"I-I kinda fell asleep waitin' for you, Mr. Snobbcraft," Frazier apologized, "but everything's ready."
"All right, man," shouted the president of the Anglo-Saxon Association, "let's get away from here then. This is a matter of life and death. You ought to have had the plane outside and all warmed up to go."
"Yes sir," the man mumbled meekly, busying himself.
"These damned, stupid, poor white trash!" growled Snobbcraft, glaring balefully at the departing aviator.
"D-D-Don't antagonize him," muttered Buggerie. "He's our only chance to get away."
"Shut up, fool! If it hadn't been for you and your damned fool statistics we wouldn't be in this fix."
"You wanted them, didn't you?" whined the statistician in defense.
"Well, I didn't tell you to leave that damned summary where anybody could get hold of it." Snobbcraft replied, reproachfully. "That was the most stupid thing I ever heard of."
Buggerie opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He just glared at Snobbcraft who glared back at him. The two men presented a disheveled appearance. The Vice-Presidential candidate was haggard, hatless, collarless and still wore his smoking jacket. The eminent statistician and author of The Incidence of Psittacosis among the Hiphopa Indians of the Amazon Valley and Its Relation to Life Insurance Rates in the United States, looked far from dignified with no necktie, canvas breeches, no socks and wearing a shooting jacket he had snatched from a closet on his way out of the house. He had forgotten his thick spectacles and his bulging eyes were red and watery. They paced impatiently back and forth, glancing first at the swiftly working Frazier and then down the long driveway toward the glowing city.
Ten minutes they waited while Frazier went over the plane to see that all was well. Then they helped him roll the huge metal bird out of the hangar and on to the field. Gratefully they climbed inside and fell exhausted on the soft-cushioned seats.