Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1911-03-12
Continued from page =

press Enclosure, and, leaving the unprivi-
legged many behind trooped after a once
more buoyant Buckley into the place of
mystery Yet it was not mysterious at
close range. The shelters were prosaic
enough, mere rude makeshifts of pine and
tin and canvas, and the aeroplanes them
selves, seen thus close, looked hardly capa-
BILE of the miracles they performed. What
flimsy affairs they were at best! What SUI
preme daring they demanded of the men
who rode them!
Eager to vindicate himself, their guide
hailed one of the aviators who stood beside
his machine, and with flourish introduced
them. He was an understood little man of
undistinguished aspect, who was abashed by
his publicity; but he seemed demigod to
Ann and she could find nothing to say to
him. But their joint embarrassment was
not shared by Buckley. He explained the
aeroplane as if he had constructed it.
showed the working of its various levers and
rudders, and all but described his sensations
in flight. He was checked only by look of
humorous understanding that passed be-
tween Justin Blair and the mere inventor Of
the machine.
@But am only a theorist, he broke of.
"Tlis is the man who does things"
"And who is probably keen to be about
them" added Justin considerably, and they
moved on.
Buckley chose another topic. "There 10
the joke of Aviation Week, he said, with
condescending wave of the hand as they
came round into the rear street of sheds, ian
aeroplane that has never left its hangar
You can see it there where the canvas Is
looped back-that khaki colored thing. At
least that's part of it. The chap who owns
it has it strewn all over the place in such a
tumble that nobody knows what it is really
like. 1t has been in a mess ever since he
struck Rheims"
@Has the machine ever flown anywhere2"
Justin asked.
Nobody seems to know. It's mystery
The fellow himself is a mystery They say
he built the thing himself, motor and all, and
stinted himself to do it. He sleeps there in
the shed and eats where he can. He prob
ably counted on making showing here that
would pull him out of the hole"
"Poor fellow" said Mrs. Blair 3How
downcast he must be! Is he French?"
3That's another thing nobody knows. He
is entered under French name" Buckley
consulted his program. "But one of the
newspaper men tells me that he speaks
English and looks American. That's all he
knew. The chap wouldn't talk. Here's the
entry Olivier Beauregard."
AIMS eyes widened. 4Beauregard?"
Go. CCC lOl yOuISel. OuVleI bedu1c-
gard, monoplan; moteur, 60 chevaux'"
She turned and stared wonderingly
toward the shed of the 1uck1ess aviator AS
she looked a man came to the entrance with
an oily steel casting in his hands and held it
critically to the light.
Buckley touched her sleeve. "There is
the mystery now" he said, "that chap in
overalls who has got himself messed up as
black as tinker. That's Beauregard.'
Justin Blair gave an ejaculation of aston
iShment. "Beauregard!' he exclaimed. dts
Fighting Joe Pages boy-young Oliver! l
told you, Ann, that saw him last night"
PUT Ann was already halfway to the shed.
= 1t is rudimentary politeness to recognize
man who once saved your life. If she had
forgotten him in the cathedral, she would
make handsome amends now.
"My uncle told me he ran across you last
night" she said, her smile its captivating
best; @but we didn't dream you were one Of
the aviators." With full knowledge of what
she was about she extended an Immediately
gloved hand, which Page, confused by her
sudden apparition, caught unthinkingly in
his oil stained grasp. Then, as their hands
separated, he perceived the enormity he had
committed and Redeemed to the hair.
II didn't realize what l was doing" he