Читать книгу Porson's Flying Service - George E. Rochester - Страница 4

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Dusk was falling, and shades of the coming night crept in across the hushed and peaceful countryside. All was serene and tranquil—all except the troubled soul of Eustace Lowther-Lowther!

Eustace, a brooding figure in loud plus-fours, sat on an upturned petrol tin in front of an old barn, scowling into the vista of shadowy trees and mist-swathed hedges.

Life, mused Eustace bitterly, was a bally washout. In the ordinary scheme of things he should at the moment be enjoying his after-dinner cigarette in the perfectly topping smoke-room of Lowther Court. He didn’t smoke cigars because they made him feel sick—but that is by the way.

Anyhow, that is where he ought to be—in the smoke-room of Lowther Court. Instead, here he was squatting like a blessed night-watchman on an upturned petrol tin in front of a rotten barn in a dew-soaked field. It would be a funny thing if he didn’t catch a chill.

But that was only the hors-d’œuvre, as it were, of Eustace’s discomfort. He was—and his scowl deepened dreadfully at the thought—acting as mechanic to a perfectly beastly kid called George Porson. It was Eustace’s cousin, Thomas Cresswell, English Rugby International, who was to blame. Of course, any fathead could see that. Cresswell had encouraged the kid——

Eustace brought his morbid reflections to a sudden termination. Something remarkably like a ghost was ambling towards him through the dusk. As it approached it resolved itself into an ancient gentleman, clad in a long, white smock.

“Well, what the dickens do you want?” snapped Eustace.

“Be Garge back yet?” demanded the old fellow shrilly.

“No, he isn’t!” retorted Eustace. “I hope he’s broken his bally neck! And you say ‘sir’ to me!”

“But you be Garge’s hired man, bean’t you?” inquired the ancient.

“No, I’m jolly well not!” was the yelped reply. “I’m Mr. Eustace Lowther-Lowther, and—and I’m doing this rotten mechanic business for a bet!”

“That ain’t what Garge said. Garge said——”

“I don’t care what your confounded George said!” howled Eustace. “You clear off! I won’t have you messing about here!”

“You’m forgettin’ your position, young man——” began the ancient severely; then broke off as, from away over towards Sudcombe, there came the wheezy rattle of an old aero engine.

The noise grew in volume until, spluttering and banging, an old Maurice Farman biplane came lurching through the dusk, and at fifty feet above the field dropped its nose for a landing.

“That be him—that’s Garge!” quavered the old man. “I’ve brought him a few eggs!”

“I wish you’d go away somewhere and suck them!” snapped Eustace, and watched gloweringly as, circling widely like some big glider, the Farman came dropping lower and lower.

“Handles her pretty, don’t he?” remarked the ancient enthusiastically, as the biplane came to earth with a bumpy “Thank goodness I’m on the ground!” sort of landing.

A burst of the throttle brought it jolting and swaying towards the barn. Then the old 35 h.p. Green engine was switched off, and from the low forward seat on the lower plane George Porson leapt to the ground, followed by his black-and-white mongrel, Bill.

“Hallo, Gaffer!” he cried heartily to the old man. “How do, Eustace, old bean?”

Eustace sniffed.

“I thought your beastly old flying relic must have crashed,” he said malevolently. “I jolly well wish it had!”

Porson’s good-natured face became one vast grin.

“Crash?” he repeated. “She wouldn’t crash, Eustace. I’ve just been trying out some new aileron wires. She banks toppingly now.”

“She’ll fall to pieces in the air some day,” said Eustace darkly. “I’ve seen wings float off machines before to-day——”

“Well, you shouldn’t look at ’em so hard,” remarked Porson. “Come on, get the tail-skid trolly out and we’ll shove her into the barn. Then we’ll have supper! I’m frightfully peckish! You’ll join us, Gaffer?”

“No, Garge! I’ve got to be gettin’ along home. I just bringed you these here eggs. Good-night, lad!”

He thrust a bag of eggs into Porson’s hand, and, waving away the boy’s thanks, hobbled off towards the wicket-gate which led out of the field.

“That cheeky old beast was rude to me!” bleated Eustace.

“Don’t you call him a cheeky old beast!” said Porson warmly. “He’s one of the best, is Gaffer, and he’s my friend.”

Eustace’s sneer was hidden as he turned towards the barn to bring out the tail-skid trolly.

During the tête-à-tête supper with Porson in the living-room of the latter’s little cottage, the simmering Eustace burst out vehemently:

“Look here! I’m fed-up to the blessed back teeth with this sickening idiocy. I—I——”

“Yes?” remarked Porson encouragingly.

“I’m not going to stand it any longer, dash it!” babbled Eustace wildly. “When I said that I’d act as your rotten mechanic if you won the aerial golf at the Tuttleberry flying meeting with that rickety old death-trap of yours, I didn’t really mean it!”

“Didn’t you?” said Porson politely.

“No, I didn’t!” howled Eustace. “I’ve stuck it three days, and I’m blowed if I’m jolly well going to stick it any longer!”

“All right!” remarked Porson affably. “There’s the door. Pop off!”

“It’s all right your saying pop off!” snarled Eustace. “But you know what’ll happen if I show up at Lowther Court before the end of the week!”

“No, what?”

“That beast Cresswell will thrash me! He said he would. He said if I didn’t keep my promise to act as your rotten mechanic, he’d thrash me. Dash it, you heard him, didn’t you?”

“I seem to remember some such remark being made!” replied Porson, tilting elegantly back in his chair. With hands plunged in the pockets of his school blazer, he thoughtfully surveyed the puny frame of Eustace. “But why let him?” he added.

“Why let him?” echoed Eustace bitterly. “I couldn’t jolly well stop him. That’s not all, either. If I don’t see the week through as your mechanic, he’s going to have me kicked out of my London clubs as a fellow who makes wagers and won’t pay up when he loses. Confound it, I’d be ruined socially if he did that! He’s a great, heavy-handed bully—that’s what he is!”

Porson suppressed a grin. Cresswell was anything but a bully. He had, however, little use for that insufferable snob, Eustace, and when Eustace had promised—in his foolishness—to act as Porson’s mechanic should Porson win the aerial golf, Cresswell had determined to make Eustace keep that promise. True, Eustace had never dreamt that Porson had an earthly chance of winning, but Porson had won.

All this had proved very upsetting for Eustace.

“Look here!” he went on. “I know you’re jolly hard up, and that you’re trying to build up a beastly air passenger service with that old Farman biplane of yours. Well, you haven’t had a passenger yet, and, personally, I don’t think you ever will have one. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do!” Porson eyed him grimly.

“Yes, what?” he demanded.

“I’ll give you a fiver if you’ll write a letter to Cresswell saying that you don’t require my services any longer. Dash it, the rotter can’t do anything if I turn up at Lowther Court with a letter from you saying you don’t want me. You can post it if you like.”

“I don’t like!” replied Porson coldly. “And if you offer me money like that again, I’ll give you a preliminary hiding just to be going on with. As far as I’m concerned you can pack your toothbrush and push off now.”

“But I can’t, I tell you!” wailed Eustace. “Cresswell is staying at Lowther Court, and—and he’ll pounce on me the moment I show up there.”

“Then you’d better stay here till your week’s up!” grinned Porson. “Not that you’re much use. The old bus has never been the same since you filled the radiator with petrol and the tank with water. I tried to swing the prop for twenty minutes, and spent another half-hour cleaning the plugs before I discovered what you’d done!”

“It wasn’t my fault!” snorted Eustace. “The rotten caps are so close together that I got ’em mixed. Anyway”—he rose to his feet and stood glowering at Porson—“I’m going to bed. But you wait. You and Cresswell think you’ve got me dished, but I’m not a chump, by Jove! You wait!”

With which dark, if vague, threat he strutted wrathfully from the room and went groping his way up the rickety staircase of the little cottage en route for his bed-room.

As for Porson, he sat with his hands plunged deep in his pockets, a worried frown on his generally good-natured face.

There was no doubt about it, he had to bite the bullet. His dreams were not materialising. With his old Maurice Farman biplane which he had picked up from the Air Ministry for ten pounds, he had hoped to make a beginning of what would some day become the mammoth Porson Passenger Service—By Air to Anywhere!

That was why he had rented this little cottage at Sudcombe with its adjacent field and barn. But so far, his first passenger had not yet cast up. True, he had won ten pounds when he won the aerial golf at the Tuttleberry flying meeting, of which Eustace was president.

But, he reflected, he couldn’t go chasing about the country picking up prizes. It was only the slow flying speed of his bus which had enabled him to win at Tuttleberry. He could never hope to compete in a race against the fast little Moths and Snipes which all posh flying men owned. Dash it, his old Farman was nothing more nor less than a glider, fitted with a low-powered engine. He could make one like it, easily. Any fellow could if he set his mind to it.

Perhaps, after all, it was idiocy to go on. Why not chuck it and accept Uncle Bartholomew’s offer to get him into a bank?

No! Porson’s jaw set grimly. He’d see the thing through. Something would turn up. He wasn’t beaten yet. Some day he would own his fleet of air taxis and air liners, some of ’em fitted with luxurious suites for millionaires. And all built up from his dear old, rickety old, Maurice Farman biplane.

“We’ll pull through, Bill, old fellow!” he said to the little mongrel lying on the hearthrug in front of the fern-filled grate.

Bill’s stumpy tail thumped hearty endorsement of the words, and, comforted, George Porson lighted his candle and went up to bed.

·····

Porson was awakened from healthy slumber by someone below banging on the front door of the cottage. He sat up in bed with a jerk. It was almost morning, for the grey light of dawn was creeping in through the lattice windows of the bed-room.

Thump! Thump! Thump! went the banging on the door.

“Perhaps it’s a passenger!” gasped Porson excitedly, and leapt out of bed.

Bounding to the open window, he thrust out his head. A plump figure, muffled in a greatcoat, was standing on the doorstep below.

“Hallo, hallo!” exclaimed Porson. “What d’you want?”

“I want to see this chappie Porson!” came in excited accents from the muffled figure. “I want to see him—I must see him! Go and wake him—go and wake him at once!”

“I’m Porson! What d’you want?”

“Are you the chappie with the aeroplane? I mean, are you the Porson on the notice-board at the garden gate?”

“Yes, that’s me!” replied Porson.

“Oh, good! Oh, spiffing! Please come down and let me in!”

“But what d’you want, man?” demanded Porson.

“Oh dear! Don’t keep me standing here!” pleaded the muffled figure. “Please come down and let me in, and I’ll explain.”

“Do you want me to take you somewhere in my bus?” persisted Porson. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes, yes—that’s what I want! But please let me in!”

“I’ll be down in a minute!” exclaimed Porson; and, withdrawing from the window, he executed an impromptu dance round the bed-room floor.

“A passenger!” he carolled joyously. “Oh, a passenger at last!”

Struggling into his dressing-gown, he wrenched open his bed-room door and almost cannoned into a weird-looking object in pink pyjamas.

“Hallo, Eustace!” he exclaimed. “Glad to see you up so early. Better get dressed. We’ve got a passenger!”

“He woke me up, making that confounded row on the doorstep!” snarled Eustace, who was never at his best at that hour of the morning. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” replied Porson. “I’m just going down to find out.”

“I heard him talking,” snapped Eustace. “I seemed to recognise his foul voice! I——”

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“My hat, there he goes again!” exclaimed Porson, as the banging on the door recommenced. “He’s in a hurry, whoever he is.”

“I tell you I think I know who he is!” began Eustace. “I recognised his voice, and——”

But Porson was already half-way downstairs. Reaching the front door, he unbolted it and swung it open. The figure in the greatcoat—a plump young man who appeared to be wearing plus-fours—pushed past Porson into the narrow hallway.

“Oh, good!” he gasped. “Safe at last!”

“Is somebody after you?” asked Porson, closing the door and leading the way into the living-room, into which was flooding the grey light of early morning.

“Well—er—not exactly!” replied the young man. “But—er——”

“Why, you’re a blessed convict!” roared Porson, as the newcomer’s greatcoat gaped open to give a glimpse of convict garb beneath.

“I’m not—no, really, I’m not!” bleated the plump young man. “My name’s Algy Blenkinsop, and—and I’ve been to Lady Marling’s fancy-dress ball at Marling Towers, near Tuttleberry-cum-Hacklehurst. I went as a convict, and—and——”

“I don’t believe you!” roared Porson. “You’re a real convict, that’s what you are! No wonder you were in such a hurry to get out of sight! Come on, tell the truth!”

“I am telling the truth!” babbled the other. “I was motoring home with Percy Poulter and Horace Pyeman and young Woolerton, and—and the rotters thought it would be a bit of a scream to—to drop me and see if I could get home with these awful clothes on. They’ve got bets about it. Percy Poulter has laid Pyeman and Woolerton five to one against me getting home without being nabbed by a bobby and shoved in the lock-up!”

Porson’s grim face somewhat relaxed. There was an earnestness about this Algy Blenkinsop which carried its own conviction.

“They dropped me just outside Sudcombe,” went on the latter, almost tearfully. “Shoved me out of the car and drove away—the heartless rotters! I was walking along the road, feeling awful, when I saw your notice-board, and—and here I am!”

“He, he, he!” came a titter from the doorway. “He, he, he!”

Wheeling round, Porson beheld the pink pyjama-clad figure of Eustace. Algy Blenkinsop saw the apparition as well, and gave a heartfelt bleat of relief.

“Oh, is that you, Eustace?” he cried. “Where have you come from? Oh, yes—I remember! I heard about you acting as mechanic, and——”

“Yes, you would!” cut in Eustace scowlingly. “There’s precious little you don’t hear!”

Then the scowl faded, and he tittered again.

“Do you know this fellow?” demanded Porson, indicating the plump young man.

“Of course I know him!” replied Eustace. “It’s Algy Blenkinsop. He lives at Little Slopperton. He’s the ass who runs the Little Slopperton Otter Hounds!”

Porson’s brow cleared. Having thus had Algy’s respectability vouched for, he became at once the keen business man.

“Well then,” he said, turning to Algy, “that’s all right! I’m sorry I called you a convict. Now, where do you want me to take you to?”

“To Slopperton Grange, of course, where I live,” replied Algy. “There’s a deer park where you can land if you can dodge the trees!”

“Oh, I’ll dodge the trees all right,” replied Porson confidently. “You leave that to me. Go on, Eustace, jump to it. Get yourself dressed and help me to get the old bus out. You, sir”—he turned briskly to Algy—“if you will kindly be seated, I will be ready in a few minutes. Porson for promptness and civility, you know.”

“You called him a convict!” cut in Eustace nastily from the doorway. “If I were him I’d consult my solicitors about it.”

“You shove off and consult your wardrobe!” roared Porson, and took a menacing step towards him.

A peculiar look crept into Eustace’s pale blue eyes. Without a word he turned away and bolted upstairs to his room. He literally hurled himself into his clothes, then crept quietly downstairs to where Algy Blenkinsop was regaling himself with a copy of the local paper whilst Porson dressed.

“Algy!” he whispered, advancing stealthily into the room.

Algy jumped.

“Oh dear, what a fright you gave me!” he bleated. “I feel an absolute blessed nervous wreck. But I say”—and a note of interest crept into his tones—“are you really acting as mechanic to this Porson kid? We were screaming about it at the dance, you know, and——”

“Shut up!” hissed Eustace. “Listen! Did Poulter and Pyeman and Woolerton really turf you out of the car?”

“Yes, but——”

“And did Poulter bet Pyeman and Woolerton that you wouldn’t get home without being nabbed?”

“Yes, that was the rotten idea,” replied Algy wrathfully. “That’s why they kicked me out of the car—just to see if I could get home. Beasts!”

“Oh, well, you’ll be all right now,” said Eustace soothingly. “This beastly kid, Porson, isn’t a bad pilot really. You’ll be all right, Algy, old bean, don’t you worry!”

“It would have been awful if anyone had seen me in this rig-out,” remarked Algy, with a shudder. “It would have taken hours and hours to explain to the police that I wasn’t really a convict—— Here! Where are you going, you ass?”

But Eustace had departed. Letting himself out of the front door into the fresh clear air of early morning, he passed round to the wicket-gate which led into the field at the rear of the cottage.

Dew sparkled on grass and hedge and distant copse, and there was that clean, fresh smell in the air which comes with the beginning of day. But all this was lost on Eustace, as with eyes gleaming, he hurried towards the barn where the old Maurice Farman was housed.

Unlocking the heavy, creaking door, he swung it open and passed into the barn. Dodging under the wide flat wings of the Farman, he made towards the light, kite-like tail. Standing against the side of the barn was Porson’s ten-gallon petrol drum. Somehow or other Eustace bumped against it in passing. Strangely enough he knocked open the outlet cock. Petrol began to pour out of the drum, but Eustace didn’t seem to notice it! Getting his shoulder under the light, bamboo framework of the tail he lifted it clear of the tail-skid trolly, then swung himself up and began to prime the engine.

He was thus industriously engaged when a few minutes later Porson stalked into the barn, flying kit over his arm, and followed by a gambolling Bill and a hopeful Blenkinsop.

“Hallo!” Porson stopped short, sniffing. “Ghastly smell of petrol—what?”

“I’m standing in a pool of it!” bleated Algy.

“It’s my drum!” roared Porson, with sudden enlightenment. “Here, you! What the dickens have you been playing at?”

“Me?” echoed Eustace, with praiseworthy astonishment. “I haven’t been doing anything.”

“You’ve emptied my petrol drum, you rotter!” replied Porson wrathfully.

Eustace blinked at the petrol-sodden floor of the barn.

“I don’t know how that’s happened,” he lied glibly. “I’m frightfully sorry. I must have caught the tap as I passed.”

“Come down off that engine!” said Porson grimly. “I’ll deal with you later. You’ve done it on purpose.”

“I haven’t!” yelped Eustace. “Why should I?”

“That’s what I intend to find out when I come back!” replied Porson coldly. “I was wondering why you sneaked out to the barn. Come down, will you?”

Eustace dropped to the ground, and Porson swung himself up to the forward seat with its weird-looking dashboard.

“We’ve got enough petrol to get us into Frammington Village,” he announced to Blenkinsop. “We’ll land there for more. I can’t help it. It’s this fathead’s fault!”

“All right. I don’t mind as long as I get home soon,” babbled Algy. “I just want to get home!”

“Right-ho!” replied Porson, struggling into his flying kit. “I’m switching on, you, so swing the prop!”

Eustace obeyed without demur, and the barn re-echoed to the spluttering, banging roar of the old Green engine. Driven by its slowly-revolving pusher propeller, the biplane moved out of the barn. At a word from Porson, Algy clambered gingerly into the rear seat, whilst Bill leapt up beside his lord and master.

“If you crash you’ll get the crankshaft in your back, Blenkinsop!” howled Eustace. But the old Farman was already jolting and swaying towards the nearest hedge.

Eustace watched as Porson turned into wind and gave the bus full throttle. He sneered as he saw it go lumbering gallantly across the wide field. That Farman required an enormous run to get it off the ground!

When the speedometer was registering forty-five miles an hour Porson pulled on the control-stick. The biplane executed a long, clumsy hop. Again Porson pulled on the control-stick, and the old biplane heaved itself sluggishly into the air. This time it stayed there, and went banging and spluttering its way over the trees towards Frammington.

Eustace turned and bolted to the cottage. Porson had a telephone there, and five minutes later Eustace was babbling excitedly over the phone to Percy Poulter, who had just gone to bed.

“Hallo! I say, Percy, is that you, old bean? Lowther-Lowther speaking. I say, I’m speaking from Sudcombe. I’ve just seen Blenkinsop. He’s told me all about it. He, he, he! I say, how much do you stand to win if he doesn’t get home? ... A tenner each from Pyeman and Woolerton! Well, I’m fixing it so that he doesn’t get home if I can stand in, halves. I can? Oh, good man! Thanks awfully! He, he, he! No! Shut up! I’m not a mechanic. I’ll explain that later. I’ll explain everything later. I haven’t time now. Good-bye!”

Eustace banged down the receiver, then looked hastily through the directory for the phone number of the Frammington Police Station.

Meanwhile, Porson was banging and clattering his way across country at a modest forty-five miles an hour, which happened to be his best flying speed. He was making the morning hideous with his din, and more than one sleepy country yokel turned over in bed and rated him heartily.

Algy, having somewhat recovered from his first nervousness, was taking stock of the multitude of flying wires and bracing wires with wondering eyes. Some were sagging, others had been spliced, still others were tied together with pieces of string. The planes also were patched in more than a score of places, and here and there the bamboo framework which served as a fuselage had been strengthened by splints of wood.

Still, the thing could fly, and that was all that mattered. Looking down, Algy saw the waters of the River Brent glittering in the morning sun. Then the rising ground towards Frammington slid into view, and as Porson closed down the throttle, the nose of the machine dropped for a landing on the common outside the village.

Banking carefully—for the ancient bus had a nasty habit of side-slipping whilst banking—Porson circled lower and lower. At thirty feet he flattened out and glided to earth in a tolerably smooth landing.

“Now, you stay here,” he said to Algy. “Bill and I will go and rout out some petrol from somewhere. Bound to be a garage here.”

He turned away, with Bill yapping joyously at his heels, then stopped abruptly. The burly figure of a constable, accompanied by four big, strapping fellows in velveteens, had appeared from behind a bush a hundred yards away. The five men were sprinting towards the machine.

“Oh crumbs!” gasped Algy, and almost tumbled to the ground in his haste to quit the machine.

“Stay where you are, you ass!” rapped Porson. “We can explain this easily.”

But Algy had no desire to risk being locked up whilst investigation of his explanations was being carried out. He wanted to get home without any trouble; so he took to his heels and bolted.

“Oh, the idiot!” groaned Porson.

“Hi!” bellowed the constable. “Hi! Stop!”

But Algy didn’t stop. They had seen his convict garb somehow. He was convinced of that. So he hurled his greatcoat from him and, with elbows up, sprinted madly across country. Porson leapt for his machine. He still had some petrol left, but not much.

“Stop, in the name of the law!” bellowed the constable. But Porson had already swung his propeller and clambered up to the front seat, where Bill was already ensconced.

The machine was moving forward when one of the men in velveteens made a grab for the tail. Porson kicked on the rudder, and the tail swung viciously, sending the fellow sprawling. The other four had swept past in full hue-and-cry after the unfortunate Blenkinsop, who was running strongly.

Giving the machine full throttle, Porson went bumping and jolting away at right angles to the lines of pursuit. The engine was hot, and as he pulled on the control-stick he lumbered into the air at the first attempt. Banking, he went clattering and banging away after the pack and its quarry. He passed the perspiring quartette at a height of about twenty feet and, overhauling Blenkinsop, dropped to earth in a field about a hundred yards ahead.

Algy crashed his way through the hedge and reached the bus, almost at his last gasp. Porson hauled him up into the rear seat. He had kept his engine ticking over, and as the first of the pursuers came blundering through the hedge he gave the bus full throttle and went bumping away at full taking-off speed. Algy’s added weight made a longer run necessary for the take-off, and the opposite hedge was perilously close when the old Maurice Farman lifted heavily into the air.

Baffled, the pursuers stood gazing up at it, shaking their fists and mopping their brows.

“I’ll try to get you home on the petrol I’ve got!” roared Porson; and Algy gave a gasping moan of assent.

Porson swung the biplane towards Little Slopperton, fifteen miles away. Field after field dropped behind, and still the engine roared and spluttered. Luvdale Plantation was skirted, for Porson hadn’t the height to fly over it. Then ahead loomed the deer park at Slopperton Grange.

It was then that the engine gave a final spluttering gasp and died away. Porson eased forward the stick and got the bus on to her gliding angle. Lower and lower she dropped, gliding towards the wall of the deer park. Porson’s heart was in his mouth as he approached the wall. Would he clear it? There came a slither as the patched rubber wheels of the under-carriage touched the top of the wall; then, as though realising that it had got its first passenger home, the gallant old Maurice Farman glided to earth and came to a jolting, quivering halt in the deer park of Slopperton Grange.

·····

Eustace, later that morning, was sitting on the upturned petrol tin in front of the old barn. He was brimful of mirth.

“I’ll bet that beast Porson’s had a rotten quarter of an hour explaining how he came to have a blessed convict in his bus!” he reflected happily.

A portly figure in blue entered the field and crossed towards him.

“Good-morning, constable!” greeted Eustace.

“ ’Morning!” replied the constable, “Are you Mr. Lowther-Lowther?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Well, we’ve been making investigations about a telephone call to Frammington Police Station this morning,” replied the constable. “Somebody hoaxed the police and made ’em think a gent from Little Slopperton, name of Blenkinsop, was a convict when he wasn’t. The station sergeant wants to see you, and if so be it’s you what done it, you’ll get off with a fine or seven days, if you’re lucky.”

“I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me!” lied Eustace, in alarm.

“Come on!” said the constable stolidly.

In vain Eustace threatened, cajoled, and protested. Eventually he went, yelping protests. He had never thought of this eventuality.

And, lunching at Slopperton Grange with Algy Blenkinsop, Porson was waxing enthusiastic about his great scheme for building up an air passenger service.

“She’s a fine bus, that old Maurice Farman,” he was saying. “Dash it, you must admit that, Blenkinsop. She got you home!”

“She’s a wonderful bus, even if she is a bit old!” agreed Blenkinsop enthusiastically. “You’ll get heaps of passengers after this, because——”

He broke off as the luncheon-room door crashed open and his uncle, Colonel Blenkinsop, barged into the room.

“By George!” roared the colonel, waving a crumpled newspaper in his hand. “Is that boy here whose aeroplane is standing in the deer park?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Porson, rising.

“There’s a confounded man-eating tiger escaped from the circus at Luvdale!” roared the colonel excitedly. “Fifty pounds reward for its capture, dead or alive! I don’t want the money, but, by George, I want the sport. I’ll get my guns and we’ll hunt the brute by aeroplane and pepper him from the air—what? Are you game?”

“Sir,” replied Porson, “I’m game for anything!”