“She nigh scart me. You bet she did. Mr. Pennington ain’t sick o’ overwork. The Gypsy Queen jes’ nacherly scart him into a chill.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Bud. “He may be scared—I rather thought myself he was weakenin’ this morning, but he’d be a fool to let a woman put over such a bluff.”
The carpenter shook his head.
“I don’t know no law agin’ his bein’ a fool,” he added.
Bud made no answer. He knew well enough that the carpenter’s theory was right. Whether Lafe had the physical courage to trust himself in the aeroplane Bud had no way of knowing. But his own eyes told him that Pennington had not the moral courage to throw off the prophecy of Zecatacas, the Gypsy Queen. In his heart, he felt sorry for Lafe, for he himself had a most distinct and disagreeable recollection of the Gypsy’s depressing prediction.
The first thump of horses’ feet on the race track when the “three minute” trotters came out to warm up and the “ding,” “ding,” “ding,” of the warning bell in the judges’ stand took away a part of the crowd, but enough remained to put the starting track in constant danger. Finally, Bud managed to secure a long rope, and the carpenter staked off a pen in front of the shed. This protected the apparatus, but it made Bud conspicuous, and the crowd began to hail comment on him.
“Hey, there, Bud Wilson,” shouted a young man. “They’re a givin’ it out over yender that you’re goin’ up in the airship.”
Bud smiled and nodded his head. The crowd pushed forward.
“I reckon yer likely to come down right smart faster nor ye go up,” exclaimed a rural humorist.
“Not none o’ thet in mine,” added another voice. “Not fur love nur money.”