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Read Ebook: Makers of Modern Agriculture by Macdonald William
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Ebook has 406 lines and 16408 words, and 9 pages
The Man of Mystery
The twin motors, mounted in nacelles projecting from the sturdy wing, idled as the ship drifted downward to touch lightly on the runway and roll smoothly toward the main hangar.
"Star gazing again?" asked a quiet voice at Tim's elbow.
The flying reporter turned quickly. Carl Hunter, manager of the airport, was beside him.
"I always get a thrill watching those high speeds come in. There's something in it that gets into my blood and makes it tingle."
"They're the finest transport planes in the world," nodded Hunter.
"I'd like to fly one of them," mused Tim.
Hunter looked at Tim shrewdly. The flying reporter was slender but his muscles were like tensed steel. His blue eyes were clear and unwavering. There was a pleasant twist to his lips but from experience the field manager knew that they could snap into an uncompromising line of determination.
"I'll get you a job on the Transcontinental any day you want one," he said. "Come over to my office and fill out the application blank."
"I wouldn't rank either of your abilities ahead of the other. You're first class at both."
"Thanks, Carl. That reminds me. Have one of the boys finish up this job. Give all of the plugs a good cleaning. I'd almost forgotten I've got another column to write for my department in tomorrow's paper."
"I'll make out a work ticket right away."
Tim slipped out of his jumper and followed the field manager toward the main hangar. The usual crowd of curious people was lined up inside the ropes to watch the passengers as they disembarked. Tim, always on the lookout, scanned them as they came down the steps from the plane.
Two attractive girls were first. They looked as though they might be movie actresses. He'd check the passenger list with the stewardess to make sure. An actress was always worth a paragraph or two.
The last man to leave the ship drew Tim's attention. There was something vaguely familiar in the carriage of the head and the set of the jaw.
The stewardess came by and Tim hailed her. "Who's the tall, well-built fellow in the gray suit?" he asked.
The girl scanned the passenger list.
"Sorry, I can't tell you. He isn't listed."
"What do you mean by that? Is he traveling on a pass?"
"Hardly. I collected his fare in Chicago and he's getting off here."
"Then you must know his name."
"He didn't give me his name and instructions from the general manager were to do as he directed so I've listed him on my seat chart as 'Mr. Seven.' That's the chair he occupied on the trip out."
Tim thanked the stewardess and hurried into Carl Hunter's office.
"He's just as mysterious to me as he is to you," replied the field chief. "Why don't you ask him what it's all about? I've had a radio from the general manager to extend him every courtesy and not to ask questions, but I guess that doesn't cover you."
"Asking questions is one of the things I do best," grinned Tim as he left the office.
"Mr. Seven" was superintending the unloading of his luggage from the plane. Three large traveling bags were pulled out of the baggage compartment and Tim whistled as he thought of the excess fees which must have been paid for the transport of the heavy bags by air.
When "Mr. Seven" had made sure that his baggage was in proper order, Tim stepped up.
"Sorry, Murphy, but there's nothing I can tell you. I prefer not to talk to reporters."
Tim was undaunted. "Do you plan on staying long in Atkinson?"
"That's another question I decline to answer." The muscles around the stranger's jaw were tightening and Tim sensed stormy weather ahead. Normally he would have let the whole matter drop but there was something so definitely perplexing in the other man's attitude that he persisted in his questioning.
"You must have some special mission here," said Tim.
"I told you before that I wouldn't talk. You can fire away with questions all the rest of the afternoon and you'll get the same result--zero. Now if you'll be good enough to suggest your best hotel, I'll be on my way up town."
"Thanks, but I'd have to parry too many of your questions."
"It's a draw so far," smiled Tim, "but I'll bet I know your name before another 24 hours, 'Mr. Seven.'"
"Why call me 'Mr. Seven?'"
"That's what the stewardess did. You were in chair seven coming out from Chicago."
"It's as good a name as any other."
"Except your real one," interjected Tim.
"Mr. Seven" bundled his bags into a taxi and whirled away toward the city while Tim stood on the ramp and gazed after the car.
"That fellow's face is familiar," he muttered half aloud, "and I'm going to dig into our files at the office until I find his picture. Unless my hunch is way wrong, there must be a big story connected with him."
Tim's hunches were notoriously right and just how correct this one was, even Tim would never have dared dream.
A Secret Service Case
"Come in," boomed a voice from behind the door and Tim stepped into the office. "You wanted to see me?"
"I've never met Ace or any of his fliers," replied Tim, "but they have the reputation of putting on a good air show."
"I'll call Hunter at once," promised Tim.
He left the managing editor's office and placed the call from one of the telephones in the editorial room.
"I've no objections to the High Flyers," the airport manager said, "but they'll have to pay the field the usual percentage for taking up passengers."
"I'll forget all about it until I read your story tomorrow," promised Hunter.
Tim returned to the managing editor's office.
"Hunter has no objections but the High Flyers must pay the field fifteen per cent of all the money they take in on passenger rides. That's the customary percentage for barnstormers."
The managing editor had the contract from the High Flyers on his desk and Tim, at his suggestion, filled out the blank.
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