Jerry had just finished telling Harry something about the way in which the double rudders controlled an airship—one guiding it up or down, and the other to left or right, when there came a howl from Bob—a veritable wail of anguish.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ned, who had moved out of the seat beside his stout chum, and was sitting back of him. “Did you bite your tongue?”
“Bite my tongue? Come on! You know better than that. Hand ’em over!” and Bob, extending his fist, shook it under Ned’s nose.
“Hand what over? What do you mean? If you mean these magazines, I’ve just started ’em. Besides, they’re mine!”
“No, I don’t mean the magazines, and you know it!” declared Bob.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you do mean. What’s the row, anyhow?”
“My crullers!” exclaimed Bob. “You snitched ’em out of my pocket when you were sitting in the same seat with me. Come on; a joke’s a joke, and I don’t mind if you keep one for yourself, and another for Jerry. But hand over the rest!”
“The rest of what?” asked Ned, innocently enough.
“Oh, quit! You know! My crullers. I bought ’em to eat when I got hungry, and now they’re gone,” and in proof Bob stood up and turned both coat pockets inside out.