  “Those books are off my mind,” Curt reflected as he pedaled slowly toward the aircraft plant, “but my legs aren’t. I’d go to bed and rest for a week if it wasn’t for seeing what Griff is up to.” He had ridden only a block or two away from his uncle’s residence, where he had deposited the books, when a thought occurred to him. “I know how to get a ‘tow’ to the plant,” Curt whispered to himself, swinging his handlebars to turn into the next cross street. “They usually get shipments of fabric on the eleven o’clock freight, and our truck is there to load it in.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “Yes,” he told himself, “it ought to be loaded or nearly so—and that means the truck will be starting soon. I’ll ride along till it catches up with me and then let it pull me where I’m going.” It was a reasonable notion and well-founded. That it was sound was soon proved, for Curt saw the truck turning into the street just ahead, from the direction of the station. He had expected it to come from the street he had passed, but realized that it must have followed the direction it had been pointed instead of turning around in the station yards; increasing his speed for the moment, Curt caught up with the tail boards of the large truck, took hold with one hand, set his coaster brake, and rode in comfort, resting his weary feet. To his great surprise the truck turned off at a crossroad. “What does that mean?” he wondered. He let go and dropped back a few yards, intending to let the truck go; but it bothered him to decide what caused the change of route. Curt resuming his pedaling, following at a little distance, determined that for all his weariness he ought to find out why a truck, openly laden with cases and parcels, boxes and canvas sacks, should not go directly to its destination to be ready for unloading when the plant opened in the morning. The ride was not more than a half mile. Curt, keeping at good distance, let the truck get around a bend. He could follow by the sound of the motor. He did not wish to be seen. There was in him the thrill of the discoverer of a new clue. When the motor ceased to send its roar across the distance to him Curt laid Al’s bicycle, which he had ridden from the cornfield, beside the rutted country road and walked, screening himself carefully, to the bend. “No truck should stop in this out-of-the-way place,” he decided. “I’d better be careful. They might have a guard set at the turn.” There was no guard, however. Evidently the truck driver and his assistant had no suspicion that they were observed. Openly the truck stood in the road, to one side. Curt, able to distinguish its bulk, was too far away to see through the darkness what was going on. “Maybe a broken drive chain,” he thought. “Still, I’d better be certain.” He made a slight detour through the pines along the byroad, being careful to make as little sound as possible, working around toward the position of the truck. Whatever sound he made was soon drowned by the roar of a motor. “Just a repair,” he decided. “They’re going.” Instead of getting further away the motor pulsation became louder. “That’s another car coming,” Curt told himself, “and it’s a heavy duty motor, too.” He made fast progress toward the edge of the trees. There, hidden behind a large trunk of pine, he could see the dim road, the dull outline of the truck, and the moving forms of men lifting things out and piling them by the road. “They’re unloading the truck!” Curt was amazed. Was this some bold banditry, some open theft? To his further astonishment and mystification the other truck came along and stopped. There was an exchange of low, but jovial banter between the rough drivers and their helpers, but no allusion was made to their task. Instead, the men on the truck just arrived began also to unload bolts, cases, boxes, sacks, from their vehicle. Curt could not figure the problem to a satisfactory decision. Were they substituting one load for the other? Why? At any rate, they would be occupied for several hours, Curt thought. He made his way quietly back into the wood and hurried toward his bicycle. “I’ll ride to the plant, get the watchman to telephone for the police, and round up those fellows.” Every ounce of his reserve energy Curt put into his pedals as he bumped along the byroad and then raced down the main highway. When he came within sight of the aircraft plant he was surprised at the activity displayed. The flood lights were on. Far up overhead he heard the sound of an airplane engine. “Oh!” Curt was reassured. “It must be Bob and Al coming in. They will be glad to hear I put the books away safely, and then we can all ride back to the truck—no, we can’t!” He recalled that his own wheel was parked at The Windsock—if no one had taken it. There was no one in the watchman’s place by the main gate, which was open. Curt decided that the man was at the flying field to give assistance to the airplane as it landed. “Hello!” Al, turning at the door of the administration offices, hailed Curt. “Come on!” Curt raced across the yard, joined Al and Bob at the office building doorway. “I thought—” he gasped, “I thought you flew!” Rapidly Bob explained. “We hoofed it back,” Al added. “Then who is landing—or shooting the field to land?” “Must be Mr. Parsons bringing in the ship we deserted on the road. Did you leave that parcel of books at Dad’s? Good! But why did you come back here, Curt?” A quick explanation set everything clearly before his friends. “We ought to go and round up the two trucks,” he finished. “No—we must get to Griff. He must be wild, waiting without any word. I know the trucks won’t wait forever, but you can identify them in the morning. Come on.” Curt followed Bob’s lead, with Al at his heels as they entered the office corridor. Griff’s voice came to them as they reached the upper landing. He was talking—telephoning! “Oh—Langley! You got there! Good! What? Your uncle is gone? Gone? Gone! Lang—where? You don’t know? What’ll I do, Lang? You don’t know? Well, I do!” and he slammed the receiver on its hook. “Hurry!” urged Bob as the trio raced to the lighted doorway. At the safe, kneeling, was Griff. He twirled the dial, clanged back the safe door, reached for the packet of bills again. “Here—you mustn’t! You daren’t. That isn’t yours!” White-faced, Griff identified Al as the latter called his warning. “I must!” he snapped, and stood up, holding the packet. Over the offices came the drone of the approaching airplane circling for a landing. Al moved toward Griff. “Get back!” Griff was furious. Bob, behind him, snatched the packet of bills, flung it into the safe, slammed the door. Griff, with a furious snarl, bent to recover the packet, but the door was shut. He flung off Bob, who backed into Al and Curt. Heedless of the roar of the airplane engine as the ship came low over the office roofs in its descent, Bob, Al and Curt disentangled themselves, got to their feet. Already Griff was by the safe, the combination figures on the slip in his hand, the dial of the safe door twirling and clicking. “Here—what are you doing, Griff?” Bob cried out in dismay. With a quick glance Griff measured them. His face was white, his jaw was set, his whole attitude was that of a terrified, trembling young man who had determined on a course he knew to be wrong but which circumstances would not allow him to avoid. “Don’t!” exclaimed Curt. “You daren’t!” corrected Al. “Your father has stolen the books, but you shan’t——” The safe door was wrenched open. Bob started forward, Curt at his side, to catch Griff’s hand, to prevent this thing he felt he had to do. His fear of his father’s anger was greater than his dread of the boys, it seemed. His hand on the packet of bills, Bob tried to stop him. Griff, with a scowl and a wicked word, kicked Bob’s shin, avoided Curt’s grasp, and stood back, his face working. There was an interruption. “Listen!” Al, nearest the door, called the word. They were halted, frozen into statues with tense poses and straining ears. A step sounded in the hall. Instantly, white with terror, Griff flung the bills toward the open safe, kicked the door shut, turned like a hunted animal and ran out through an intervening door into the next office, and, with Bob in hot pursuit, raced across the hall, into the directors’ room, to its window and down the fire escape. And Bob, at the window, felt a hand grip his collar. He was caught! |
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