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.