The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service. Goldfrap John Henry

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      He pointed to a short ladder, evidently left behind by the workmen who had fitted up the hangars. It lay in some tall grass, a short distance from where the Dreadnought Boys stood. A hasty attempt seemed to have been made to hide it, but if this had been the case, it was unsuccessful.

      "Just as I thought," declared Herc, after a minute. "The grass here is freshly trampled by the chap who threw the ladder back."

      Ned was silent a minute. Then he spoke.

      "I wonder how much they overheard?" he said slowly.

      "All our conversation, I guess, if they arrived in time. Why?"

      "Because I wanted to keep my pontoon idea secret till I'd tried it out. It isn't exactly for general publication – yet."

      Herc seemed to catch a deeper meaning in the words.

      "You're thinking of that chap who's been snooping around here for the last week posing as a newspaper photographer?" he asked quickly.

      "Yes. I'm convinced, somehow, that he is nothing of the sort. For one thing, he's far too curious about the mechanical details of the aeroplanes, and the results of the experiments so far as we've conducted them. Another thing is, that he seems unusually well supplied with money, and he also appears to be a man of far greater ability than his supposed job would indicate."

      "Gee whillakers!" gasped Herc. "You're not after thinking he's a foreign spy?"

      "That's just what I am," rejoined Ned firmly.

      "He won't get much information here."

      "Not if he depended on most of us for it. But there's Chance and Merritt. It's a mean thing to say, Herc, but I wouldn't trust those fellows any farther than I could see them, and not so far as that."

      "We-el!" whistled Herc, with huge assumed surprise, "you don't say so? I was always under the delusion that they were honest, above-board sports, who wouldn't do a mean thing for all the wealth on Wall Street."

      But just then the assembly bugle rang out sharply, summoning the aero squad to its labors. The lads hastened to get their machines out on the field. As they trundled them forth, assisted by some of the men employed about the grounds for such jobs, Ned's machine almost collided with a short, rather thick-set man, with a huge pair of moustaches and luxuriant blonde hair. The latter hung in a tangle from under a battered derby hat. The rest of the man's garments were in keeping with his disreputable head-gear. They consisted of a long, and very greasy-looking frock coat, a pair of checked trousers, badly frayed at the bottoms, broken boots and a soiled shirt and collar.

      Over his back was strapped a black leather box, which evidently contained a camera, for under his arm he bore a folded tripod. But, despite his disreputable appearance, Sigmund Muller, free-lance photographer, as he termed himself, bore an indescribable air of being something other than he pretended to be. Ned was skilled in reading human faces, and the first time he had set eyes on Herr Muller, he had decided that under the battered exterior and slouching gait lay hidden a keen, lance-like intellect, and an unscrupulous daring. The lad was impressed with the conviction that here was a man to be reckoned with.

      As the advancing aeroplane almost knocked him down, Herr Muller jumped nimbly to one side. Then he assumed what was meant to be a free-and-easy sort of manner.

      "Chust for dot," he exclaimed, "I dakes me a picdgure of your aeromoplane. Yes – no?"

      He began to unsling his camera, but Ned stopped him in a flash.

      "Don't bother yourself," he said sharply. "You recollect that I told you the other day that it was against the rules to take pictures of any of the aeroplanes on the grounds."

      "Undt I voss ordered off, too," chuckled Herr Muller, without displaying the slightest trace of irritation, "budt, you see, mein young friendt, I coom back – yah."

      "Do you mind standing out of the way?" cut in Herc suddenly. "I'd hate to run you down, but if you stand in the road any longer I'll have to."

      Once more Herr Muller jumped nimbly aside.

      "Dot'll be all righdt," he said amicably, "go on! Go ahead! Some day you break your neck, undt den I take picdgure of you – yes, no?"

      He fixed the freckled-faced boy with a glance[Pg 67][Pg 68][Pg 69] as he spoke. Herc, despite his usual equanimity, felt a shudder run through him, as he encountered the look. It seemed to penetrate like the white-hot flame of a blow-pipe.

      "Whoof!" he exclaimed, as he hastened along, "that chap's about as pleasant a thing to have around as a rattlesnake. He gives me the shivers."

      As the Dreadnought Boys hastened to the assembling place, Merritt and Chance, with their machines, emerged. They passed close to Herr Muller, and as they went by he overheard every word they said.

      "So Ned Strong is trying to sneak into favor again, eh?" snarled Merritt, who had just been listening to Chance's account of what he had overheard at the hangar window.

      "Yes, confound him. I wish we could find some way to put them both out of business. If it wasn't for them, we'd be – "

      A soft touch on Chance's arm interrupted him. He faced round and was rather startled to see the shambling figure of Sigmund Muller at his elbow. The man's face bore a peculiar, searching look. Chance felt a sort of shiver run through him as he faced him. But he shook it off.

      "Well, what is it?" he demanded gruffly.

      "You were talking about Ned Strong and Herc Taylor and some plans they had?" said the photographer in quiet tones.

      "Why, y-y-y-yes," stammered Chance, rather taken aback. But then, with a return to his former bravado: "What business have you eavesdropping, anyhow? What business is it of yours, eh?"

      The other paid no attention to this outburst.

      "You don't like Ned Strong or Herc Taylor?" he said in the same even tone.

      "Like them," repeated Chance indignantly, "I should say not, I hate – but what do you want to know for?"

      "Because I don't like them either," was the reply. "If you'll meet me at eight o'clock to-night at the old barn, the other side of the stone bridge on the Medford Road, I'll have a proposition of interest to make to you."

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