What Happened at Midnight Read Free Page B

considered to be part of a gang and the rival gang is about to harm you.”
    â€œWow!” said Joe, pulling his hair over his eyes and striking the pose of a belligerent “bad guy.” “We’d better look the part!”
    Since the antique airplane show did not open until two o‘clock, the boys did various chores during the morning. They also hid Mr. Wright’s invention in the tire well and bolted the spare back into place.
    After lunch Frank and Joe drove Aunt Gertrude to the train. From there they went directly to the Bayport Air Terminal where the antique airplane exhibit was housed in the spacious lobby. The first person they saw was Chet Morton.
    â€œHi, fellows!” he greeted them. “Say, take a look at those old planes. Aren’t they beauties?”
    â€œSure are,” Frank agreed. “I notice that most of them are biplanes. It must have been fun flying in the days of the open cockpits.”
    â€œYou can say that again!” Chet declared. As he stepped back for a better view, his foot slammed down on the toe of a man standing directly behind him.
    â€œOw!” the stranger yelped.
    The boys turned to see the man hopping around on one foot. “You stupid, overgrown kid!” he screamed.
    â€œI’m awfully sorry,” Chet said apologetically.
    The tall, muscular man, who had blond hair and hard features, looked at the youth menacingly. “You idiot!” he snarled.
    Frank and Joe stepped in front of Chet as he stammered, “Who—who are you calling an idiot?”
    â€œNow just a minute!” Joe interrupted. “It was an accident. No sense getting upset about this!”
    â€œCan I be of any help?” the boys heard someone say. They looked around to see a lanky young man walking toward them. He had rust-colored hair and leathery skin that was deeply tanned.
    â€œWhat are you butting in for?” snapped the stranger.
    â€œThis boy didn’t step on you intentionally,” the young man insisted. “I saw the whole thing. You were trying to listen to their conversation and got too close.”
    The tall stranger was about to say something, but hesitated. For a moment he glared at Chet and his companions, then stomped out of the lobby, swinging his brief case.
    Frank and Joe looked at each other. Why had the man been listening to their conversation? Did he belong to the gang they had been warned about?
    Meanwhile, Chet was saying, “Thanks for your help, Mr.—”
    â€œMy name is Cole Weber,” the young man introduced himself. “I’m president of the Central Antique Airplane Club. We own the exhibit and are taking it to several airports. We’re trying to encourage public interest in vintage aircraft.”
    â€œSounds like a great club,” Joe remarked.
    â€œWe think so,” Weber said. “The majority of the models you see here are replicas of real airplanes owned and operated by our members.”
    â€œYou mean that some of those old crates still fly?” Chet asked.
    Weber grinned. “Well ... we don’t think of them as crates. When properly rebuilt, most antique planes are as safe and reliable as the day they were originally made. I own one myself. It’s outside on the ramp. Would you like to see it?”
    â€œWould we!” Joe exclaimed.
    Mr. Weber led the boys to the airport ramp. A short distance ahead stood an orange-and-white biplane. The boys peered into the two open cockpits.
    â€œThis is cool!” Joe declared.
    The pilot smiled. “Compared to modern planes, mine doesn’t have many instruments. But since we fly the antiques only for fun, we don’t need elaborate equipment, such as that required for all-weather operations.”
    The boys looked closely at the diagonal pattern of wires stretching between the wings. Then they examined the plane’s radial engine and the long, slender wooden propeller.
    â€œHow many passengers can you