“Sleepy?” asked Bud.
“Pretty tired,” replied Lafe. “Do you think you can finish up now? I believe I ought to go home and go to bed for an hour or so before afternoon. I’ve got to be on edge, you know.”
“Sure,” said Bud sympathetically. “You do that. I’ll put the last touches on everything. If you get back here by two o’clock, that’s time enough?”
Just before twelve o’clock, President Elder drove up to the airship shed.
“Well,” he announced, “he didn’t come. Our expert failed to arrive. It’s up to Lafe. Where is he?”
“He’ll be here,” answered Bud. “We’re all ready, and he’s gone home for a little rest.”
About one-thirty o’clock, President Elder visited the aeroplane headquarters again. Bud was greasing the starting grooves.
“Bud,” began the fair official with a faint smile, “I knew it all the time. It’s you or no exhibition. Lafe Pennington is in bed, sick. He’s got a nervous chill.”