Sandy clamped his huge hand over Ken’s mouth. “I’ll say you won’t.” He grinned. “In return for your silence—something we rarely get from you,” he went on, “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He removed his hand and reached into his pocket.
“What secret?” Ken asked suspiciously.
“You remember that last little mess we got into—the one Pop called The Secret of Hangman’s Inn?”
“I’d just as soon not remember that,” Ken said.
“Have it your own way.” Sandy had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “In that case you won’t want your half of this check from Global for the yarn and the pictures we sent them.”
Ken grabbed for the check and looked at it. “What do you know!” he murmured. “A hundred and fifty dollars! Granger must be getting soft in the head.”
“Granger,” Sandy said loftily, “is a top-flight news editor. He appreciates the remarkable quality of my pictures. He’d probably make it two hundred if he didn’t have to wade through that stuff you call writing.”
Ken handed the check back to Sandy. “Pictures,” he said, “are something anybody can take. But writing—real writing—” Suddenly he broke off. “There’s Dad!”
Richard Holt had just stepped out of the plane, first in the line of passengers descending the stairway. He was a slender figure in a rumpled topcoat, with a brief case clamped under one arm. The other arm raised in a swift salute as he spotted them.
“Hi!” he shouted.