pressure.”
Joe was leaning over a long counter on which were a map labeled “Aviation Weather Reporting Stations” and a sheaf of long yellow papers. “Look at this,” he said. “This is really code!”
“Joe, you’ve got codes on the brain,” Danny grinned.
“Oh, yeah? Well, listen to this,” said Joe. “PIREPS VCNTY BDG 1740 R NO TURBC. And I’m not reading upside down, either.”
Mr. Elswing nodded. “In a way you’re right, Joe. Those are the reports all the stations send in, once every hour. That one is an aviation report.” He picked up the paper and read, “Pireps—pilot reports; vicinity of BDG—that’s the code signal of one of the stations; at 1740— that’s five-forty in the afternoon; R—rain; No Turbc—no turbulence, that is, no high swirling winds.”
Joe looked triumphant. “Too bad it wasn’t something secret.”
“You see,” Mr. Elswing explained, “each weather station observes as much as it can about the conditions nearby: the atmospheric pressure, temperature, moisture in the air, wind direction and speed. All these observations are put together to make a large picture of what the weather is like all day long, all over the country. This picture is called a weather map. You can see it in the daily newspapers. Then the meteorologists—that’s a better word than weatherman—can make a pretty good guess at what it will be like tomorrow.”
“What will it be like tomorrow?” Danny asked.
“Dry again, I’m afraid,” Mr. Elswing said ruefully.
“Why?” asked Irene. “What’s happened to all the rain?”
Mr. Elswing shook his head. “All I can tell you is that we just don’t know for certain. The great mass of air that is giving us our weather is staying just about the same. Its pressure is constant, and until, for example, some cold air comes along from the northwest to push it on its way, there isn’t much chance of a change.”
He sighed, and took some cups from a shelf. “I just wish people wouldn’t think it’s my fault,” he said. “How about a nice cup of tea? I always keep the kettle on. Hot tea seems to cool me off in this kind of weather.”
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
