“I think you have hit it. What I wish to suggest is that before you start eastward you give your machine a decisive test.”
“I have done so.”
“But only for short distances; you have traveled two or three hundred miles and stayed in the air for ten or twelve hours. You know you must do a good deal better than that in order to reach the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Don’t you suppose I know all that and am prepared for it?”
“You will pardon me, Professor, but after you left us this morning I thought a good deal about you and your purpose. I became worried and could not help feeling that you were running too much risk when you headed for Europe.”
“That’s because you don’t know anything about it.”
“I want to be certain that you will be safe; you are too valuable a man to throw away your life as so many aviators have done within the last year.”
“Haven’t I told you I shall not throw away my life?”
While this seemingly pointless conversation was going on, Harvey Hamilton studied his man. He noted the tones of his voice and the expression of his face, so far as the heavy, grizzled beard would permit. The heart of the youth was filled with a kindling hope at the evidence that the Professor was mellowing. Harvey had made a favorable impression and he followed it up with rare skill.
“You say you are absolutely certain that when you start you will reach the other side of the Atlantic without mishap?”