The three young people sat down around the table, and Mr. Elswing, pushing aside the papers, put tea bags in the cups and got down a sugar bowl and a can of milk.
“Why should hot tea cool you off?” Irene demanded.
“Simple,” said Danny. “It makes you feel so much hotter that the hot air outside seems cooler.”
Mr. Elswing laughed. “Maybe you’ve got something there, Dan,” he said. “Another reason is that the tea makes you perspire. The moisture on your skin evaporates. When moisture evaporates, it takes heat from surrounding areas, so your skin feels cool.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to cool me much,” grumbled Joe, who was sitting with his back to the open window. “I’m hot. Even the wind feels hot on my neck.”
“Oh, Joe, you’re always complaining,” said Irene. “Mr. Elswing, tell us some more about what you do in the weather station.”
But before the meteorologist could speak, Joe said in a trembling voice, “Danny.”
“What?”
“Did you see that horror movie on TV—Wolf Man of London?”
Danny looked at his friend in astonishment.
“Do you remember that guy in the picture who turned into a werewolf?” Joe went on.
“Sure. Why?”
“Because that hot wind I feel—is him, breathing down my neck!”
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Elswing Changes
The others sprang up from the table in alarm. A huge, hairy head was peering in through the open window behind Joe. It was tan-and-white, and had mournful brown eyes.
“Why, Joe,” Irene cried, “how can you call it a werewolf? It’s a cute little puppy!”
They could now see that it was a Saint Bernard dog, standing outside with its chin resting on the window sill. At Irene’s words, it seemed to smile, and an immense tail began wagging back and forth so that a real breeze came into the room.
“That’s Vanderbilt,” Mr. Elswing said. “He’s not exactly a puppy, though.”
Irene went over and patted the big head. “I think he’s sweet,” she said defiantly. “Cute ol’ dog. Did the nasty boy call ’um names?”
“Ugh!” Joe said, rolling up his eyes. “Women!”
Danny got up. “You’ll have to tear yourself away from that lap dog, Irene.” he said. “It’s almost suppertime, and we’ve got a long walk back.”
He looked around once more, at the busily chattering teletype, at the instrument dials, the charts and maps and photos of cloud formations. “It must be fun to be a weatherma—er—a meteorologist,” he sighed. “Can we come again, Mr. Elswing?”
“Any time you like,” said the tall man. “Always glad to have visitors. And if you’re really interested, we can always use volunteer observers.”
“You mean, to help you here?” Danny asked eagerly.
“To measure rainfall and snow, at your own home, and give us regular reports, which act as a check on our own measurements. Think it over.”
“I will,” said Danny.
He and his friends shook hands once more with the meteorologist. Then they left the weather station and walked through the gates of the airfield, and down to Washington Avenue, the wide street that led past Midston University and back to the center of town.
Suddenly Joe said, “Don’t you hear a noise like padding feet?”
They stopped. Behind them there was a sound like that of a locomotive chuffing, and the slap of heavy paws on the pavement.
“A footpad,” said Joe.
“It’s Vanderbilt. He’s trailing us like a wolf,” Dan said.
“You mean like a whole pack of wolves,” Joe said sourly.
“Joe, you stop that,” said Irene. “How would you like it if I talked about you that way?” She put her arms around the Saint Bernard’s neck. “He just followed us because I said a kind word to him.”
“Well, you’d better say a kind good-bye to him,” Danny put in. “Mr. Elswing’s probably looking for him now.”
“Go home, Vanderbilt,” Irene said, pointing back toward the airfield. “I’ll come and visit you again, soon.”
The dog did not move. He just stood and looked lovingly at Irene, panting heavily with his tongue hanging out.
“Maybe we could ride him back,” Danny suggested. “He’s big enough. It’d be easier than walking all that way.”
“Shame on you, Danny Dunn,” said Irene. “He’s more tired than you. Can’t you hear him pant? You ought to carry him.”
“Oh, no!” Joe burst out. “I quit! Why can’t you like canaries, or goldfish, Irene? Why does it have to be dogs?”
“He’ll go where Irene goes,” Danny said. “Come on. You hold his collar, and we’ll take him home.”
They marched back to the weather station, and knocked at the door. It opened. Danny, with a smile, began to speak. Then his smile froze.
Mr. Elswing was scowling horribly. With his mouth turned down, his large round face seemed to sag into his neck, and under his beetled brows his small blue eyes were dull and cold.
“What are you doing with that dog?” he snarled, before Danny could say a word. “Let go of him. And get out of here. No visitors!” He grabbed Vanderbilt by the collar. The dog tucked his tail between his legs and hung his head, and a low, sad whine issued from him. Mr. Elswing dragged him into the weather station and slammed the door.
“G-g-gosh!” Joe stammered. “What happened to him?”
The three, stunned and silent, turned away and walked back to Washington Avenue. Then Joe said, “I know what it was—split personality —when a man is two people at once.”
“Huh?” Danny grunted.
“Sure. I saw it on another TV horror show,” said Joe. “There was this good guy, and when the moon was full he turned into a monster—”
“Don’t be silly,” Danny said. “The moon isn’t even out now.”
“Is that all you watch on TV, Joe?” Irene asked, pursing up her lips. “Horror movies?”
“Nope.” Joe shook his head. “I only watch those before going to bed.”
“Hmf,” Irene sniffed. “Your parents shouldn’t allow you to watch such things.”
“They don’t,” Joe grinned.
“Still,” said Danny, “something is certainly wrong with Mr. Elswing. Maybe it is split personality.”
“We’d better not go back there, ever,” Irene said firmly. “How do we know what he’ll be like next time? He might try to stab us with a weather vane, or something.”
They walked on for a moment or two in silence. Then Danny said thoughtfully, “There’s no need to go back.”
Irene took him by the arm, and turned him to face her.
“You’ve got something up your sleeve, Dan,” she said.
“Up his sleeve? He’s not even wearing a shirt,” said Joe.
“Come on, out with it,” said Irene.
“Okay.