“But, my boy,” urged Mr. Mackworth, “I could never think of trusting the safety of my friends to an eighteen-dollar-a-week aviator. It’s preposterous.”
“Well, call it seven days a week, twenty-one dollars,” conceded Phil. “That’ll certainly be plenty.”
Mr. Mackworth laughed, stepped into his stateroom and returned in a moment with a wallet. One after another he drew out ten yellow-backed twenty-dollar bills, dropped them on the table and then said:
“There is something on account. We’ll settle the question of wages later.” Jake having returned with his coffee, Mr. Mackworth refreshed himself with a few swallows and then added: “Go out and buy what you need. Get an automobile and take a ride around town. If you need any more money, call me up at the Blackstone.”
Before the boys could protest he disappeared into his apartment.
“I can’t take it,” exclaimed Frank.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to act as trustee,” added Phil, “but I don’t feel right about it.”
While he nervously gathered up the bills one of them fluttered to the floor.
“You dropped a bill, Mr. Phil,” exclaimed Jake with alacrity, as he picked it up.