“A come-on,” returned his neighbor.
“A come-on?” echoed Dorothy in a puzzled voice.
“Just that—nothing more nor less.”
“I get you,” Bill nodded. “Get us in the air, by that teaser—rely on us to go after the Mystery Plane as a matter of pride—and then fill us full of machine gun bullets. If they start anything like that—well—two can play the game and if that lad with the beard can’t shoot any better than he handled his plane when he zoomed the house just now—it is, as the French say, ‘to laugh’!”
“That’s all very well,” argued Mr. Dixon. “I don’t mind Dorothy flying, but I do draw the line at machine guns. That’s no game for girls. You keep your two feet on solid earth until this business is over, my dear.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Dorothy’s voice was full of disgust.
“Sorry, daughter, but I simply can’t let you take the risk.”
Mr. Bolton placed his hand on his friend’s arm.
“You know, I don’t think that Bill would have countenanced Dorothy’s going on patrols with him unless he felt assured she would run no danger. How about it, son?”
“If she does get into trouble, it won’t be with my consent,” he smiled. “But seriously, sir,” he turned to Mr. Dixon. “There will be a minimum of danger if Dorothy does as I tell her. In the first place, machine gun fire in the air is not nearly so potent as it is on terra firma. Try and hit a small object flashing by when you’re traveling like a bat out of—ahem!—Harlem. Try it and see how many planes you don’t hit! And in the second place, that bearded guy won’t get a chance to turn his gun in her direction.”