“You bet we can do it!” declared Jimmie.
“And when you need provisions,” Havens advised, “get one of the machines out at night and proceed to Monterey, but don’t take the aeroplanes into the town; don’t attract any attention if you can avoid it.”
“Where’re you going to meet us?” asked Ben.
“Probably at St. Louis,” was the reply. “At the post-office. Look for me there when you arrive.”
In a moment the purr of the motors cut the air. The machines ran swiftly, steadily, down the field and swept upward. Havens stood watching them for a long time. The planes glistened like silver in the moonlight, and the song of the motors came to his ears like sweet music. The millionaire loved a flying machine as track-men love a swift and beautiful horse. He finally turned away to find a uniformed messenger boy standing by his side, presenting a yellow envelope.
“What is it, kid?” he asked.
“Message from the hospital,” was the answer.
“Who sent it?” asked the millionaire, taking the envelope into his hands and tearing off the end.
“The night matron,” was the reply. “She said I had to hump myself.”
“That’s wrong!” laughed Havens. “She shouldn’t expect a messenger boy to hump himself! In fact,” he went on, whimsically, “the only time a messenger boy is permitted to make haste is when he is on his way to a baseball game. That’s right, sonny!” he continued.