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For, across the great hall, whose walls and ceilings glowed softly with yellow light, his eyes swept unerringly to a slim figure in a pilot's suit to an oval face and blue eyes and red lips that could still curve into a trembling smile of welcome as he drew near. Forgotten was the grip of sharp-spiked, clawing hands; even the anticipated sweets of revenge were lost from Chet's mind.
But one strong signal came in on the instruments at Chet's side to show him where on that horizon was New York; and the call of a flagship of cruisers was flashing before him as the lift of the Repelling Area was felt. "Follow!" flashed the order. "You will follow to New York!"
Chet's master sensed something wrong, for with a cry of his pet's name he hurried toward the stretched-out animal. "Don't!" exclaimed the colonel, reaching out a restraining hand. "The dog has been poisoned, and with a poison so deadly that even some of the foam from his lips, in a tiny scratch, might cause your death. Don't touch him with bare hands." "Poisoned, Colonel! Chet poisoned?"
Only when a score of the white things threw themselves out into space did he know the truth. Out and upward they sprang, to soar above Chet's head and land on the slope above. All escape was cut off now; but it was not this thought that held Chet motionless for that moment of horror.
Andy's chums looked curiously at him. Chet's chance remark had brought back to them the memory of the old enmity between Andy Blair and Mortimer Gaffington, the rich young "sport" of Dunmore. It was an enmity that had happily been forgotten in the joy of life at Milton. Now it loomed up again. "That's right, that cad Mort does hang out at New Haven," remarked Tom. "That is, he did.
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