"What's this?" Bruce was looking at a file containing bills-of-lading, a
messenger had handed him.

"Car 564963, C. P. R., consigned to Major A. Bronson. Airplane and
supplies." He read it aloud and whistled. Barney jumped to snatch
it from him.

"Stand back! Give me air," Bruce gasped. "An airplane at the present end
of the Hudson Bay Railroad! What's doing now? What are they up to? Going
to quit construction here and use planes the rest of the way? Fancy
freighting wheat, fish, furs and whale blubber by airplanes!" Both lads
laughed at the idea.

"I don't wish his pilot any bad luck," said Barney. "But if he must die
by breaking his neck, or something, I hope he does it before he reaches
the Hudson Bay terminus. I'd like to take his place in that big air-bird.
Say, wouldn't it be glorious!"

"You've stolen my thunder," replied Bruce, laughing. "I'm taking that
job myself."

"Tell you what! I'll fight you for it. What weapons do you choose?
Rope-handed spiking hammers or pick-axes?"

"Let's go down and see if it's here. Like as not it's a machine neither
of us would risk his neck in; some old junk-pile the government's sold to
the chap for a hundred and fifty or so."

That this idea was not taken seriously by either was shown by the
double-quick at which they went down the line, and over the half-laid