“You aren’t thinking of trying for to-morrow, with your hands in that condition?” interrogated Bob.
Before the aviator could reply, Mr. Bridges had arrived. He was the director of the meet, its high executive official.
“Dear me, Davis,” he exclaimed in genuine concern, “this is a serious affair. I needn’t tell you I am dreadfully sorry. Have you sent for a doctor.”
“Yes,” nodded the aviator with a smile, “you.”
“Eh?”
“That’s it—I want you to doctor up to-morrow’s programme.”
“Yes, it will be a severe disappointment to the public—no Flyer, no Davis.”
“But I wish to be represented, just the same.”
“Oh.”
“Now, see here, Bridges,” proceeded the old aviator, “there is not the least occasion in the world for red tape. It’s a plain, simple proposition of a plain, straightforward man. I have a place on the programme. I claim it.”