Lost in the Air

Excerpt

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 snatch 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....