CHAPTER XV

A HEAVY DATE

Grace Palmer, Curlie Carson learned at once, was the daughter of Professor Palmer, and sister to the child whose life he had done much to save.

“You brought her medicine. You saved her life. She is my only sister.” The young eyes were filled with honest tears of gratitude.

Curlie hated tears. They made him feel awkward and out of place.

But Grace Palmer was not one to spill them needlessly. She was a girl of purpose and strength. Grace Palmer, Curlie would discover soon enough, was not the average type of girl. Reared beneath the shadows of stately university buildings, she had unconsciously acquired something of their quiet dignity. At this moment she wore a hand-tailored suit of dark blue broadcloth. The suit made her appear a good deal older than she really was.

Yes, Grace Palmer was a dignified person. She was possessed of a good mind, and her father had seen to it that her mind was trained in the art of thinking. For all that, beneath the almost severe broadcloth coat there was a heart that was capable of beating very fast at the thought of mystery and adventure. She was not sorry to be on her present mission.

“Father has classes,” she explained. “He teaches. I am studying, but my periods are all in the afternoon. He asked me to drive out here and thank you. He—he also wanted me to ask you if the—the way you delivered our package got you into any trouble.”

“It has,” Curlie said, rather bluntly. “Plenty.” He was tired; wanted to clean up and rest. Anyway, what could a girl do?

“My troubles,” he said, taking a step toward the door, “don’t matter.”

“Oh, but they do!” Impulsively her hand gripped his arm. “We—we owe you so much. We can help, I am sure. Won’t you let us? Won’t you tell me about it?”

Curlie could not resist this appeal.

“Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.

“But,” he added, as a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, “if I fall asleep, you must waken me.”

He led the way to the fresh outdoor air. There he dropped upon a bench.

He told his story briefly. But to his own surprise, led on by the girl’s expressions of sympathy, excitement and consternation, he told it well.

“And,” she exclaimed as he finished, “you say the man went east from the museum? Perhaps he went over to the island.”

“Island?” Curlie stared. “There is no island off that shore.”

“Oh, but there is one, a mile and a half long. There are to be others. Men make them with dredges and dump trucks.

“It’s really quite an old island,” she continued. “Trees on it twenty feet tall and some shacks where men live; three or four shacks.”

“Shacks? Men?” Curlie’s voice was full of suppressed excitement. “Perhaps the man who stole that package lives there. Perhaps the package is there still.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “that may be true. Shall we go and see?”

Curlie paused for thought. A film seemed to close over his eyes.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Not now. I’ve reached my limit. I’m no good.”

“You need rest,” she said quickly. “But can’t I come back for you later? It’s really considerable of an island. I go there often. And truly I think it’s worth looking into.”

“Yes,” Curlie acquiesced, “you come. Any time after six.”

Ten minutes later in the airport bunkroom he lay quite still, lost in deep sleep.

He was awakened in mid-afternoon by a newsboy calling his papers. As he listened, still half asleep, he thought he caught words that sounded like “Air Mail.”

He was out of his bunk at once. Had it appeared in the papers—his story?

He threw up his window and sent a coin rattling to the pavement below.

“Bring one up,” he shouted. The boy pocketed the coin, waved and disappeared.

He reappeared almost at once by the bunkroom door, with a cheerful:

“Here y’are, mister. All about the Air Mail robbery.”

Curlie dropped down on his bunk and stared in amazement. There it was, on the front page of the afternoon scream-sheet. Two planes in mid-air; this drawn by a staff artist. His own plane on the ground; a real photograph. And his picture in the oval inset.

He read the story breathlessly. There was much there that he did not know. His plane, so the story ran, had been rescued and brought into port. No damage had been done. The number of mailsacks taken was not yet known.

The story made him out quite a hero. He flushed when he thought how he had bungled matters in the end.

“_No clue as to the assailants_,” he read on. “_An unlicensed radio station, surprised and overhauled in the vicinity of the attack, offered no real clue._

“_One thousand dollars reward offered by the air transport company for return of the missing package._”

“Kind of them to make the offer,” he thought. “But that’s one reward that will go unearned.” Little he knew!

The picture that interested him most was one running entirely across the top of the second page. In this were shown the smiling, happy faces of scores of crippled children.

“_Their concert saved_,” was the caption.

“That,” he said with conviction, “is even worth going to jail for.”

Of a sudden he recalled his engagement with Grace Palmer to visit that island. He looked at his watch.

“Time to dress and have a bite to eat,” he told himself, as he began hurrying into his clothes.

As he stepped out of the airport on his way to the lunch room across the street, he all but collided with an old time pal.

“Johnny Thompson, as I live!” he exclaimed.

“Curlie Carson!” Johnny gripped his hand.

The invisible threads of silken dreams that had been drawing them closer and closer had brought them together at last.

They talked for a moment or two of old times and far-away places.

Then all of a sudden, Johnny started. “But I can’t talk any more now.” He turned about. “Came here to find an Air Mail pilot.”

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Describe him.”

“I can’t.”

“Then what—?” Curlie stared at him.

“He brought the mail from New York. Was forced down; plane robbed. He—”

“Spare your breath,” Curlie grinned. “I’m the guy.”

“You?” Johnny stared in astonishment.

“Surest thing in the world!”

“Then,” said Johnny, “I’m in luck.”

“Come on over and have a cup of coffee. Got a heavy date with a lady.”

“A lady?”

“Professor’s daughter. Thinking of taking a course in something or other myself,” Curlie bantered. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Seated on lunch counter stools, devouring ham and egg sandwiches and drinking coffee, the one time pals told of their experiences.

Johnny listened in silence to Curlie’s account of his narrow escape, his forced landing, his night wanderings as a messenger boy, his thrilling adventures in the tunnel beneath the city. When he came to the point where he had lost the trail of the one who had snatched the package of rare jewels (if, indeed, the Secret Service man’s statement were correct) he straightened up and put a hand on Curlie’s arm.

“I’ll tell you what I think.” He was in deadly earnest. “That fellow never left the tunnel. Why should he? Finest hiding place in the world. What?”

“No doubt about it. For all that, I think he did leave it.”

“You’re wrong. Come with me to the tunnel, and we’ll find him.”

“Can’t. Got a date to search an island; date with that college girl, Grace Palmer.”

“An island?” Johnny pondered. “Oh, yes, I remember.”

Johnny did remember many things about that island. Thrilling adventures had come to him there when the island was younger, as you will recall if you have read the book called _The Fire Bug_.

“Might be something to it,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, you look that place over and I’ll take a look at the tunnel. Somehow, we must find that man.

“Old Greasy Thumb and his pals were at the bottom of this Air Mail robbery, or I’m a green one. Thing to do is to get evidence, then get them. Next time they’ll stay in jail.

“One thing troubles me most of all.” His brow wrinkled. “That’s the way the Chief acts about the whole affair. Then, too, there’s that reporter. He’s certainly a queer one. You don’t expect to find anything wrong with a reporter from a paper like the _World_. They’re always on the side of decency, and honest reform. Oh, well, we may be all wrong about everything. Time’ll tell.

“You’d better hurry over and keep your date. I hope we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Hope so.” Curlie hastened away.

They were indeed, and the result was to be adventure such as seldom comes to any one.