Lost In The Air.

by Roy J. Snell.

CHAPTER I

WHO IS THE MAJOR?

"Let's get a breath of fresh air." Bruce Manning yawned and stretched, then slid off his high stool at the bookkeeping desk. Barney Menter followed his example.

They had been together only a few days, these two, but already they were pals. This was not to be wondered at, for both had been discharged recently from army aviation service--Bruce in Canada and Barney in the United States. Each had served his country well. Now they were employed in the work of developing the wilds of Northern Canada near Hudson Bay.

And there are no regions more romantic than this with all its half-gleaned history and its million secrets of wonder, wealth and beauty.

As they stood in the doorway, gazing at the forest-lined river and distant bluffs, hearing the clang of steel on steel, as construction work went forward, catching the roar of cataracts in Nelson River, and tingling with the keen air of the northern summer, life seemed a new creation, so different was it from the days of war.

"What's this?" Bruce was looking at a file containing bills-of-lading, a messenger had handed him.

"Car 564963, C. P. R., consigned to Major A. Bronson. Airplane and supplies." He read it aloud and whistled. Barney jumped to s.n.a.t.c.h it from him.

"Stand back! Give me air," Bruce gasped. "An airplane at the present end of the Hudson Bay Railroad! What's doing now? What are they up to? Going to quit construction here and use planes the rest of the way? Fancy freighting wheat, fish, furs and whale blubber by airplanes!" Both lads laughed at the idea.

"I don't wish his pilot any bad luck," said Barney. "But if he must die by breaking his neck, or something, I hope he does it before he reaches the Hudson Bay terminus. I'd like to take his place in that big air-bird.

Say, wouldn't it be glorious!"

"You've stolen my thunder," replied Bruce, laughing. "I'm taking that job myself."

"Tell you what! I'll fight you for it. What weapons do you choose?

Rope-handed spiking hammers or pick-axes?"

"Let's go down and see if it's here. Like as not it's a machine neither of us would risk his neck in; some old junk-pile the government's sold to the chap for a hundred and fifty or so."

That this idea was not taken seriously by either was shown by the double-quick at which they went down the line, and over the half-laid tracks to where the accommodation train was standing.

Thorough inspection of car numbers convinced them that No. 564963 C.P.R.

had not arrived.

"Oh, well! Perhaps to-morrow she'll be in. Then we'll see what we see,"

yawned Bruce, as he turned back toward the roughly-built log shack where work awaited them.

"What's that?" Bruce, who was in the lead, stopped before the trunk of a scraggly spruce tree. On its barkless trunk a sheet of white paper had been tacked. The two boys read it eagerly:

NOTICE!

To Trappers, Hunters, Campers and Prospectors.

$500 Reward Will be paid

To any person locating anywhere within the bounds of the Canadian Northlands at any point North of 55 North, a wireless station, operated without license or permit.

The notice, signed by the provincial authorities, was enough to quicken their keen minds.

"What do you suppose they want to know that for?" asked Barney. "The war's over."

"Perhaps further intrigue by our former enemy. Perhaps smugglers.

Perhaps--well, do your own perhapsing. But say!" Bruce exclaimed, "wouldn't it be great to take packs, rifles and mosquito-bar netting and go hunting that fellow in that Northern wilderness?"

"Great sport, all right," grinned Barney. "But you'd have about as much chance of finding him as you would of locating German U boat M. 71 by walking the bottom of the Atlantic."

"That's true, all right," said Bruce thoughtfully. "But just think of that wilderness! Lakes no white man has seen; rivers no canoe has traveled; mountain tops no human ever looked from! Say! I've lived in Canada all my life and up to now I've been content to let that wilderness just be wild. But the war came and I guess it shook me out of myself. Now that wilderness calls to me, and, the first chance that offers, I'm going to turn explorer. The wireless station offers an excuse, don't you see?"

Barney grinned. He was a hard-headed, practical Yankee boy; the kind who count the cost and appraise the possible results.

"If you are talking of hunting, fishing, and a general good time in the woods, then I'm with you; but if you are talking of a search for that wireless, then, I say, give me some speedier way of travel than tramping.

Give me--" he hesitated, then he blurted out: "Give me an airplane."

The boys stared at one another as if they had discovered a state secret.

Then Bruce voiced their thoughts:

"Do you suppose this Major What-you-may-call-him is bringing up his plane for some commission like that?"

"I don't know," said Barney. "But if he is," he said the words slowly, "if he is, then all I've got to say is, that it's mighty important; something affecting the government."

"I believe you're right about that," said Bruce, "but what it is I haven't the least shadow of a notion. And what complicates it still more is, the Major comes from down in the States."

"Maybe it's something international," suggested Barney.

"Yes," grinned Bruce, suddenly awaking from these wild speculations, "and maybe he's just some sort of bloomin' sport coming up here to take moving pictures of caribou herds, or to shoot white whale in Hudson Bay! Guess we better get back to work."

"Ye'll pardon an old man's foolish questions?"

Both boys turned at the words. An old man with bent shoulders, sunken chest and trembling hand stood beside them. There was an eager, questioning look in his kindly eyes, as he said in quaint Scotch accent:

"Ye'll noo be goin' to the woods a' soon?"

"I don't know," said Bruce, in a friendly tone. He was puzzled by the old man's question, having recognized him as a second cook for the steel-laying gang.

"Fer if ye be," continued the man, "ye's be keepin' a lookout fer Timmie noo, wouldn't ye though?"

"Who's Timmie?" asked Bruce.

"Timmie? Hae ye never hearn o' Timmie? Timmie; the boy it was, seventeen he was then. But 'twas twelve years ago it was, lad. He'd be a man noo. I sent him fer the bag wi' the pay-roll in it, an' he never coom back. It was the money thet done it, fer mind ye, I'm tellin' ye, he was jest a boy, seventeen. He went away to the woods wi' it, and then was shamed to coom back, I know. So if ye'll be goin' to the woods ye'll be watchin'

noo, won't ye?"

"Was he your boy?"

"No, not mine. But 'twas I was to blame; sendin' him fer th' pay; an' him so young. Five thousand seven hundred and twenty-four dollars it was, of the logging company's money; a month's pay fer the men. An' if ye see him tell him I was all to blame. Tell him to coom back; the Province'll fergive him."

"And the company?" asked Bruce.