Sunhelmet Sue by the Same Author
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ERICK BERRY CrOPmiGHT DEPOSIT. SUNHELMET SUE BY THE SAME AUTHOR GIRLS IN AFRICA BLACK FOLK TALES PENNY WHISTLE HUMOO THE HIPPO AND LITTLE BOY BUMBO ILLUSTRATIONS OF CYNTHIA JUMA OF THE HILLS CAREERS OF CYNTHIA SOJO MOM DU JOS THE WINGED GIRL OF KNOSSOS STRINGS TO ADVENTURE THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT (AlHie MaXOIl) > If far treasure the c&vewis just tfte place!” SUNHELMET SUE Eric\ Berry Boston 1936 New Yor\ LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY Copyright, 1936, by LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ produced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA £' GClA 971G9 3 ~ f J For ‘Dorinda’ in appreciation of charm and courage Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. Stowaway .... II II. A Parachute Jump to Africa 31 III. By Cargo Boat to Nigeria 50 IV. The Sunhelmet becomes a Fixture 64 V. To Yar?. 72 VI. The Secretary Hires a Secretary 8l VII. Alone in Africa 93 VIII. The Little Judge . 109 IX. Wet Squeeze .... 117 X. On the Trail of Yar . 123 XI. To Yar by a Shoot-the-Shoot 133 XII. Long Ago a Great City 144 XIII. Another Archaeological Trip 151 XIV. Evil Spirits .... 158 XV. The Heroine of Katsina 172 XVI. A Real Discovery . 186 XVII. Yar Yields up a Secret 204 XVIII. The Flight Again . 213 XIX. Lost: Rum a Cave . 224 XX. Conspiracy .... 232 Chapter One STOWAWAY Sue may gave a final dab with the brush at her dark bangs and turned away from the mirror. With the gesture of habit she started to place the hairbrush on her dressing table, then setting her chin, opened the lid of a suitcase that stood on a chair by her bed and fitted the brush among the neatly packed contents. The suitcase really had no right to be there. It should have left this morning with the Dering’s luggage. And the trunk; that should have gone by express two ii SUNHELMET SUE days ago, south to New York for the cargo boat to Lagos, port of Nigeria. Only—there it stood, large and brown and new, packed to the lid with pretty light dresses, neat little cotton sports frocks and all the other things she had thought she would need for a season in tropical West Africa. That is, if the trunk had really been going to Nigeria instead of remaining just stolidly here. Through' the open window came the deep harsh note of a strange plane. She glanced out. Yes, there it was, one of the National Guards’ training machines, a fast, radial engine monoplane, an open seater of course. And that big shiny hulk of wood and linen and steel, just now side slipping to a skilful landing was what had robbed her of her trip to West Africa. Sue May slammed open the lid of the suitcase and banged her hairbrush back into its customary place on the dressing table. Not, of course, that she disliked airplanes; nobody in the Innis family could do that. Both she and her brother Karl out there in the flying field had pretty nearly cut their teeth on propeller-bosses, and Dad had been flying even before he had joined up as part of a famous fighting squadron in France. The note of the engine ceased momentarily, then whirred softly. That meant Karl was taxiing it into one of the hangars. Sue May glanced at her watch. Only half past eight. She wasn’t due on the field till ten. Plenty of time to jump in the car, just as she was, 12 STOW A WAY riding breeches, boots and soft silk shirt and run over to say farewell to the Derings. She might see the Derings in New York next week but . Sue May suppressed a sigh . she hadn’t any real faith in that next week idea. The Dering plan had been off and on and off again too many times for that. Hoping that Dad would be on the flying field she slipped quietly downstairs. She didn’t really want to see him just now. He was as sorry as she was over the way things had worked out, but far more optimistic over the future. It took all Dad could make to keep the family together and run the flying field. It wasn’t his fault that his son and daughter had had to throw in their little bank accounts to swing this last big demonstration of his. Actually Sue May had been the first to volunteer, even after her trunk was packed and her seat engaged for her to go with the Derings in the plane for New York. But she didn’t want, just now, to bear the additional strain of Dad’s sympathy. The ancient six cylinder Buick was garaged in what had been the old barn of the farmhouse. Gas in the tank. Yes . good. No need ever to look at anything else since nothing mechanical ever went wrong, noth¬ ing ever squeaked or rattled or even seemed to wear out if Karl had the care of it. Eyes squinting against the April glare she trundled out into the open and wheeled round the end of the house. And there, oh dear, was Dad, hatless, his old leather coat swinging open to his stride as he crossed *3 SUNHELMET SUE from the nearest hangar. Sue May tried not to see him, not to notice the lifted hand, but his hearty “Hi there, wait a minute,” was too obvious to be ignored. The Buick purred to a halt. “You’re not forgetting?” he asked anxiously. “Ten o’clock was when they said they’d be here. We mustn’t keep them waiting.” Sue May managed a smile as she shook her head. “No, Dad. I’m just . that is, it’s just an errand.” Better not mention the Derings, it would make it look as though she minded . well ... as much as she really did mind. “I won’t be long.” Reassuringly. Dad leaned against the fence with an appearance of nonchalance, while one hand fidgeted with the keys in his pocket. “Amazing piece of luck,” he reiterated for perhaps the dozenth time, only half for Sue May’s sympathetic ear, “Banfil and Ackroyd driving through this way and willing to watch a test of the C 37.” Sue May slid into low. It’d be rude, she knew, to break away since he wanted so much to talk it all over again. This parachute test was so tremendously im¬ portant to him, to them all. But she hated his being so modest about it. The C 37 was so amazing, she be¬ lieved in it so completely that she felt any airplane man ought to be proud to come any number of hundred miles to see it tried out. And it was the C 37 that had robbed her of her trip to Africa. No, she couldn’t listen to Dad talk about it again. Not just now. “I’ve got to hurry, honest I have. Daren’t risk getting STOW A WAY back late,” she murmured, and rolled out into the highway. It was five miles to the Dering’s. Willow trees were a haze of cloudy catkins along full flowing streams, fences gleamed freshly whitewashed against the lush brilliance of new grass and from every barberry hedge and lilac breaking into leaf birds called, winging busily in the usual fever of spring house-building. But Sue May’s thoughts were neither on spring nor budding lilacs. Down inside she was still all bleak and wintry. Though goodness knows, she ruminated, this is a big day for the Innis family. A Big Day . like that, all in capitals. The C 37, known better as the Witch’s Broom, was Dad’s invention. C because it was the third type of harness he had invented, number 37 because no less than thirty-six parachutes of soft creamy-white silk had gone before it—and incidentally eaten deep into his own slight bank account. Sue May slowed for what looked like a speed cop, but turned out to be a garage mechanic whom she knew. “Hi, Bill!” She raised hand in greeting to the soiled grinning face and gathered speed again. The C 37 wasn’t so radically new; that was why it was so difficult to put over. It was just a tremendous improvement in every thread and curve, buckle and strap and cord. Looking back over the others Sue May was almost horrified to remember the flying carpets she had used in earlier parachute jumps; things that 75 SUNHELMET SUE might or might not open; parachutes whose silk might or might not hold the air; the double one that Dad had finally discarded because it was too complicated to re¬ fold; and there was one that always opened with such a snap it almost yanked you in two. She turned up a side road. Another two miles. She wished now that she’d been less hasty and had ’phoned ahead, for she might find them already gone. But as she rang the doorbell there was a reassuring patter of high heels. Mrs. Dering herself, a tooth¬ brush, an odd slipper and a scarf in one hand opened the door. “Oh, my dear! How nice of you! But I’m so upset. Gerald has gone on ahead to make some final arrange¬ ments.