“Rot! rubbish!” flared up Jasper Saxton, his face getting red, his eyes exhibiting the ugly mood that always surged to the surface when any one dared to cross his plans. “No subterfuge, now, Hardy, no subterfuge.”
“I think you have generally found me a truthful, plain-spoken man,” said Mr. Hardy with dignity. “This airship is the property of my son exclusively.”
“Yes, and I’d have you know that your time and the material you are using here are my property!” shouted Mr. Saxton, lashing around with his cane. “See here, Hardy, I buy your work and ability for a price, and I’ll have no man robbing me of my just dues. I can get you in trouble—yes, I can,” continued the narrow-minded manufacturer recklessly. “I’ve let you have your swing and said nothing, but now it’s got to stop.”
“What has got to stop?”
“You used my shop one whole night, gas, machines, material, on a side job for some pet of your boy there up at the aero field. Oh, I know all about it. My watchman told me.”
“And I told him to do so, and further, mentioned it to your bookkeeper, and instructed him to charge me for it, if there was any charge to make. I think, though, it’s pretty small business, Mr. Saxton, when a trifling accommodation like that is refused to an old and faithful employee.”
“We’ll let that pass. There are other things,” muttered Jasper Saxton. “You install my airship department, and I’ll see that the patents are duly protected.”
“Yes, you certainly know how to protect patents,” remarked Mr. Hardy meaningly. “All the same, sir, this special machine, the Dart, belongs to my son, Ben, and can’t be included in any bargain you and I may make.”
“Humbug! It’s got to,” insisted the manufacturer in his usual domineering fashion. “I don’t want to make you trouble, Hardy—I don’t want to be hard on you.”
“About what?” demanded Mr. Hardy vaguely.