THE TRAMP;S NOTEBOOK

Slim Tyler nodded cautiously in answer to the stranger's question. He was not impressed by the man's appearance.

"That's what they call me," he replied. "What can I do for you?"

The fellow leered at Slim over his hot dog. His look became sly and calculating.

"Well, now," he said, "it ain't so much what you can do for me, young feller, as what I may be able to do for you."

Slim grinned.

"All right. I never yet shot a fellow for wanting to do me a favor. What's on your mind?"

The last words gained in interest, for it occurred to Slim that this might be the fellow that Dave Boyd had mentioned, the trampish-looking man that had claimed acquaintanceship with High Hat Frank.

Perhaps the tramp noticed his quickened interest and guessed at the cause. At any rate, when he spoke again it was with increased assurance.

"Well, now, I ain't exactly throwin' my favors round reckless like. There's folks might think that this here favor I've got for you was worth spendin' a few bucks to get."

"I supposed you were after money," said Slim. "Tell me what you have for me and how much you want for it."

The look of cunning grew in the eyes of the tramp.

"Yeah, I should tell you!" he jeered. "And after you got my information I'd like to know how much of a chance I'd have of collecting on it."

Slim turned his back on the fellow.

"Keep your information," he said curtly, and added to Carl Stummel: "One hot dog, please, with plenty of mustard."

"Ach!" replied Carl, his eyes twinkling, "you talk like I don't know alretty how you like dem—me who votched you spreadt on der mustard so dick alretty it iss a vender vot you dond burn oudt your insides yet."

"I like plenty of mustard," grinned Slim. "It kills the taste of the dog."

As he accepted the wienie from Carl's stubby fingers he felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned to find the stranger gazing anxiously at him.

"What, you here yet?" asked Slim, with a fine affectation of carelessness and smothering a yawn.

"I knew High Hat Frank," whispered the fellow, his ugly countenance twisted into an expression of amiability. "It will be worth your while to listen to what I have to say. Take it from one who knows."

Slim eyed the man speculatively.

"How much do you want and what have you got?" he asked.

"I have a notebook that once belonged to High Hat Frank," the fellow replied. "I was in a camp with three other guys, gentlemen of the road like me," with a leer. "One day when all the rest had cleared out I found a notebook. It had High Hat Frank's name on it."

"Well," said Slim, "what has that to do with me?"

"It has your name in it, that's what it's got to do with you," was the reply. "And it has other things in it, this notebook has—things you might like to know."

"Let me see it," demanded Slim.

"For a price," replied the tramp. "My name's Dan Mooney and you can see for yourself that I ain't got much of this world's goods. I'm a poor man, I am, and I got to make my money where I can."

"You don't expect me to buy a pig in a poke, do you?" asked Slim.

"You've got to take a chance on that," replied Mooney. "It'll cost you ten dollars in advance to get a squint at it. Maybe it'll be worth a hundred times that to you. I dunno. But you ought to be willing to gamble that much on it."

Slim himself was of the same opinion. He reached into his pocket, pulled out some bills, counted out a five and five ones and shoved them toward the tramp. Mooney seized them eagerly in his dirty fingers and shoved them into an inside pocket of his ragged coat.

"All right," he said. "Now, you being a sport and me being an honest man, I'm giving you a fair return for your money."

He thrust his hand deep into a back pocket and drew out a shabby old notebook which he handed to the young aviator. The book was so filthy with dirt and grease that Slim handled it gingerly by one corner.

"Looks like you vos got schwindled alretty," observed Carl Stummel, who had watched the proceeding with disapproval. "For sooch a book ich vould nicht ten cents geben, to say nuddings oof ten tollers."

"Go take a back seat, grandpa," remarked the tramp, with a lofty wave of his dirty hand. "Believe me when Mr. Tyler here gets a look at the inside sheets of that there little book he'll think he got it dirt cheap. Now give me two wienies with mustard and make it snappy. I got money now and I want service."

The old German's indignant snort was lost on Slim Tyler, as he rose and strolled away, the notebook still held between thumb and forefinger. He wanted to find a secluded spot where he could peruse High Hat Frank's notebook without fear of interruption.

He found such a spot in the yard back of the hot dog stand. He sat down on a tree stump and opened the greasy notebook.

His fingers shook with eagerness.

How much, if anything, had High Hat Frank known of Nat Shaley and his swindling lumber schemes? How much, if anything, had he known of that Oregon deal in which Slim's own father had been involved?

Almost fearfully Slim Tyler leafed the pages of the book.

The first few pages on which his eye fell held little of personal interest for him. They were memoranda of trips made and people encountered by the dead tramp, of private grudges and vows on the part of the writer to even the score with certain persons unknown to Slim.

The lad was becoming increasingly disappointed when a certain notation caught his eye. He read with eagerness the almost illegible writing that lay scrawled across the pages.

"Guess this is worth ten dollars, all right," he muttered to himself.

The paragraph that so interested him began with some decidedly uncomplimentary remarks concerning the character of Nat Shaley, and continued with some generalities relative to an Oregon lumber deal.

These references were vague and had evidently been jotted down only as aids to High Hat Frank's memory, which was probably becoming dimmed by excessive drinking.

Several names, however, were mentioned that Slim felt might serve him as clues. The real name of High Hat Frank himself, Frank Larrapoo, was the first that Slim came across. Two other men, Hugh Garrabrant and Cameron Flood seemed to have been involved in the deal. The man named Flood, it appeared, had a claim amounting to forty thousand dollars.

There was a notation relative to this last fact which made Slim's pulses quicken:

"Flood and Tyl—" here a bit of the paper had crumpled away—"both swindled. Looks like that crook, Shaley, got all the money while they were left holding the bag."

"Tyl—"! It was maddening that just at that point the paper was crumpled. What had originally been on that missing bit. Was it the syllable "er," completing the name "Tyler?" Slim felt sure of it.

This was all in the book that bore on the Oregon transaction, all, as a matter of fact, that had the slightest interest for Slim Tyler.

However, Slim felt that it was a great deal. It was the first written statement he had yet seen in which Nat Shaley had been accused of swindling. And it was the first time that in writing Slim's father's name had been linked with the transaction.

If only the paper had not worn away just there! If, in addition, the full name "Stillwell Tyler" had been there!

High Hat Frank could have made the identification definite. But High Hat Frank was dead. But, even if he were alive, how far would his evidence have weight?

"He was only a tramp," thought Slim. "Who would have taken his word against that of a man like Nat Shaley, who has the power of influence and money behind him?"

Thinking these thoughts, the first fine edge of Slim's enthusiasm was dulled. He figured that as evidence in court High Hat Frank's dirty, grease-soaked notebook would not be worth the paper in it.

"The judge and jury would laugh," he thought, "and so would Nat Shaley. What I need are facts—facts that the crook can't laugh off. But how I'm going to get them—that's another question."

He consulted the notebook again.

"Hugh Garrabrant and Cameron Flood," he said aloud. "I'd like to meet one or both of them. I reckon they might be able to tell me some interesting things about that transaction—things that High Hat Frank neglected to put down in his notebook."

There was the thunderous rumble of an airplane directly overhead.

Slim Tyler looked up absently, but instantly his attention became fixed.

The plane was the Speed King, the last of the four in the contest remaining aloft.

His practiced glance told him at once that the Speed King was in trouble and preparing to descend.

"Lots of good that does me, though, now that Jerry and I are out of it," he said to himself bitterly.

He hurried over to the flying field, thrusting the notebook into his pocket.

The plane was flying low. Its engines barked wearily. It dropped and fluttered like a tired bird.

Slim made his way through the crowd to a place beside the Boyd hangar, where Jerry was in earnest conversation with Henry Cusack, the superintendent of the field, and several of Boyd's mechanics.

Jerry waved to Slim and pointed to the plane.

"One of the engines has passed out altogether," he said. "She's got to come down. That knocks out all their chances of breaking the record."

"Yes," replied Slim. "But they've beaten us just the same in the individual contest."

"And got the two thousand berries that would have been ours if it hadn't been for that confounded Nat Shaley," groaned Jerry.

The plane touched the ground, bounded along for several hundred feet, and came to a standstill.

Slim was about to join the crowd that surged about the Speed King when a familiar voice caught his ear. He glanced back over his shoulder.

Carl Stummel elbowed and pushed his way through the crowd toward him in a state of great excitement.

"Dere he iss, alretty!" cried Carl. "I tell you dot dis Shlim Tyler, dere iss nuddings dot he candt do vunst. Shlim! Vait a minute yet!"