“These aren’t such hot shots,” he commented, observing that Flash was awake.
“Just some of my bad ones. I study them to learn my mistakes.”
“Ambitious, aren’t you?” Doyle’s lip curled in amusement. “This one of Rascomb is the best of the lot.”
Flash rolled out of bed.
“Rascomb?” he questioned. “Who’s he?”
Peering over Doyle’s shoulder he saw that the man was gazing at an auto-racing picture. It was a shot of one of the drivers talking with a distinguished looking individual in street clothing.
“That’s Rascomb,” identified Doyle, jabbing at the figure with his thumb. “You see him at most of the big sporting events.”
“Never even heard of him. But I thought there was something familiar about his face! Still, I can’t remember ever having seen him before the day of the races.”
“Rascomb has plenty of dough,” Doyle remarked enviously. “Swell car, a plane of his own, even his own private landing field. He’s a good polo player and has a hunting and fishing lodge up in the north woods. The news lads always give him favorable publicity, and he returns the favor with invitations to his lodge.”
“Have you ever been there?” Flash inquired curiously.