Ambrose Newcomb - The Sky Detectives; Or, How Jack Ralston Got His Man

It was a day in the late Fall when Jack Ralston, accompanied by his best pal, Gabe Perkiser, known simply as “Perk” by all his friends, found themselves climbing out of a hired taxi that had halted on the border of Candler Flying Field just a short distance out of Atlanta, Georgia.

“Huh! reg’lar mob out here today, seems like,” observed Perk, as he took note of the triple line of cars parked around the field, with its numerous up-to-date hangars, and with ships coming and going every few minutes.

“Yes, you see Perk, it happens to be a big day at stunt flying, with fat prizes for the winners. All the better for us, I’d say, since our take-off will hardly make a ripple in the pond, with all this confusion going on.”

“Sure thing, my boy,” continued Perk, with one of his humorous grins that betokened a good-natured chap; “and privacy’s just what we crave. I guess now that might be the mail comin’ from down East an’ New York?”

“A rotten guess then, Perk,” chortled the other; “Eastern mail boat was due here at six-ten this morning; the Pitcairn Aviation concern handle that route, as well as the run between Atlanta and Miami down in Florida; and I’m telling you for a fact the boys holding the stick with that corporation are nearly always on time to the dot, come storm, come fog as thick as pea-soup. The schedule I glimpsed at the Atlanta post office gave the time of the East Coast ship as seven-thirty P. M.; that from New Orleans at six-thirty P. M.; and the one from Chicago about the same time. So you see it couldn’t be a mail crate dropping down right now, unless they’d had to make a forced landing, and lost time in making repairs.”

“Yeah, come to think of it I sure did hear a bus passin’ over just at peep o’ day,” admitted Perk. “Let’s have a look-in while we’re here, and see what a bag o’ tricks these stunt flyers are holdin’ up their sleeves, so’s to give this crowd a row o’ thrills.”

“Suits me, Perk; no great hurry about our jumping off, so long as we pull the gun before dark sets in.”

“Shucks! little difference it makes on a patch as well lighted as this Candler Field o’ your home city, old boy; and with a flashlight beacon set every ten miles all the way down to Orleans, to keep us on our course. Look at that guy fairly burning the air like hot cakes – he must be tryin’ to beat the speed record, I guess, Jack.”

“Hardly a day comes without some record going by the board,” remarked Jack, who had a reputation as a safe and sane pilot, although on occasion he had been known to put through some tricks so death-defying as to make the hearts of the spectators seem to jump up in their throats with the thrill.

Perk was quite correct when he stated that Atlanta was the home city of his close friend and chum; although Jack’s family had moved away years back, and become fruit raisers in far-off California. Still, having spent some years in the Georgia capital Jack always liked to drop in and renew a limited number of old friendships when opportunity offered.

Jack Ralston had begun his aviation work starting at the lowest round, that of a Gypsy pilot, flying an ancient boat at County Fairs and Harvest Home gatherings; doing aerial stunts, and “bailing out” by means of a parachute while another pilot ran the ship; also taking up air minded “sand-bags” as passengers at so much each person.

From this modest beginning he had finally accepted a position with an aircraft corporation having contracts with the Post Office Department at Washington for carrying the mails, and later on express matter as well; and last of all working for Uncle Sam through joining the Secret Service corps of skillful detectives, whose activities covered every part of the Nation, and even to adjacent countries as well.

When the Government wearied of the bold doings of one “Slippery Slim” Garrabrant, and decided to “clip the wings” of that audacious freebooter and bogus-money crook, it was only natural they should pick Jack for this service. The reasons for doing so were many, but what counted most was Jack’s well known cleverness as an all-round air pilot; for it happened that the slick rogue who had been giving the revenue men such a wild-goose chase, with his thumb held up to his nose, so to speak, was himself a remarkable master of the air lanes, he having been an ace as a flying pilot over with the army on the Argonne front in France.

Since as a rule this troublesome offender carried on his bold enterprises by means of a handy plane – frequently with a single assistant, who helped handle both ship and cargo – the man thus selected to put a crimp in his activities was likewise given full permission to engage a helper from the same arm of the Government forces, one who must of course know something about the handling of a plane, so that in case of necessity he could serve as co-pilot.

Jack lost no time in picking Gabe Perkiser, otherwise known simply as “Perk” – a man who had supped with adventure since he was “knee high to a duck” – a half Yankee – half Canuck, drifting into the army, and serving with the sausage observation balloon corps over in France; from which patriotic occupation he later on became a champion light-weight boxer. Leaving the ring while as yet undefeated he served for several years with the Canadian Mounted Police. Here his smartness in usually fetching back his man, no matter what the difficulties that had to be surmounted, attracted the attention of a gentleman connected with Uncle Sam’s Secret Service, just then moose hunting over the northern border, who finally influenced Perk to join up with his force.

Jack and the other had met under peculiar conditions when both were tracking a bunch of check raisers floating across the country and leaving a wide swath of victims in their path. They had become more than friends, although meeting but seldom; then, when the opportunity came for Jack to call upon Perk to join him in the new job that had been turned over to his charge, the latter had responded with alacrity.

So here they were, on the threshold of an affair that promised to engage their united talents in running down the leader of the most troublesome gang of counterfeit currency makers known to the Government agents in the last ten years.

Every clue possessed at Headquarters had been turned over to Jack at the time he was given authority to carry on as the situation demanded; although this information was a bit limited, and much was left to the shrewdness of the two trail hounds themselves.

There was no hurry at all, and Jack had always been one of those cautious workers who meant to provide for all sorts of emergencies. Only too well did he know how many a splendid undertaking went on the rocks from lack of foreseeing the next move on the part of the astute criminals whose apprehension meant so much to the Government, as well as the folks they were victimizing.

But by now he had decided everything was arranged so far as human means would permit, and that it was high time they started on their long chase. Their boat, a Stinson Detroiter, a monoplane with a Wright Whirlwind motor, and reckoned to be an unusually swift craft, was already loaded, and ready for immediate departure. It had been stored in one of the big hangars connected with the Candler Flying Field but could be taxied into position when Jack felt ready to skip off.

Their flying togs were also contained in a locker in the same hangar, and could be donned in a jiffy, even to the ’chute harness that was so familiar to Jack, and a constant reminder of early experiences when he was accustomed to carry out his daily program of “quitting the ship” with as much sang froid as though the jump into space from a five thousand foot ceiling were absolutely next to nothing.