. The machine was in splendid trim. Dave took one good look ahead, behind and sideways, and then devoted all his attention to the business of the hour. He had studied out the route the day previous. As on the hill at Clyde, each town on the course had a white flag hoisted at the highest point in town, with the monogram in black of the national aero club. It was about thirty-five miles to the turning point, fifty more back. As Dave started the return dash, he passed his rivals straggling along, the nearest one five miles from the first goal. Once on the return trip, Dave dropped to the ground, on a level meadow where a gaping farmer and his four employees stood fascinated at his graceful descent. The engine was not working at its best speed. Dave gave it a brief rest, impressed the farm hands into service, and started up the engine by swinging the propellor. This operation required more caution than cranking an automobile. With the switch off, Dave turned the propellor several times to fill the cylinders with gas, leaving it just ahead of the dead center of one of the cylinders, and with one blade extending upwards. Then he was off on the home stretch. It was plain sailing now. Town after town Dave passed and then he saw the aero course in the distance. He made straight for the grounds, for two machines were racing at their best only a mile distance in his wake. As the gasoline was consumed the monoplane increased its speed, and as the essence gave out, just before making the final landing dip, the machine must have been making over seventy miles an hour. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” “Why, it’s Dashaway!” “Where’s Worthington?” Dave smiled in a happy way at old Grimshaw and Hiram, who were among the throng that crowded about the landed racer. He made a brief explanation and was borne in triumph to the King hangar by his delighted friends. It took Dave an hour to satisfy the curious and excited Hiram with an explanation of his mysterious disappearance of the evening previous, and the story of his arriving at Clyde just in time to complete Worthington’s broken trip. This part of the story soon got about the grounds. It added a new lustre to the exploit of the hour. Worthington arrived in the camp an hour later, not much the worse for his accident. “You’ve made it, lad!” cried old Grimshaw in delight. “You’ve got a record to go on now that older hands would give their ears for.” “I am glad,” said Dave simply, and he was, indeed, very glad and very happy. Only one feature marred the pleasure of the occasion. Mr. King was not at the hangars. Hiram explained that he and the automobile chauffeur had waited till midnight where Dave had left them at Genoa. Then, alarmed they had sped back to Dayton and had told Mr. King all they knew about the strange affair. “Mr. King said he would fathom the mystery and find you, if he had to give up business for a week,” explained Hiram. “He’s a grand friend,” said Dave with emotion. Dave, Hiram and Grimshaw had just finished supper when Mr. King appeared. He looked tired, but his cheery laugh rang out as he slapped his young protege heartily on the shoulder. “In the name of wonder, what is this I hear about you, Dashaway?” he cried. “What do you mean, Mr. King?” asked Dave. “You won the race.” “Yes, sir,” replied Dave modestly. “Picked up Worthington at Clyde, when everything seemed off for the machine I backed.” Dave explained. He had an attentive listener. When Dave had concluded, Mr. King remarked: “I’ll settle the outrageous claims of that annoying old guardian of yours in double quick time, Dashaway.” “Can it be done?” inquired Dave, anxiously. “Trust me for that.” “I intend to.” “I’ve been pretty busy on your affairs, Dashaway,” proceeded the airman. “From what Hiram here told me, I had a clew to start on. At the hotel at Genoa I found out about that boy thief you tried to catch. Finally the hotel clerk remembered a chum of his in the town. I located him, and ran on the fellow I was after. His name is Gregg.” “He made the hotel people think it was Dave Dashaway.” “There’s a story to that.” “Please tell it, Mr. King.” “Why, the young scamp found some papers among the stuff he stole from you.” “Yes,” nodded Dave, “some letters directed to my father at Brookville.” “They were from an old friend of your father, a man named Cyrus Dale.” “Why, yes,” exclaimed Dave, “I know he once had a great friend by that name.” “Well, the letters, never answered, invited your father to bring you to see an old friend who had become a wealthy man. He did not know that your father was dead when he wrote them. This young Gregg was smart enough to see a chance to work into the favor of Mr. Dale. He went to him and was at once accepted as Dave Dashaway. Mr. Dale practically adopted him, gave him all the money he could spend, and Gregg was in high clover till I nabbed him.” “He confessed all that, did he?” inquired Dave. “He did. I made him sign a confession and tell where he had sold my watch and medal. I’m thinking you’ll have a friendly and influential second father, when we tell Mr. Dale that you are the real Dave Dashaway.” “I couldn’t have a better friend than you are, Mr. King,” declared Dave, “if I searched for a thousand years.” “There’s a new one come on the scene you may take quite a fancy to,” replied Mr. King, with a mysterious smile. “Who is that?” inquired Dave. “You remember the people who sent the Baby Racer on here for a test?” “Oh, yes—the Interstate Aeroplane people, you mean?” replied Dave. “Well, I met their agent as I came in at the gate. He will be here shortly to see you.” “To see me?” questioned Dave. “Yes.” “What about?” “Why, after that fine work of yours with the Baby Racer, and your record to-day, he thinks you’re the likely, lively, up-to-date aviator he wants to deal with. He is going to offer to make a contract with you to exhibit their new hydroplane. Later they will put their hydro-aeroplane on the market.” “Good for Dashaway!” cried the irrepressible Hiram Dobbs. “Hurrah!” “We can chorus that, all of us,” declared the genial airman. “As a promising young aviator, Dave Dashaway is certainly a decided success.” So we leave Dave for the present, at the threshold of his first professional triumph. In our next volume, entitled “Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane; Or, Daring Adventures Over the Great Lakes,” his experience in a more brilliant field of aviation will be related. “I’m going to be an aviator myself some day,” said Hiram, on more than one occasion. “But, try my best, I won’t ever be a better birdman than Dave Dashaway!” <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c004'> <div>THE END.</div> </div></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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