“Once more—that’s it!”

Ned suspended his labors for a moment and listened to the tune of the throbbing motor as the chauffeur started it up, following Ned’s adjustment of the carburetor.

“It’s working better already,” declared the big man. “Boy, you’re a wizard.”

Ned looked up smilingly. In the interest of the work, and the fascination he always felt in conquering the whims of a stubborn bit of machinery, he had quite forgotten for the moment all his trials and perplexities.

“I think I’m getting there all right,” he said confidently, “but it will take a little more time to fix it just right.”

“Ah! You believe in doing things thoroughly, I see.”

“I do, sir. Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well.”

“That’s a belief that will get you a long way in life, my boy,” said the big man. Ned hardly heard him, for the motor was once more roaring and pulsing. He tuned it up, listening to its explosions as a skilled musician might hearken critically to a piece of music.

As he listened, he tightened up a connection here or loosened a valve there till the big six-cylindered motor was humming with the even pulsations of a sleeping baby.

“You can shut her off,” said he, addressing the chauffeur, and then turning to the big man he added, “I think you’ll find no more trouble, sir.”

“What! You have adjusted it, my boy?”

“As well as I can, sir, and, without bragging, I guess you’ll find everything all right now.”

“How long will it remain so?” asked the sceptical Smithers.

“For several weeks, at any rate.”

“You may take the wheel again, Elmer, and hustle us along. Young man, that you’re a mechanic of no mean ability I could see by the way you went to work. What is your name?”

“Ned Nevins, sir.”

“Live here?”

“I do just now, but I come from Millville, N.Y.”

The big man looked surprised.

“Are you any relation to Jeptha Nevins?”

“His nephew, sir. Did you know him?”

“Very well. I am Vaughn Kessler, the owner of the Kessler Mill. Your uncle was my foreman for many years. He was one of the best men we ever had; I was very sorry to hear of his death. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you, sir, except——”

“Except what? Come, you’ll pardon my saying so, but you don’t look—well, very prosperous.”

“I am all right, thank you, sir, and have good prospects ahead of me,” replied Ned. “What I was going to ask you was not to mention my name in Millville or to say where you saw me if by any chance anyone should ask you.”

“But why? You are not under a cloud there surely, and if——”

“Oh, no sir! It is for quite another reason,” said Ned earnestly.

“Well, it shall be as you wish,” said Mr. Kessler, regarding the boy with some curiosity, “though why in the world you should make the request puzzles me. Good-bye, my boy, and thank you.”

He held out his hand and took Ned’s. The next minute the car that the boy had so cleverly placed back in running order moved swiftly off. As it receded along the road, Ned became conscious that there was something in his hand. It had been left by Mr. Kessler.

“It’s money!” exclaimed the boy, unclasping his fist. “Well, it won’t come amiss, although I wouldn’t have thought of charging him for that little job.”

He unfolded the bill and then gave a little cry of astonishment. It was for twenty dollars,—a small fortune to Ned.

“Well, I am in luck!” he exclaimed. “If only my fortunes have changed, as this seems to indicate, I’ll be lucky to-morrow as well, and that is the dearest wish of my heart.”

It was well for Ned’s peace of mind that he did not know that Mr. Kessler, while fully intending to keep his promise of not mentioning Ned’s name or address at home in Millville, unconsciously let the cat out of the bag when he arrived at Lowell, Mass., his destination. His important interests, and those of his traveling companion, Mr. Smithers, made him a big man there and the late arrival of his automobile, which kept a momentous meeting waiting, called for explanations. To the newspaper men of Lowell, Mr. Kessler told how he had been aided by a shabbily clothed boy on a country road when a trained chauffeur had failed to adjust his car. It made an interesting story, and was telegraphed over the country by a correspondent of a news association. In due course it appeared in the Millville papers under this heading:

MILLVILLE MAGNATE AIDED
BY A LAD FROM THIS CITY.

Vaughn Kessler’s Stalled Auto Started
By Ned Nevins, Motor Genius.

The article beneath these headlines described the whole incident briefly, and stated that Ned was at present residing in the village of Nestorville, Mass. With but few exceptions, the fact that Mr. Kessler was concerned in the story was the chief feature of interest to readers of the article.

One individual in Millville read it with burning eyes. This was Hank Nevins, Ned’s cousin. Following Ned’s disappearance, he had used every means in his power to locate the boy. For this he had a good reason. Not alone did he want to recover the plans and designs of the electric hydroaeroplane, but he was prepared to offer a price for them.

While Ned had been making his preparations to depart quietly from home, Hank, on the advice of his lawyer friend, had visited the head of an aeroplane manufacturing concern who happened to be visiting Millville. Hank had laid before the stranger as full a description as he could of his father’s invention. He left out many important points but the stranger was quick to see possibilities in the idea and offered Hank a substantial sum if he would bring him the plans.

The offer aroused all of Hank’s cupidity. He saw a way, as he thought, to a life of elegant leisure. Only one stumbling block interposed itself, and that was a seemingly insurmountable one.

Ned had vanished, and with him the papers that would have meant money to Hank. On the advice of his legal friend, Hank had advertised for Ned in the personal columns of half a dozen newspapers. But none of the carefully worded appeals to the boy to reveal himself had borne fruit. Hank was obliged to confess to Mr. Melville of the Blue Sky Aeroplane Company that he would be delayed in producing the plans, not admitting that it would be extremely unlikely that he could ever get possession of them at all.

“Well, any time you have them bring them to me,” said Mr. Melville before he left Millville. “And my offer will hold good.”

Hank’s thoughts were not very pleasant ones as he left the aeroplane man’s presence.

“The young blackguard, to run off like that,” he grumbled. “Those plans mean dollars and cents now. How can I get them? If I could locate that runaway brat, I’d soon find a way.”

And now, through that unfortunate article in the Millville Clarion, Ned Nevins’ hiding place had been revealed to the last person on earth Ned would have wished to have known of it.

That night, as soon as his work was done, Hank sought out his budding lawyer friend. The law, like all other professions, has its black sheep. Hank’s friend bade fair to become one of these when he should ultimately be admitted to practice, which was his ambition. His eyes glistened when he heard of Hank’s discovery.

“If only we could get those papers,” muttered Hank, as the two sat together that night. “We’d both have money to burn, Miles.”

Miles Sharkey was the name of Hank’s crony, and the latter part of his appellation suited him from the ground up. In his projecting yellow teeth and undershot jaw, as well as in his fishy, shifting eyes, there was something suggestive of the rapaciousness and treachery of a shark.

“I think I can find a way to make him give them up, Hank,” said Miles, after some moments spent in deep thought, “but it may take a little time to work out the details. Have you any idea what he can be doing in this Nestorville place?”

“Not on the first guess. Just a crazy notion of his, I reckon. But what’s your plan, Miles.”

“I’ll have to think out the details,” rejoined the redoubtable limb of the law, rubbing his tallowy hands together. “But I think we’ll be able to make Cousin Ned disgorge before very long—for a consideration.”

“On the day I get my money, you get yours,” Hank assured him.

“Consider it settled then,” said Miles. “I’d have to be a pretty poor lawyer if I couldn’t think of a way.”

“I—I’m not particular about law,” blustered Hank, “anything to get those plans. He’s only a kid, and once we’ve got ’em he can’t do anything.”

“It’s a great pity you didn’t get hold of them before he skipped out,” said the worthy Miles. “Anyhow, it’s all right. I’m smart enough to attend to that.”

“Miles, you’re a true friend.” And as they parted, Hank clasped his companion’s claw-like hand with a fervor worthy of being bestowed on a better man.