Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane
Rockwood, Roy
English
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DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS HYDROPLANE
Or Daring Adventures Over The Great Lakes
By Roy Rockwood
CHAPTER I
THE YOUNG AVIATOR
"Telegram, sir."
"Who for?"
"Dave Dashaway."
"I'll take it."
The messenger boy who had just entered the hangar of the great prize
monoplane of the aero meet at Columbus, stared wonderingly about him
while the man in charge of the place receipted for the telegram.
The lad had never been in so queer a place before. He was a lively,
active city boy, but the closest he had ever seen an airship was a
distance away and five hundred feet up in the air. Now, with big
wonder eyes he stared at the strange appearing machine. His fingers
moved restlessly, like a street-urchin surveying an automobile and
longing to blow its horn.
The man in charge of the place attracted his attention, too. He had
only one arm and limped when he walked. His face was scarred and he
looked like a war veteran. The only battles this old warrior had
been in, however, were fights with the elements. He was a famous
"wind wagon" man who had sustained a terrible fall in an endurance
race. It had crippled him for life. Now he followed the various
professional meets for a living, and also ran an aviation school for
amateurs. His name was John Grimshaw.
The messenger boy took a last look about the place and left. The
old man put on a cap, went to the door and rather gruesomely faced
the elements.
"A cold drizzling rain and gusty weather generally," he said to
himself in a grumbling tone. "I'll face it any time for Dashaway,
though. The telegram may be important."
The big aero field looked lonely and gloomy as the man crossed it.
Lights showed here and there in the various buildings scattered
about the enclosure. The ground was wet and soft. The rain came in
chilling dashes. Old Grimshaw breasted the storm, and after half a
mile's walk came to a hangar a good deal like the one he had left.
There was a light inside.
"Hello, there!" he sang out in his big foghorn voice, thrusting the
door open with his foot and getting under the shelter, and shaking
the rain from his head and shoulders.
Two boys were the occupants of the place. They had a lamp on the
table, upon which was outspread pictures and plans of airships. The
older of the two got up from his chair with a pleasant smiling face.
"Why, it's Mr. Grimshaw!" he exclaimed.
"That's who it is," joined in the other boy cheerily. "Say, you're
welcome, too. We were looking over some sketches of new machines,
and you can tell us lots about them, you know."
"Got to get back to my own quarters," declared Grimshaw. "Some
other time about those pictures. Boy brought a telegram to Mr.
King's hangar. It's for you, Dashaway."
"For me?" inquired the lad who had first addressed the visitor.
"Yes. Here it is. Mr. King's away, but if you need me for anything
let me know."
"I'm always needing you," replied Dave Dashaway. "I don't know what
we'd do without you."
The young aviator--for such he was in fact and reality--took the
proffered envelope. He tore open its end and read the enclosure
rapidly.
"Why," he said, "this is strange."
"Any answer? Need me?" asked Grimshaw, moving towards the door.
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