CHAPTER 4

The Short-Cut Expert

Danny and Mr. Matthews stared at the man in speechless astonishment. He was rather short, with a wide mouth and large eyes, and a head that seemed too big for his body so that there was something vaguely froglike about him. There was, however, a suggestion of great energy, as well, which was not at all froglike; his manner was crisp and sharp as if he expected people to jump when he called them.

“Well?” he demanded, clasping his hands behind his back. “Speak up. Or don’t you know? If not, say so.”

Mr. Matthews gurgled feebly once or twice. Then he said, “Do you mean to say you wanted me to come down and land here just so that you could ask me the way to Midston?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

“Why not? Bring my plane down and make a landing in a field full of cows just to answer a question you could have asked of the nearest passer-by—?”

“What’s wrong with this field?” said the stranger. “Perfectly good field. And you were the nearest passer-by. Of course, you got rid of the cows for me, too. Had trouble with them. Couldn’t drive clear of them. Hate cows. Grateful for that.”

He pulled a wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open, and took out a bill. Danny’s eyes opened wide. It was a hundred-dollar bill.

“Take this,” the man said to Mr. Matthews. “Pay for your gas.”

For a moment, it looked as though Mr. Matthews’ head was about to burst from the pressure of his blood vessels. He turned absolutely purple, and his mouth opened and shut soundlessly. Then he regained control of himself and beckoned to Danny with one finger.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before I add murder to my many other crimes.”

Danny was fascinated by someone who would park a Rolls Royce in a field, and could pull hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket. “Oh, please wait a minute, Mr. Matthews,” he begged. “I’m sure this man didn’t mean to insult you.”

The stranger put his money away and snapped his fingers. “My fault,” he said. “Often act without thinking. Should have known you were a gentleman and wouldn’t take money. Stupid of me. Sorry. Be friends.” He thrust out one hand. “Accept apology. Can’t say more, can I?”

Mr. Matthews hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Oh, well, as long as I’m here I may as well stay,” he said. He took the other’s hand and shook it. “But you must admit it was a crazy thing to do.”

“Absolutely,” said the stranger. “Admit anything you like. Always have been crazy. Act on impulse. That’s how I made my money. My name’s Pippit—Glenway Pippit. What’s yours?”

“Charles Matthews. And this is my friend, Danny Dunn.”

“Very good.” Mr. Pippit shook hands with Danny. “Glad to know you.”

“How did you ever get into this field, sir?” Danny asked.

Mr. Pippit snorted. “Drove in, of course. Wanted to get to Midston University before noon. Saw what looked like a tower in the distance and decided to take a short cut. Always take short cuts. Can’t resist ’em.”

“This one hasn’t done you any good,” Danny said. “You’ve got to drive back up to the main road, then go east two miles, then take the first crossroad—that’s Windmill Lane—then—”

“Stop!” cried Mr. Pippit. “Never will remember all that. Tell you what. Fly me to Midston. Pay you anything you like.”

“What?” Mr. Matthews exclaimed.

“All right, no pay if that’s how you want it,” said Mr. Pippit.

“But—that’s ridiculous. What would you do with your car?”

“Leave it. Buy another.”

Mr. Matthews began to laugh. Danny said hastily, “You could give it to me. I mean, if you’re just going to leave it here. I’d love to have a Rolls Royce convertible. I could keep it until I was old enough to drive.”

“Hold on, Dan.” Mr. Matthews wiped the tears of merriment from his eyes, patting Danny’s arm. “Mr. Pippit wouldn’t have to throw the car away. He could always send a garage man after it. But it’s impossible anyway. There isn’t room in the airplane for the three of us, and I’m certainly not going to leave you here to walk home. No, a much simpler way is for us to finish our tour and then, when we land at the airfield, arrange for someone to drive out and guide Mr. Pippit to the university.”

Mr. Pippit thrust out his chin aggressively. “What? Sit here for an hour or more? Can’t be done. Got to meet the president of Midston at noon.”

Danny had been eyeing the Rolls lovingly. “I could do it,” he said.

“Do what? Wait here?” said Mr. Pippit.

“No, guide you to the college.”

“Fine,” Mr. Pippit snapped. “Jump in.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mr. Matthews began.

“It’s the best solution,” Danny said. “I know the roads. And it really doesn’t matter whether I go back with you or not. And—well—I’ve never driven in a car like this.”

“Okay,” said Mr. Matthews. “I can understand that. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Go ahead, then. And if there’s anything else you want to know about flying, telephone me.”

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Matthews,” Danny said. “Oh, boy! I feel the way Joe does when there are two desserts for dinner. First a plane ride, then a Rolls Royce.”

He got into the car and Mr. Pippit jumped in and started the motor. As they drove out of the field, Mr. Matthews’ engine roared and he taxied to the end of the pasture, turned his plane and took off. There was plenty of room and he soared up lightly, waggled his wings in farewell, and flew off.

For all his strange and peppery behavior, Mr. Pippit was a good driver and Danny enjoyed himself immensely. The day was mild and the wind refreshing; the car made almost no sound and went as smoothly as if, like the airplane, it wasn’t touching the ground. Mr. Pippit had a way of firing off questions like bullets, and in the short time it took them to reach the edge of Midston he knew all about Danny’s friends, his school, his friendship with Professor Bullfinch, and his interest in science.

“Want to be a scientist? Very good. Very good indeed,” he said, lighting a cigar. “Rocketry. There’s a good field. Interested in it myself. Got two plants turning out rocket engines.”

“Oh, rocket engineering’s all right,” Danny said, “but I’m thinking of doing theoretical research.”

“Rocketry,” said Mr. Pippit firmly. “Only thing for a young man. Come and see me when you’re a rocket expert.”

“I’m more interested in the properties of matter,” Danny said.

“Don’t argue. Can’t stand argument. Do whatever you want to. I need engineers in my business. They’re more practical.”

Danny began to feel his quick temper rising. “Professor Bullfinch says that applied science wouldn’t get very far without theoretical science behind it,” he said.

“Maybe so. Do I turn here?”

“Yes,” said Danny, as they drew into the parking lot near the cluster of main buildings of the university.

As they got out of the car, Mr. Pippit said, “Know the quickest way to the president’s office?”

“I know where it is,” Danny replied. “I don’t know if my way of getting there is the quickest way. It’s a kind of short-cut I took once when I had to meet Professor Bullfinch—”

“A short cut? Fine!” Mr. Pippit tossed away his cigar and rubbed his hands together. “Show me.

Danny led the way to a side door. The offices of the university were part of a new wing which had been built on to the original College of Arts and Sciences, and Danny often followed the maze of corridors and hallways through the old building in order to visit scientists he knew, whose offices were in the opposite wing. But today, his mind was still running on his argument with Mr. Pippit, and he kept wondering how he could open the subject again without seeming to be impudent, and how he could convince the other that theoretical science was as important and valuable as engineering. The result was that he took the wrong stairway and suddenly realized that he was lost.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Pippit, as Danny stopped.

“Why I—I’m not—” Danny stammered.

“Know where you’re going?”

“Yes,” Danny said desperately. Without stopping to think, he pulled open the nearest door. A stair led downward. He started down it with Mr. Pippit at his heels.

They emerged in a long, low-ceilinged basement room. It was lighted by a single dim bulb. Crates were piled along one wall, and at the far end was an open door. Danny realized that he ought to go back up the stairway, or at least confess that he didn’t know where he was. But in his own way, he was every bit as headstrong as Mr. Pippit, and he didn’t want to admit to this man who had no use for theoretical scientists that he was lost. So he plunged on, through the open door into another basement room as dim and dusty as the first.

Another door opened before them, on the right. This led through a long, cement corridor and finally into an echoing room full of machinery. Danny looked around in the hope of finding someone who could tell him how to get up to the daylight again, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Only the gleaming machines, which whirred and pounded and hummed to themselves.

“Doesn’t look like the president’s office,” growled Mr. Pippit.

“We—have to go this way,” Danny said. He went forward between the dark metal shapes, squeezing past their oily bulks, then along an iron catwalk which clattered underfoot. He came to a row of thick pipes covered with dirty asbestos wrappings, and climbed around them. Behind him, Mr. Pippit panted and grumbled, tripping now and then and bumping into things. Another room; this one full of cobwebby boxes, cleaning equipment, pails, and cardboard cartons. Then a spiral iron staircase appeared.

Danny began to climb. Mr. Pippit slipped on the greasy bottom step and said, “Drat, drat, DRAT!”

“It’s only a little way farther,” Danny said, by now past caring what happened.

“Double drat!” Mr. Pippit snarled.

The stair ended at a landing with a heavy, gray metal door. Danny pulled it open. He was standing in a corridor he recognized. There were the glass doors marked Admissions Office, and a short distance beyond them, a neat little sign projecting from the wall which said, Office of the President. Danny uttered a long sigh of relief.

“Here we are,” he said, in the most casual tone he could manage.

He turned to Mr. Pippit. He gasped, and a chill breeze seemed to blow gently across his spine, freezing his cheerfulness.

Mr. Pippit was a wreck. His handsome gray suit was streaked with dust and splotched with oil. His hands were black with dirt and there was a smudge of grease across his face where he had wiped away the perspiration. His hair stuck up in untidy wisps that made his round head look even larger.

But it was obvious he did not know what he looked like. He didn’t even notice Danny’s startled look. Glancing about, he saw the sign and snapped his fingers.

“Good!” he said. “Hard work, but worth it. A great short cut.”

He put out his hand and Danny shook it automatically.

“Many thanks,” said Mr. Pippit. “See you again. Remember, come visit me when you know something about rockets.”

Without another word, he marched across the hall and entered the president’s office.

Sooner or later, Danny knew, there was going to come a roar from that office, either when Mr. Pippit met the president, or more likely, when the president’s secretary stared at him in amazement. Before that happened, Danny decided, it would be best if he were far, far away. He began walking rapidly toward the main hallway, but before he had left the building he was running as fast as he could.