by Frank Cobb
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Lawrence went through the secret manoeuvers but there wasno response and he found his anxiety growing.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
AVIATOR SERIES VOLUME 3
DANGEROUS DEEDS
OR
THE FLIGHT IN THE DIRIGIBLE
BY
CAPTAIN FRANK COBB
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, MCMXXVII, by THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AVIATOR SERIES
1 BATTLING THE CLOUDS, Or, For a Comrade's Honor
2 AN AVIATOR'S LUCK, Or, The Camp Knox Plot
3 DANGEROUS DEEDS, Or, The Flight in the Dirigible
Made in U. S. A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DANGEROUS DEEDS
CHAPTER I
A heavy fog pressed down upon the city of Washington. To the boywatching it from the vantage point of the window in the top floor of theapartment in which he stood, it spread as mysterious and as sodden as aflood, enveloping streets, parks, houses, indeed all but the tops of thehighest structures, the domes and roofs of public buildings and spiresof churches, and here and there a dark, drowned mass of foliage.
The apartment stood on a height and as the boy looked he saw a glow inthe east, followed quickly by thin banners of red and orange. Then theSun rose and turned the domes and spires swimming on the sea of mistinto fairy flotillas wrought of pearl and gold.
Just as a churned and angry tide swirls into some still cove and seemsto melt and dissolve into transparency, the opaque-fog slowly vanished.Buildings and statues seemed to lift themselves out of it and finally,broad and placid in the desertion of dawn, the streets themselvesappeared, winding here and there in the wonderful curves designed by themaster-mind which make Washington one of the beauty spots of the world.
Because he had looked down on most of the cities of the world, because,young as he was, he had seen thrilling shy views of towers and spiresand mosques and temples lifting under many skies, the boy stood lookingat the beautiful Capitol of his native land with a swelling heart.
Suddenly from somewhere, everywhere, nowhere came a faint, peculiarhumming. Louder and louder it grew. The boy flung open the window and,leaning far out, scanned the cloudless sky with practiced gaze. Far awayin the west appeared a thing of wings and sound flying far above thoseother birds, the troubled buzzards, that dipped and swayed and hung soeasily in the invisible tides of the air.
As the boy watched, another and still another airplane appeared, closein the wake of the first, until eleven of them, all light biplanes,dashed headlong across the sky. Then, their pace slackening somewhat,they formed in twos and again strung out to compose the wide V ofmigrating geese.
The eleventh plane detached itself from the others which now swung wideand swept around in a graceful circle, while the single one, aninstruction plane, commanded the manoeuvers by means of wirelesstelegraphy. Twice the ten planes circled. Then the leader, turningsharply, led the others in the direction of Mount Vernon until theyvanished. The single plane, lazy as the buzzards below, hung almostmotionless, waiting, effortless and serene, until once more with a fainthum the planes returned, lined up and hung at attention for a moment,when the instruction plane turned and in a wild rush of speed led itscharges away in the direction whence they had come.
Not until distance had stilled the final hum of the last motor did theboy realize that he was clinging precariously to the hard granite facingoutside the window, while leaning far out, too far out for safety evenfor a young aviator who felt no dread of falling.
"A great bunch of students," he reflected, withdrawing and turning tolook at the room in which he stood. It was the usual "beautifullyfurnished bachelor apartment" of commerce. Wall paper dark, in order notto show soil, odds and ends of well-worn, not to say shabby missionfurniture, a table, chairs, a desk with a soiled blotter firmly skewereddown on its flat top, a crex rug. Beyond was a small bedroom, and out ofthat any sleuth of a de-tec-a-tive would have guessed there was abathroom if he had taken time to listen to the mournful drip, drip of aleaky faucet.
Lawrence Petit looked the bare, unpretentious, unhomelike room over witha smile. He had never been so "well fixed," as he said, but he did notapprove. Like everything else, the apartment was an incident, astepping-stone to something better.
He went to his suitcase and took out a pocket portfolio and with a lookof distaste at the soiled blotter, sat down at the table, tried hisfountain pen and commenced to write. And while he is busy, we willglance at the past of the young aviator.
His own beginning he did not know. His first remembrance was of asordid, poverty-stricken cabin where, with a group of other children, heplayed and quarrelled and starved, and where a slatternly woman gloomedor passed from one screaming rage into another until quieted by a blackbottle brought her by an evil looking, leering man at whose approach allthe children scattered and hid themselves. The children, when they spoketo the woman at all, called her Moll. Lawrence could not remember a timewhen the question of his parentage had occurred to him. At this periodof his life he was little more than a healthy little animal, content tosleep and play and fight for the scanty food he was given, and, thatfailing, to steal from the more fortunate neighbors.
In the woodshed, back of the shanty, a lean-to scarcely worse than thehouse itself, stood a broken-down bureau crammed with odds and ends ofrags and clothing too unspeakable for use. In this one day, while Mollwas digging through its confusion, she chanced on a worn, black shoppingbag. She tossed it to Lawrence, known wholly at that time as Snooks.
"That's yourn," she said. "You keep a-hold of that and don't let thosekids git it." Then on second thought she snatched it away from the childand hung it on a rafter far out of his reach. For a little it tantalizedhim, then it was forgotten until a memorable morning when the welfareworker appeared with a couple of officers, a patrol wagon and anambulance. Into the ambulance Moll was hurried, to the children'samazement. They had failed to distinguish the ravings of fever from theoutcries attending the frequent visitation of the black bottle. The darkman had disappeared.
As the welfare worker rounded the reluctant children into the patrolwagon, Snooks ran back and with a long stick knocked down the handbag.
"What's that?" asked the welfare lady.
"It's mine," said Snooks in his hoarse, unchildish voice. "Moll she giveit to me and said to keep it because it's mine."
The welfare worker scented one of the strange clues that often liehidden for so long before they appear to clear up a mystery, but thebag, a very shabby, cheap affair, held nothing but a small photographwrapped up in a piece of newspaper, and on another piece that hadevidently been about some small change as the shape of the money stillmarked the scrap, was the name Lawrence, written over and over as thoughto try a pen point.
Snooks was put in a home and once more the bag passed out of hispossession into the keepin
g of the authorities who had him in charge. Aname was needed, and Snooks was asked to find one for himself, a feat hewas incapable of doing. So one of the teachers, remembering the scrap ofpaper, called him Lawrence and added Petit as the child was so verysmall.
So Snooks, dirty, unkempt and blankly ignorant, became Lawrence Petit, award of the city of Louisville.
Bathed, clipped, and neatly clad, the boy changed almost at once. Heseemed possessed by an overpowering ambition. He learned rapidly,--sorapidly that he forged ahead of all his classmates. Lectures on healthand strength that bored the other children held him spellbound. Hebecame quick and wiry as a cat, with lean limbs and perfectly trainedmuscles. As time passed, he heard stories of homes and of mothers andfathers that filled him with sick longing, but finally he accepted hisfate and as he grew older made up his mind that he must remain LawrencePetit, with no people, no home, no age, no past; just a nameless waif inan orphanage.
Two great passions consumed the boy. He was bound to fly; he was boundto succeed in life.
If any of us want a thing badly enough and long enough, we always findthat we are given a chance to get it. There was a young teacher in theHome who spent much time with Lawrence and made it possible for him toread everything that was written about airplanes and balloons and allsorts of aircraft. When an aircraft factory was started in Louisville tosupply the growing demands for private machines, this teacher securedemployment for Lawrence, and soon he was dismissed from the Home asperfectly able to care for himself. With him went the shabby bag; andnow for the first time the boy took time to look at its contents. He hadhad no desire to do so before. He looked long at the scrap with the nameLawrence scrawled over it, and the other scrap around the photograph heread carefully, but evidently it had been torn from the advertising pageof a newspaper and had to do with "Help Wanted, Female."
The picture was that of a most beautiful young woman. Perfect featuresand masses of glorious hair made the face seem almost unreal, but itschief charm was the look of happiness that filled it.
"Who can she be?" the boy Lawrence asked himself. She did not seem overfifteen or sixteen years of age. Lawrence put the bag and its contentsback in his trunk but could not forget the lovely, laughing face. Hebuckled down to work with a new ambition. Past he had none. Hedetermined to make for himself a future that he could be proud of. Andbecause he had no one, actually no one in the whole world to call hisown, he adopted the picture for his "folks." He never named her sisteror mother; he just worked for her and looked at her when the way seemedhard.
As time passed he developed a perfectly amazing sense of balance anddirection, coupled with more common sense than falls to the lot of most,and one day he left the factory and went out to the nearest aviationfield as assistant mechanician. From this he rose by bounds until he wasaccounted the best airman on the field. After he found that most of histime was to be spent far above the earth, he commenced to worry aboutthe picture. What if his things should be burned up? What if the pictureshould be stolen? So, cutting a piece of cardboard the exact size, hewent down and bought a leather pocket case in which he placed thepicture, and always after that he wore it buttoned securely in hispocket. He felt better then; his "folks" were with him. Back of thepicture he placed the two scraps of paper, and with this frail safeguardspread his wings and took flight courageously toward the goal he had setfor himself.
Five years had passed since the signing of the Armistice and many of thewounds of that unforgettable war had healed. Many things had happened,both in America and abroad.
Aircraft had changed both in nature and construction. Mufflers were inwidespread use, indeed were required by law, and now the wing-filled skydid not rattle and reverberate with the roar of engines unless onspecial class or instruction work. Traffic machines went with silent,steady directness along their uncharted courses, while dainty troops ofpleasure craft flitted everywhere, their brightly painted wings andhulls glistening in the sun.
To Lawrence Petit the upper air seemed his home. He remained on theearth only so long as it was positively necessary; and now, writingbusily on his tablet, he felt that he was on the eve of an adventurewhich promised to carry him higher and farther than any which he had yetattempted. He referred to the letter before him. It was long andtypewritten on handsome paper. Hamilton Ridgeway, the writer, was one ofthe greatest powers in the United States. It was in obedience to hissummons that Lawrence had come to Washington and was now waitingimpatiently for the hour of his interview with the great man.
Young as he was, Lawrence had learned to respect that powerfulpersonality who numbered the kings and princes of the earth as hisfriends, who handled millions as other men handle pennies, who alwaysstood ready to finance any great national undertaking, yet who was sosimple and kindly that he never failed to send back a cheery hello tothe newsie who happened to know and speak his name. Hamilton Ridgewayhad been told of the remarkable feats of the young aviator, and with hisshrewd ability to pick men he was about to interview the boy to see ofwhat material he was really made.
It was an ordeal that would have made most boys so nervous that theywould have appeared ill at ease, but Lawrence, as he noted that it wasalmost time to start for his appointment, calmly put up his writing,brushed his hair, glanced at his wrist watch, and seeing that he stillhad five minutes to spare, sat down by the window and opened the pocketcase. Long and tenderly he gazed at the pictured face.
"I will do the very best I know, just for you," he said, smiling back atit. "I don't suppose I will ever know who you are, but we belong to eachother somehow, don't we? And I am going to make good just so I canalways like to look at you. Gee, you are sweet! You must be old enoughto be my mother because you have looked just like you do now ever sinceI first saw you back there at Moll's. Too bad she died! I always thoughtshe could have told me something about you, you Pretty, but I reckon Iwill never get to know any more of you than I do now."
He shook his head sadly. "You are so pretty," he murmured. "A fellowwould do anything for a mother like you; live clean and keep straight,and work his head off besides, to make you proud of him. Tell you what Iwill do, Pretty. I am going to make believe that you are waiting for mesomewhere, and I have got to make good before we meet. How's that? Abargain?" he smiled back at the smiling pictured eyes and, placing thecase carefully in his pocket, put on his hat and overcoat and startedoff to meet Mr. Ridgeway.