“Well, I’m sure, Mr. Weston, that it was good of you to pick me out and bring me here. I haven’t any doubt but what you can give me good advice. I’ve got to go to Bluff, and I’ve got a wagon load of stuff to take with me. I don’t know anything about the country, or how to get there. I’m goin’ to ask you to tell me.”
“Say,” said the real estate agent suddenly. “If your business is none o’ mine, keep it to yourself; but I got a reason fur askin’ ye what it is.”
“No secret,” answered Roy. “You’ve heard of aeroplanes?”
“Flyin’ machines?”
Roy nodded his head.
“I’ve got an aeroplane over at the express office, or should have, and about two hundred gallons of gasoline. I’m under contract to deliver the aeroplane and gasoline to Mr. Cook, in Bluff. After that, I’m going to work for the company communicating with its prospectin’ parties. I want to know the best way to get there.”
“They ain’t no best way—fur a team.”
“But I must find a way.”
Colonel Weston had grown strangely sober, and seemed lost in thought.