Once more the machine veered, banked skilfully and throbbed cityward. It descended in a not over skilful landing and bounded clumsily until it subsided into motionlessness.
“I brought him back safely,” Potter called to the captain.
“And,” said Major Craig, with quiet satisfaction, “I’ve ridden with a motor.... You’ve got a motor, Mr. Waite.”
“You think so?... You think it will be worth something?”
“Of course this has been no real test, but you’ve shown enough to make a real test necessary. I believe this motor of yours is far and away the best motor for its purpose in America. That’s something. But over there, Mr. Waite, improvements are made overnight that render existing types obsolete. The ’planes of six months ago are antediluvian. The ’planes of a year hence will be—nobody knows what. But you’ve got something, something to work from, anyhow.”
“Speed,” said Captain Ball, succinctly.
“This ’plane doesn’t give the motor a chance,” said Potter. “With one of those little French fighting-machines I think I could show you speed.”
Craig nodded. Then Potter and the officers immersed themselves in technicalities of weight per horse-power, lubrication, machining, high altitude, and such future matters as standardization, possible output, time of manufacture. With these matters the day passed.
They dined at the club. At the table next on their right sat Fred La Mothe and a young man, of recent prosperity, named Roper. Potter called across:
“I hear your father has bought a new Whistler, Fred?”