CHAPTER III.
UNDER A CLOUD.
It was early the next morning. The paper had been put to bed. Billy,with the satisfied feeling that came to him with the knowledge that hehad written a good introduction and account of the _Planet's_ greatoffer, was slipping into his coat preparatory to going home, when Mr.Stowe, his face purple with anger, called to him in a sharp voice fromthe door of the editorial sanctum.
"Come here, Barnes, I want to see you," he said brusquely.
"Hullo, something's up with the chief," thought Billy to himself; but heanswered cheerily: "All right, sir," with an inward feeling thatsomething was all wrong.
"Look here, Barnes," exclaimed Mr. Stowe, angrily flourishing a firstedition of the _Planet's_ rival, the _Despatch_, "there has beentreachery somewhere. How about this?"
Billy, with an unaccountable sinking of the heart, took the paper theother flourished so furiously. It was still moist and warm as it hadbeen run off the press. The sickly, sweet odor of printer's ink hungabout it. But these details did not attract Billy's attention. And foran excellent reason. Staring him in the face in big black letters heread:
THE "DESPATCH" OFFERS FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR A TRANSCONTINENTAL FLIGHT.
Below--and every letter of the article burned itself into Billy's brain,was a long story eulogizing the enterprise of the _Despatch_ in makingthe offer and giving a list of the noted aviators who would be sure--sothe _Despatch_ thought--to enter the contest.
It was a cold steal of the _Planet's_ idea.
Almost word for word the conditions were the same as those Mr. Stowe haddetailed to Billy that afternoon.
"Well," remarked the managing editor in a harsh tone, in which Billyrecognized the steely ring that always presaged a storm from that augustquarter.
"Well," floundered Billy helplessly, "I cannot account for it."
"You cannot," echoed the other in a flinty tone.
"Why no," rejoined the lad, lifting his eyes to Stowe's, "can you?"
"Yes I can."
"You can, sir?"
"We have been sold out."
"Sold out?"
"Precisely. And there are only three people in the office who could havehad any knowledge of the secret. One is the owner of the paper, theother myself and the third is you."
Mr. Stowe joined his hands magisterially and looked straight at Billy,in whose mind a horrid suspicion had begun to dawn.
The managing editor was practically accusing him of selling the story.
Preposterous as the idea was, Billy realized that to a prejudiced mind,such as the managing editor's, there would be no way of explainingmatters. His thoughts were suddenly broken in on by Mr. Stowe's harshvoice.
"Is there any one else, Barnes?"
Like a flash the recollection of his encounter with Reade at the verydoor of the managing editor's room, the latter's strange and defiantmanner, and the unaccountable publishing by the _Despatch_ of a rivaloffer, came into Billy's mind. He was about to mention Reade's name whenhe checked himself.
What proof had he?
Then, too, he saw that Stowe's mind was made up. He did not wish toappear in the position of trying to throw the blame on a man whom herealized the managing editor would not believe could by any possibilityhave any knowledge of the _Planet's_ plans.
"I am waiting for your answer," came the cold, incisive voice again.
"I can think of none, sir," rejoined the young reporter with a feelingthat he had put the rope about his neck with a vengeance now.
"Hum! In that case, by a process of elimination, we have only one personwho could have done it, and that----" He paused. "I hate to have to sayit, Barnes, but it looks bad for you."
"Great Heavens, Mr. Stowe!" gasped Billy, who, while he had seen whatthe managing editor was leading up to, was struck by a rude shock ofsurprise at the actual placing into words of the accusation, "do youmean to say you think that I would do such a thing?"
"I don't know what to think, Barnes," was the discouraging answer. "I ammore sorry than I can say to have had to speak as I have. However, untilyou can clear yourself of the cloud of a suspicion that must rest on youbecause of this affair we shall have to part company."
Billy went white.
His superior then really believed him guilty of the worst crime anewspaper man can commit--a breach of faith to his paper.
"Do you really believe what you are saying, sir?" he demanded.
"As I said before, I don't know what to think, Barnes. However, what Imight say will make little difference. In a short time the proprietorwill hear of this, and I should have to discharge you whether I wishedto or no. If you wish to act now, you may resign."
"Very well, then, Mr. Stowe, I will make out my formal resignation,"exclaimed Billy, his cheeks burning crimson with anger and shame.
"I'm sorry, Barnes," said Mr. Stowe, as the lad, scarcely knowing wherehe was going, left the room. "I have no other course, you know."
Fifteen minutes later Billy Barnes was no longer a member of the_Planet_ staff, and his resignation, neatly typewritten, lay on themanaging editor's desk. To do Mr. Stowe justice, he had acted againsthis own beliefs, but he was only an inferior officer in the direction ofthe paper. Its owner, he well knew, was a man of violent temper andfixed convictions. When he saw the _Despatch_ Mr. Stowe knew that thevials of his wrath would be emptied and that Billy would have had toleave in any event. And so subsequent events proved, for the next day,when Billy's immediate discharge was angrily demanded by the _Planet's_owner, he was informed by his managing editor that the boy had left ofhis own free will.
"He resigned last night rather than have any suspicion directed towardhim," said Mr. Stowe; "but, you mark my words, the boy will righthimself."
"Nonsense, Stowe, he sold us out," said the owner bitterly; "sold us outcold and nothing will ever make me alter my conviction."
"Except Billy Barnes himself," said Stowe softly, and lit a cigar, whichhe puffed at with great energy.
When he had learned that Reade was doing aviation for the _Despatch_ themanaging editor's mind was crossed for a brief minute with suspicionthat here might be the traitor. But he dismissed it--was compelled to,in fact. To his mind it would have been an impossibility for Reade tohave heard the conversation in which the offer was discussed.
In the meantime both papers continued to work up their $50,000 offers,until there was actually developed a keen and bitter rivalry betweenthem. One morning the _Despatch_ would announce the entry of someprominent aviator in its cross-country contest, and the next the_Planet_ would be out with its announcement of a new contestant added toits ranks. The public appetite was whetted to a keen pitch by thevarious moves.
Crawford, the man who had taken Billy Barnes' place on the _Planet_, wasa skilled writer, and an excellent man to work up such a story as thecross-continental challenge. It was he who first broached to Stowe theidea of flinging down the gauntlet to the _Despatch_ and inviting thatpaper to start its contestants on the same day as those of the _Planet_,the winner to take the prizes of both papers. This would give thestruggle tremendous added interest, and attract worldwide attention, heargued.
While events were thus shaping themselves with the _Planet_ and the_Despatch_, Billy Barnes had visited his friends, the Boy Aviators, andtold them, with a rueful face, of his misfortune.
His manner of so doing was characteristic. A few days after he had leftthe newspaper he called on them at their work shop. To his surprise hefound there old Eben Joyce, the inventor whom Luther Barr had treated soshabbily in the matter of the _Buzzard_ aeroplane of which Joyce was thecreator--as told in The Boy Aviators' Treasure Quest; or, The GoldenGalleon.
Joyce and the two boys were busied over the _Golden Eagle_ when Billyarrived, adjusting a strange-looking mechanism to it, consisting of aboxed flywheel of glittering brass encased in a framework of the samemetal.
It seemed quite a heavy bit of apparatus, withal so delicatelybalanced, that it adjusted itself to every movement of its frame. Asecond glance showed Billy that it was a gyroscope.
The boys and the aged inventor were so deeply interested in examiningthe bit of machinery that they did not hear Billy come in, and it wasnot till he hailed them with a cheery:
"Come down from the clouds, you fellows!" that they turned with a shoutof recognition.
"Why, hullo, Billy Barnes!" they cried, "what are you after now? If youwant an aeroplane story here's a good one--a new adjustable gyroscopicappliance for attachment to aeroplanes which renders them stable in anyshifting wind currents."
"It's a jim-dandy," enthusiastically cried Harry.
"But it's a story you can't use," added Frank, "because the appliance,which is the invention of Mr. Joyce--has not yet been fully patented. Hehas been good enough to let us try it out."
"It looks fine," said Billy, who knew about as much about gyroscopes asa cat knows of the solar system; "but you needn't worry about myprinting anything about it, Frank. You see, I'm fired," he added simply.
"Fired?" cried Frank.
"Well, about the same thing--I resigned, as a matter of fact," explainedBilly ruefully; "but it all amounts to the same in the long run."
"Sit down and tell us about it," commanded Frank, genuinely concerned athis friend's evident dejection.
Seated on an upturned box, which had contained batteries, Billy relatedhis story, omitting nothing. On his suspicions of Reade, however, hetouched lightly.
"You see, I've got nothing on the fellow," he explained, "and althoughI'm convinced that he gave our plan away to the _Despatch_, yet I've gotnothing to base it on."
"That's so," Frank and Harry were compelled to admit.
The three friends spent an hour or so chatting, and then Mr. Joyce, whohad been tinkering with his aeroplane attachment quite oblivious totheir talk, announced that he would have to be going home. He had somework to do on another invention that evening, he explained.
"Well, say, as we've been stuffing in here almost all day and it's warmenough to be mighty uncomfortable, what do you say if we take a littlespin out in the auto. We can give Mr. Joyce a ride home," exclaimedFrank.
"The very thing," agreed Harry.
Old Mr. Joyce was nothing loath to be spared the long ride in a train tohis home in the outskirts of Jersey City. As for Billy Barnes, he wasdelighted at the idea.
Accordingly, half an hour later the Chester boys' auto rolled on boardone of the ferryboats which ply across the North River to Jersey City.The boat had hardly reached midstream before they were aware of anothercar almost opposite to them in the space set apart for autos in thecentre of the boat. Before five minutes had passed they also noticedthat they were the object of close scrutiny on the part of one of theoccupants of the machine. He was a tall youth with dark hair and eyes,and as soon as he observed that he was attracting their attention he atonce withdrew his gaze.
Billy Barnes, who had been "stretching his legs" by a stroll on thestern deck of the ferryboat as she made her way across the river,rejoined the others just as the boat was pulling into her slip.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed as the autos rolled over the apron and onto thewharf, "there's Fred Reade."
He indicated the occupant of the other car, who seemed to have taken somuch interest in the Chester boys and Eben Joyce, their aged companion.