The president, put out over his encounter with Bud, and disgruntled over the conduct of the expert, whirled like a wild man.
“A check for one hundred and fifty dollars?”
“You don’t suppose I’m coming all the way out here for fun, do you?” sneeringly answered Mr. Dare.
“Just put this in your pipe and smoke it,” snorted the fair president, shaking his finger in the expert’s face. “You’ll get paid when you go to work—that’s the contract. There wasn’t a thing said about comin’ or goin’. For the three days left this week, we’ll pay you just fifty dollars each day. Not a cent more.”
“That aeroplane won’t move a foot till I get my money. And since this controversy about it, you’d better pay in advance—three hundred dollars. No money, no exhibition.”
“We got along without you so far.”
“Violating your contract, yes. Part of the agreement of sale was that I was to operate the car. We don’t turn out aeroplanes to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Under your contract, that car don’t go up unless I’m in it, and I don’ go in it till I have my money. There’s plenty of law to fix that. Do I get my money?”
“Not a cent,” snapped Mr. Elder. “Bud Wilson will go up in that machine to-morrow.”