After he had had a meal which was neither breakfast nor luncheon, but combined all the most agreeable features of both, commencing with grapefruit and cereal and ending with pie, Lawrence went out to the Aviation Field, where he found the men busily working on the dirigible. A week at most would find it in working order again. O’Brien was not there. After taking a little flight in his favorite plane, a flight which took him over the scene of last night’s adventure, he came down, and returned to the apartment where he loafed and read until seven, when O’Brien came in.
“I flew over that field again this afternoon,” said Lawrence. “I did not see a soul.”
“That’s all right,” said his friend. “I have been there all day meself in a tree-top, with a pair of glasses strong enough to spot the Queen of England powdering her nose from the base of the Statue of Liberty. There was not a sign of ’em and I have it all worked out. They know we can’t use the dirigible, and of course by now they know the minute when it will be in shape again. So why work? Why hang around that bleak spot? And Mr. Ridgeway being laid up, there’s no use for Mr. Smith to sit with his ear glued to the listening post down there below Ridgeway’s office. No. It’s all hands take a vacation, and I’m thinkin’ I will do the same. I am going on a still hunt for our dear little book agent.”
“I forgot to tell you,” said Lawrence, “that before I left there last night, I fixed all three machines so they won’t fly very soon. I learned a few twists back in the aircraft factory, and I can put a plane out of tune so no one will guess that it has been touched, but there is the mischief to pay. And I touched up the dirigible too. Just a screw or two loose, and a couple of pinholes where they will do the most good.”
“You are like a woman’s postscript,” said O’Brien. “All the meat of the letter in it.”
“I meant to tell you before,” said Lawrence. “Well, if you are going after the Smith man, what am I to do?”
“Go see Mr. Ridgeway and tell him all this you have told me. Take the cigarette; it’s evidence.”
“Suppose we go to the theatre tonight,” suggested Lawrence. “I have not seen a show in a month of Sundays.”
“Sunday is no day to go to shows on, anyhow,” said O’Brien with mock severity. “But this bein’ a weekday it’s not against me conscience to accompany you.”
They decided on the vaudeville, and securing good seats settled down to an evening’s enjoyment.