"That'll tide you over for a little," he said. "After that——"
"Ah! That's where the pinch comes. What am I to do?"
"You want work?" asked Carl.
"Well, yes. Not hard labour, mind you. The class of thing we did out in South Africa wouldn't come amiss."
Whatever that task may have been one was not to hear it, for Carl held up a fat hand instantly.
"S-s-sh!" he said, somewhat angrily. "Least said soonest mended. We forget South Africa. But—yes, I might find a task for you, a congenial task. You've heard of this new airship?"
Adolf Fruhmann looked puzzled. After all, when a man has fallen upon evil days and finds it hard to discover from where his next meal is to come, he is not apt to betray much interest in passing events, nor has he, often enough, spare halfpence with which to purchase journals. But it happened that Adolf had seen an account in a paper, and since the story had now leaked out, and it was known how Mr. Carl Reitberg had issued a challenge to Andrew Provost and his nephew Joseph Gresson, he recollected that he had even noted the name of his one-time friend and associate in connection with this wonderful airship.
"Yes," he ejaculated. "One hundred thousand pounds, eh, Carl? A lot to lose if they win, and it looks as if they might do so."
A crafty look came across his face. He leaned farther across the table and whispered something. "Why don't you?" he asked.