Every one in the yelling, pushing crowd seemed to be trying to get hold of the aeroplane. But again the policemen forced the spectators back and Bud saw, even before he alighted, and a good deal to his disgust, that Mr. Dare seemed to be in charge of the situation. As the young aviator climbed from the frame, the professional and President Elder confronted him:
“Young man,” said the former, in a very superior tone, “you’re in luck to be alive. Haven’t you any sense?”
Bud looked him over. The man was about thirty-five years old, rather nattily dressed in grey clothes, a blue scarf and a chauffeur’s cap. Two or three sharp replies occurred to Bud, but he suppressed them, and turned to Mr. Elder. The latter walked into the tent, and motioned to Bud to follow. Then the boy suddenly realized that the fair president was trembling with anger.
“Bud,” he began at once, trying to be calm, “didn’t I tell you what to do? Didn’t I give you your program? Wasn’t you to fly three times around the track and then come down?”
“And you don’t like it because I varied it a little? Because I gave ’em a good run for their money?”
Mr. Elder shook his finger before the boy’s face.
“Mr. Dare tells me it was one chance in a thousand that you didn’t smash the machine.”
“Didn’t worry about my breaking my neck at the same time, did he?” asked Bud with a smile.
“We risked two thousand dollars’ worth of property in your possession, and you took every chance you could with it—”