The head of the Herald nodded as if in entire approval, leaned back in his chair for a moment and then, much as if it had been under discussion, remarked:
“At the speed you have secured and with the protected car the Ocean Flyer carries, why don’t you cross the Atlantic?”
Ned eyed his questioner a moment and then, with a glance at his two chums, broke out laughing.
“And make good our name?” he asked, apparently glad to get into his usual vein of joviality.
“And make good your name,” repeated the editor.
“Perhaps we may,” went on Ned impulsively. “Now that you’ve betrayed me into that confession, whatever you do with your story of our new machine, I hope you’ll say nothing of this. That is our object.”
“To reassure you,” answered the editor, “I have only to tell you that I hope your secret will be the Herald’s.”
“What do you mean?” broke in Alan.
“You can cross the Atlantic, you ought to cross the Atlantic and I hope you will cross the Atlantic—for the New York Herald.”
“For the Herald?” exclaimed Bob. “For a prize?”