“I’m up to no game that I know of,” sullenly muttered the man called Gib Duske. “If you must know, I’ve entered my airship for the race.”
“You!” exclaimed Parks; “‘Your airship!’ Where did you get an airship?”
“I suppose I have friends to back me like anybody else when they see a show for their money. I’m an old balloonist. A syndicate, knowing my professional skill, has put up the capital to give me a try.”
“Oh, they have?” observed Parks incredulously. “I’d like to see your syndicate.”
“And I’ve got my machine,” declared Duske excitedly, “I’d have you know. I’ve heard you’re entered. Fair play, then, and I’m going to beat the field.”
Parks eyed his companion in speculative silence for a minute or two. Then he said:
“You talk about fair play. Good! You’ll get it here, if you’re square. If you’re not, you had best take my warning right now, and cut out for good. There will be no balloon slitting like there was at a certain race you were in two years ago out West. The first freak or false play you make to queer an honest go, I’ll expose you to the field.”
“I’ve got no such intentions,” mumbled Duske, with a malicious glance at his challenger.
“See you don’t, that’s all,” retorted Parks, and walked off. “You noticed that man?” he added, as he rejoined Andy, who had listened with interest to the conversation.
“Yes, particularly,” answered Andy, really able to tell his employer more than he dared.