“But it’s dated yesterday.”
“That’s so. We’ll get Her Highness diked out, and be ready. Suppose we better wear real clothes under our flying suits—”
“Dinner coats,” Jim agreed. “If it’s informal we don’t have to do more than that—”
“Brush our teeth,” Bob suggested. They showed the letter to the Fentons and the man looked grave.
“I hope they are careful what they say,” he remarked seriously.
“What do you mean?” Bob demanded.
“These international affairs are ticklish things. If you get riled and throw a soup plate, or some little thing like that, it might bring on a war. It doesn’t take much to bring on a war—”
“There isn’t a soup plate handy, Uncle Norman, but I know where Aunt Belle keeps her potato masher. You want to be very careful that you do not start any internal wars; they are the worst sort.”
“Guess I better get outside if that’s the case,” he chuckled, and went for his own high boots.
“Let’s have a look at the world,” Jim proposed, then added, “Old Champlain looks kind of high to me. Is it usually so?”