Fred la Mothe was speaking. After a certain number of beverages composed of Scotch whisky, imported soda, and a cube of ice, it was a matter of comparative ease for him to exhibit a notable fluency. After two o’clock in the afternoon Fred was generally fluent.
“‘’Tain’t safe,’ I says to him. And the wind was blowin’ enough to lift the hair out of your head. ‘I wouldn’t go up in the thing for the price of it,’ I says, ‘and, besides, you’re seein’ two of it. Bad enough drivin’ a car when you’re lit up,’ I says, ‘but what these flyin’ machines want is a still day and a man that’s cold sober. You just let it rest on its little perch in the bird-cage.’”
Fred refreshed his parched throat while his four companions waited for the conclusion of the tale. “‘You’ll bust your neck,’ I told him.
“‘Ten to one,’ says he, ‘I round Windmill Point Light and come back without bustin’ my neck. Even money I make it without bustin’ anything,’ says he.
“‘Dinner for four at the Tuller to-night that the least you bust is a leg,’ I says, and the wind whipped the hat off my head and whirled it into a tree.”
Fred stopped, evidently mourning the loss of his hat.
“Well,” said Will Kraemer, impatiently, “what happened? Did he go up?”
“Him?... I paid for that dinner, but, b’lieve me, there were times when I thought I’d have to collect from his estate. Ever see a leaf blowing around in a gale? Well, that’s how he looked out over the lake. Just boundin’ and twirlin’ and twistin’, but he went the distance and came back and landed safe. Got out of the dingus just like he was gettin’ off a Pullman. Patted the thing on the wing like it was a pet chicken. ‘Let’s drive down to the Pontchartrain,’ he says. ‘Likely the crowd’s there.’ Not another darn word. Just that.”
“Trouble with Potter Waite,” said Tom Watts, “is that he just naturally don’t give a damn. If he’s going to pull something he’d as lief pull it in the middle of Woodward Avenue at noon by the village clock as to pull it on the Six Mile Road at midnight.”
“No pussy-footin’ for him,” said Jack Eldredge. “My old man was talking about him the other night. Day after he cleaned up those two taxi-drivers out here in front. ‘Don’t let me hear of you running around with that young Waite,’ he says. ‘He’s a bad actor. You keep off him.’”