His wife, pallid and hollow-cheeked,
rode in the car with him. To Mr. Macey the teamster pointed out
the barely visible bit of black fluttering a hundred and sixty
feet above the pavement.
"Now how about the reward, Mr. Macey?" demanded the teamster.
"That will be paid you, if you return the scarf to Mrs. Macey,"
replied the real estate man dryly.
The teamster's jaw dropped. For the uppermost eighteen feet of
the spire consisted of a stout flagpole. Below this was the sloping
slate roof of the top of the steeple proper. Only a monkey or
a "steeplejack" could get up there, and on a day like this, with
a half gale still blowing, a steeplejack might be pardoned for
declining the task.
Swiftly the news spread, and a great crowd collected. Dave Darrin
heard of it right after breakfast, and hurried to get Dick Prescott.
Together the chums joined the crowd.
"You'll have to get a steeplejack for the job, Mr. Macey," the
chums heard one man advise the real estate operator.
Only one was known. His home was some forty miles away. Mr.
Macey tried patiently to get the man over the long distance telephone.
Some member of the man's family answered for him. The expert
was away, and would not be home, or available, for three days
to come at least.
"Never mind, Macey," laughed the friend, consolingly. "It'll
wait. No one in Gridley will take the scarf. It's safe up there."
"Huh! Is it, though?" snorted the real estate man.
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